Stuck in Paradise with You

Chapter 8

8

CARRIE

‘My fault?’ Luke asks incredulously, pointing to himself and his very naked, very wet torso that I am doing my very best not to gawp at.

We’re standing on the water’s edge where, incensed by his outright invasion of my privacy, I stormed down from my lounger to confront him.

‘You— you took off your clothes in front of me !’ he demands.

‘I’m at the beach! I had no idea that you were waiting in the ocean like some kind of salt water, reptile-y predator-y alligator waiting to snap, snap, snap me up!’ I’m shrieking. Hurting even my own ears with the hysterical decibels I’m hitting. My arms are flailing to match the sound.

He scoffs, which pisses me off even more than him uninvitedly watching me get near naked in my swimwear.

‘I was already on the beach, and you had a damn good vantage point coming down those stairs. How do I know you didn’t see me and intentionally strip down into a skimpy bikini to flaunt yourself?’

Only now do I realize that I am still wearing said bikini. Only wearing said bikini. I thought I’d be down here early enough to avoid my clients and soak up the scenery. Pretend like this is the holiday I’ve been needing for ever , if only for an hour.

‘Do you honestly think I would strip down for you on purpose ? After everything you did?’

‘ I did?’

Yes! Can he even question who was in the wrong between us? He used me . Had a bit of fun while his relationship was in tatters and then left me when he was ready to pick it back up.

I’d not wanted to believe my mom – the only person who knew about Luke and me back then – when she’d said I shouldn’t meddle with husbands and wives, that I’d end up heartbroken.

She was right.

I can’t deal with this. Especially after a shockingly sleepless night and pre-caffeination.

But it looks like I won’t have to for much longer because Luke stomps, as much as any man can stomp in soft sand, up the beach, flicking his top over his muscly shoulder. More so even than it used to be, I notice accidentally and fleetingly, not really looking properly.

‘You weren’t even supposed to be here, Carrie.’

No, I wasn’t, but… ‘I didn’t come here knowing that you would be here. If I did, I would have run, not walked, away from any opportunity. Because you’re not worth it, Luke.’

He turns back sharply to face me and I think maybe I went too far. That was bitter and nasty, and I’m not sure it’s entirely truthful.

Luke points at me, actually points at me. ‘How many times did I tell you to research your clients before walking into the lion’s den?’

I scowl, hopefully showing as much repugnance as Miranda Priestly would demonstrate looking at a PA wearing last season’s Prada. ‘How did I ever fall for you?’

My own words make me swallow deeply with shame. What is he turning me into?

He shakes his head and turns his back on me again, this time walking slower, holding his shirt loosely down by his side. He calls back, without shifting his focus from the steps in front of him, ‘Let’s make sure we get through all the business we need to today, then we can go back to living our lives without ever crossing paths.’

‘Happily!’ I shout, wishing I could storm away too, except I have nowhere to go.

‘For the record,’ he shouts, drawing my attention to see him facing me again, now walking backwards as he nears the bottom of the wood staircase, ‘alligators prefer freshwater. You meant crocodile.’

‘Luke, I can honestly say, there’s not a thing in the world I want to learn from you.’

But dammit, if I’m going to run with an insult, I’d like to at least get it right.

‘I hate him, Callum. Truly, truly, unquestionably, unwaveringly, despise him.’

I’m doing laps of my circular pod, wrapped in a towel after showering off the beach, my phone set to speaker on the bed.

I thought a couple of strong coffees and the fancy-pants breakfast with flowers carved from fruit that I was served to my veranda would have taken the edge off the nuclear fission Luke caused in me this morning, but all I did was eat my fructose overdose with needless ferocity.

Now, I have two work outfit options for this meeting hanging on the front of the wardrobe doors and I can’t decide which to wear. I don’t want to wear either, and that’s making me even more angry.

I didn’t pack for a one-on-one meeting with Luke Chalmers. I packed for… I don’t know who… Just another client.

‘What am I going to do?’ I ask my best friend, slumping down onto the edge of the bed, rubbing my temples with my fingertips.

‘First, you’re going to take a deep breath, gorgeous. Come on, with me. In… and out… Feel better?’

‘Mmm.’ Not really, though I’m grateful for Callum’s effort.

‘Next, you’re going to put on whatever fabulous workwear you’ve packed because you always look right on point for work – sophisticated, authoritative and hot. Then, you’re going to look at yourself in the mirror and say, “Screw him”. You’re not dressing for him; you’re dressing for yourself.’

‘I can do that.’ I stand with an infinitesimal amount more vigor.

With Callum still chatting down the line about a guy he matched with on a dating app yesterday, I select a cream skirt and a sleeveless blouse, which ideally would have a roll-neck instead of a slightly too low V.

Once I’m dressed, I look at my reflection in the mirror and say, ‘Screw you, Luke Chalmers. I’m dressing for myself.’

‘See. One step at a time, babes.’

I nod at myself. ‘What’s next?’

Callum chuckles. ‘Next, you go to your meeting, get your shit done, and come home to Eddie and me.’

With his words – and the thought of my comfiest clothes, a takeout, my own sofa and my favorite people – my body finally relaxes.

‘Can’t wait,’ I tell myself, twisting my hair into a French roll and letting the shorter front ends fall loose.

Only when I’m ready for my meeting and carrying my laptop and relevant papers out of my pod does it occur to me that I don’t actually know where on the island the meeting room is.

Lucky for me, Henry is waiting outside my door.

‘Yikes!’ I yelp, startled by his presence and wondering how long he’s been outside, whether he heard my meltdown on the phone with Callum.

‘Sorry, Carrie, I didn’t mean to surprise you. Joe sent me to bring you to your meeting.’

He’s dressed in his Charithonia uniform again – the daytime version with beige shorts and black polo – and wearing that dazzling smile he has that makes his white teeth seem bright against his sun-goldened skin.

‘I appreciate it,’ I say, pulling the door shut and, reluctantly, because I don’t want to seem like a damsel in distress, allowing him to relieve me of my laptop.

‘You look nice,’ he tells me casually, as if he’s very comfortable dishing out compliments.

I’m not so comfortable accepting them, so I ask, ‘Where are we headed?’

Henry gestures along the pebbled walkway in the direction of the main house. ‘There’s a purpose-built office and meeting rooms behind the main house, next to the gym. Have you seen the gym yet? It’s fully stocked.’

I’m certain he’s familiar with the gym. He isn’t muscly in that way a slightly older man can be but he’s toned, for sure.

‘No. Though I did have a short sea swim this morning.’

‘The sea is sublime on a day like today.’ Sublime? Not that he isn’t right; it’s just an odd choice of word. Then again, it suits his British accent. A bit Jude Law trying to impress on a first date. Funny .

‘It was lovely.’ Or it could have been, if the entire experience hadn’t been ruined by Luke’s presence. If my mind hadn’t been boiling over with raging fury like a reluctantly pressure-cooked vegetable in a soup.

‘The calm before the storm,’ he says, raising one eyebrow.

For a moment, I think, What have you heard? Then I remember the conversation last night over dinner, about an actual storm.

‘Do you think so? Should I be worried?’

He leans his head to one side. ‘Yes. No.’

We walk past what looks like a small concrete utilities hut or pump house or similar with metal slatted doors, then reach a glass-walled building with a garden as a roof that makes the structure look like a little glass pop-up in an otherwise undisturbed nature conservation.

Henry holds open the front door for me to step inside and we walk along a tiled corridor, my nude heels ticking against the surface like a clock, taunting me with a countdown to a meeting I really don’t want to go to. Tick tock, tick tock.

‘I studied meteorology at university,’ Henry tells me. ‘I’m taking a break here, of sorts, earning some money to pay off my student debts and applying for weather jobs.’

We pass two fully kitted out office spaces, either side of the corridor, each with a desk three times the size of mine back in New York. On top of each of them are two large white computer screens and behind them, swanky cream leather chairs.

‘But I don’t need a post-grad to tell you that this is going to be a disastrous hurricane. It’s all over the news now. Two of the three storms we were talking about at dinner last night have merged and it’s a near mathematical certainty that the third will join.’

My feet have stopped moving. This is bad.

‘Don’t worry, though, we’ll be safe, even if Isabel hits. Joe had this place built to withstand a cat five hurricane.’

Still not feeling terribly warm and fuzzy here.

‘Under the main house, there’s a bunker made of reinforced steel and concrete. It’s the Hettich panic room. We’ll ride her out down there.’ He speaks with those curved lips and shiny white teeth showing again, like we’re talking about a new rollercoaster at Disney Land.

Is he being flippant? ‘This sounds horrific, Henry.’

‘Cool, too, though, right? I mean, it’ll be quite a story, seeing and surviving a cat five.’

While I’m proverbially scooping up my jaw from the floor, Henry continues forward, until he stops at another glass door, knocks twice and holds it open for me. ‘It’s this one,’ he says, as if our life-threatening weather conversation didn’t just happen.

‘Ah, right.’ Finally, my feet take instruction from my brain again, hurrying along to the door.

Inside, Joe Hettich is stretching by a wall of windows to the outdoors, wearing bright-pink sweatbands around his forehead and wrists, a lime-green running vest, and Lycra shorts. He pulls one foot behind him, up to his butt, and with his free hand, presses his index finger to his nose – for balance?

If I wasn’t completely thrown by my conversation with Henry, I’m definitely bamboozled by Hettich’s show.

I sense Luke’s presence, see him like a shadow in my blind spot, but I don’t acknowledge him.

‘Thanks, H,’ Joe tells Henry, who leaves, closing the door behind him. Leaving me. Here . With these two. ‘Hey, Carrie. How did you sleep? Was everything okay for you?’ He swaps legs to stretch his quads on the other side and I finally risk a quick glance at Luke, who is smirking. A smirk that feels less arrogant, more knowing, as if we’re sharing an unspoken conversation. Like we used to. It’s an expression that has the effect of liquifying me, like it used to.

Is this normal behavior? I ask with my eyes, hoping he can’t see the tiny vibrations I’m feeling in my abdomen.

Happily, though, the distraction has momentarily made me forget that I don’t want to be in the same room as Luke, and I respond to Joe. ‘I slept well, thank you.’

It’s an outright lie. I slept terribly – strange bed, yards from the man who shattered my heart, discombobulated from seeing him again, wishing I had turned down this trip and stayed home with Eddie, no matter what it might cost my career.

‘The bed is extremely comfortable.’

Joe nods, as if he already knew the answer to the question. Then he stands on two feet again, reaches one arm up, plants his opposite hand on his hip, and starts tipping like a teapot, over and over, stretching his side.

‘Luke tells me you took advantage of the beach this morning.’

‘He did? Did he tell you he took advantage of the view, too?’ I silently growl at Luke, That’s right, I know you were checking me out and you have no right speaking about me like you have anything to do with me, not in the slightest, not remotely, not at all.

If I’m not mistaken, the skin of Luke’s neck is deliciously taut and unusually flushed.

‘There’s nothing sweeter in life than an early morning sea swim in the Caribbean ocean,’ Joe continues as if I hadn’t responded to his question. ‘The loves of my life aside, of course.’ He starts jogging on the spot, knees high, and tells me breathlessly, ‘It’s relationships that make life. I feel qualified to say that.’ He stills. ‘When you’ve tasted the level of success and income I’ve had over the years, you learn that those things are nice, but connections to other humans, animals and life, that’s why we’re put on this planet.’

‘Aren’t you trying to put together a space program and move to Mars?’ Luke asks. Despite myself, the question tickles me.

Give him his due, Joe’s amused too. ‘To make more connections, matey. Come on. Those were some heartfelt words I just spouted, let me have them.’

Some odd kind of exchange is happening between the men, but like Ella said last night and Luke just reminded me, men are from Mars, so…

I set my papers down on the large, shiny white oval desk and take my laptop out of its carrier, where Henry kindly left it on the table.

I’m busying myself with setting up, taking my fancy pen from my designer laptop case – both of which are things Callum bought me as special-occasion gifts. But I don’t miss Luke rising from his seat and muttering, through gritted teeth, what sounds like, ‘Is this your idea of playing it cool?’

In response – I see in my peripheral vision – Joe pats Luke on the arm and says, ‘You’ll thank me one day, friend.’

Then Luke moves to one end of the room and, casting my eyes in his direction, I see he’s pouring coffees from a French press – yes, please! – while Joe hops (literally) to the exit.

‘I trust you two will do good business, so I’ll leave you to it.’ Then he pulls the door closed behind him. Poking his head back through the narrow gap at the last moment, he adds, ‘Don’t kill each other.’

I gawp at the shut door. ‘You told him?’ I snap at Luke when I’m sure Joe is out of earshot.

He shrugs, breezy. All kinds of stupid effing breezy.

‘He’s my client, Luke, not a fucking therapist.’

He scoffs and I’d love to know what undertone he has now, but I’m too pissed to ask. ‘Relax, almost-partner,’ he says, sitting and sliding one of the coffees along to the seat perpendicular to his. ‘I’m your client now and you’ve screwed me before, numerous times.’

Screwed? That word makes my stomach twist. Of course we were just screwing to him. That’s why it was so easy for him to walk away.

He drags his fingers through his thick hair, which is already mussed up, as if he let it dry naturally after his dip in the ocean earlier.

‘Joe’s one of my oldest friends, Carrie. It’s not like I’ve been making water-cooler gossip. He already knew about us.’

‘There is no us ,’ I correct him, coming to sit in front of the coffee and adjusting my laptop position.

He sighs, maybe feeling an ounce of the exasperation I am. ‘Fine. Our past, then. And, come on, didn’t you tell anyone when we were together?’

‘No!’

His vexation seems to be fleetingly – like, blink and you’d miss it – replaced by something else. Hurt? Surprise? But it’s gone before I can decide. Maybe I imagined it.

‘I told my mom,’ I say, feeling a teensy amount bad about shouting.

‘Your mom? Of all people, you told your mom?’

Yes, because I thought one day, you might at least meet her.

His shock speaks volumes.

‘I did. And I should have listened to her because she told me not to get involved between a man and his wife.’

‘We were separated,’ he bites.

I ignore him because evidently, they weren’t as separated as I thought. ‘She said it would only end one way.’

I pick up my coffee, ready to end this conversation, and when I taste it, I realize he remembers how I like it – just a splash of milk and one sweetener.

‘What way was that? With you blocking me and ignoring me for seven years?’

I did block him. Not that I knew he knew that. As for ignoring him – that would have required him trying to contact me, rather than moving states without even saying goodbye.

‘No,’ I tell him. ‘With me getting hurt.’

Literally as soon as the words leave my mouth, I regret them. I feel rather than see his gaze trained on me and I daren’t look up from my coffee. I daren’t because with the word hurt , memories of those exact feelings have crashed over me like a wave and I don’t want him to see.

I don’t ever want him to know how much of a mess he left me in. How he has ruined me for all relationships since because I’ve never, not once, felt the kind of highs I felt when I was with him.

He rises from his seat, hands in pockets, and goes to the windows, looking out across the resort and to the vastness of the ocean.