There are messages from Suki, from other people at work, all trying to track me down yesterday. Then messages from today that Suki has sent to both my phones. We need to talk Laura. Call me ASAP.
“What is it?” Ted asks. “All OK?”
“Everything’s fine. I think I might leave the phones here today.”
Ted doesn’t say anything, but he raises both eyebrows and then reaches to rubs the space beneath his chin, his hand searching for the beard that is no longer there.
* * *
* * *
Ted and I pack a bag of beach things, and he drives me to Portelet, a cove on the southwest of the island. There are so many beaches here I have yet to explore. Flying in, the island looked so small from the window of the plane, an accidental rock protruding from the endless sea, but now, the more I explore, Jersey’s size feels deceptive, like a Tardis.
We walk down some steep steps to get to the beach. A tiny island, with an old fortification on top, sits in the middle of the picture-perfect bay. Ted tells me it’s a Martello tower called Janvrin’s tomb.
“Janvrin was a sea captain returning from France in the early eighteenth century,” Ted says, as we walk down the last of the steep steps. “He fell ill, then because of plague quarantine restrictions, he wasn’t allowed to land in Jersey or see his family. He had to stay out on his ship, where he died a few days later. He was buried on this islet right here—his wife had a tomb erected as a monument of her love and to preserve his memory.”
“What a sad story,” I say, looking out at the tower.
“It served its purpose, though,” Ted says, taking my hand as we walk across the sand, “because I’m telling you the story now, three hundred years on.”
“Do you think anyone will remember us in a hundred years, let alone three?” I ask wistfully.
“If you are saying you want me to build you a Martello tower, Laura, I’m not sure I have the skill set,” Ted says, leaning in to kiss my shoulder.
“It’s never too late to learn a new skill,” I reply, leaning my head into his.
We walk down to the water’s edge and swim around the islet of Janvrin’s tomb, the sun glistening off the dark blue water. Ted’s a far stronger swimmer than me, and I claim to need a lift for the last bit, so I can wrap my wet limbs around his warm, broad back. We have pizza on the beach at Portelet Bay Café, a gentle breeze drying our wet hair, and we talk animatedly about nothing of consequence. We don’t discuss what this is between us, or our plans for next week or even tomorrow; we just tell silly stories and get lost in the pleasure of each other’s company.
“I’ve missed being this person,” says Ted, squeezing my hand as we walk back up the steps toward the car park at the top of the hill.
“What do you mean?” I ask. He stops walking, and we turn to look at the view one last time, the tower on the island, sleek sailing boats edging toward the horizon, a scattering of people on the pebbled shore.
“Some people bring out the parts of yourself you like the most,” he says. “I like the version of myself I am when I’m with you.”
“I know what you mean. I feel the same, like I don’t have to filter myself around you. I’m not sure if this raw version of me even existed before.”
“She was always there,” says Ted. “You just hadn’t met her yet.”
* * *
* * *
When we finally get back to L’Étacq, my hair feels full of salt, my skin is slightly sun-kissed, and my face glows with the feeling of being the version of myself I love the most.
We get out of the car and hold hands as we walk down to the cottage together. I imagine we’ll have a shower, then indulge in an afternoon in bed—I think I would be happy if could just relive this day over and over again forever; my own delicious Groundhog Day.
Then I notice someone sitting at the patio furniture in the garden. A slim woman with long dark hair and a feline yoga body. She’s wearing a floating turquoise dress and has a floral print scarf tied around her hair. She has that effortless, serene beauty about her, as though she meditates every day and never eats chocolate, or if she does, it’s only dark chocolate, and then only one square at a time. She’s looks up at Ted with familiar eyes.
“Who’s this?” I ask quietly, but when I turn to look at him, his face has drained of color, his eyes unblinking.
“Belinda.”
Chapter 31
Belinda. Oh no, I thought this was all going a bit too well. It’s like those movies where it’s all wrapping up nicely, but there’s still fifteen minutes to go; you know the bad guy they conked over the head with a saucepan is going to stand up and stab someone at the last minute.
“Hi,” says Belinda, giving us both a wave. “Well, aren’t you looking well, Ted? Now I can see why.” She nods toward me.
“What are you doing here?” Ted asks, still standing motionless in the middle of the lawn.
Belinda gives a delicate shrug, and I notice she has the most amazing shoulder bones. I don’t think I’ve ever even noticed someone’s shoulder bones before, but hers are exquisite.
“After what you said on the phone, I wanted to come and see Gerry. Plus, I figured I could bring the divorce papers in person. Is Gerry not here?” She walks around the patio table, her hips moving in this sultry, hypnotic way.
“He’s already gone to Acrebrooke.”
“He’ll hate it there,” says Belinda. “I can’t imagine him in a home.”
I feel a twinge of jealousy that she knows Ted’s family so much better than I do, that she knows what Gerry might or might not like. Ted is still standing frozen, staring at Belinda as though she might be an apparition. She walks over to him and kisses him on each cheek, then extends her hand to me.
“I’m Belinda, you must be the new girl.” She smirks knowingly, and I feel myself bristle. She says it as though I’m the new shopgirl, wanting to remind me: He’s known you five minutes, but he loved me for almost a decade.
“You should have called first,” says Ted, clearing his throat.
“I tried. The landline has been cut off.” She looks down at her feet, eyelids fluttering. “And I’m afraid I had to erase your mobile number when I left, in case I called in a moment of weakness, Teddy.”
Teddy? Ted is not a Teddy. I look at Ted; his eyes are closed. When he opens them, he glances across at me and, maybe I’m imagining it, but I can tell he doesn’t want me here for this.
“Shall I be mother and make tea?” Belinda offers, biting her impossibly bee-stung lower lip.