Page 1 of The Honeymoon Affair

Chapter 1

Iseult

Tears are words that need to be written.

Paulo Coelho

At the exact moment our plane touches down at the island airport in the Caribbean, my ex-fiancé is posting photos of a drinks reception from an art gallery in Florence. I know this because I turn on my phone and check his social media while I’m standing with Celeste at the carousel waiting for our luggage to arrive.

I hadn’t planned on looking at my phone. In fact, unlike nearly all the other passengers (my cousin included) who were, by now, staring intently at their mobiles, I ignore mine for at least two minutes before fishing it out of my bag and switching it on. It pings with a flurry of notifications, and every one is a post from Steve. I take a deep breath and open Instagram.

Steve is a keen amateur photographer and likes to fill his feed with moody black-and-white pictures – usually of himself looking equally moody and intense. But that’s OK, because he’s the kind of guy who looks good in a moody photograph. In fairness, he looks good in real life too. And it was his ripped body, smouldering dark eyes, and black hair shaved at the sides (but falling over his forehead in a fringe of glossy curls I’d give an arm for myself) that first made my heart do somersaults. It still somersaults every time I see him, although that hasn’t been for some time. In any event, that same heart is now broken into a million pieces.

He hasn’t posted any photos of himself in the Italian art gallery, and I assume that’s because he’s working and not a guest; but if he’s wandering around taking photos of people wearing tuxedos and cocktail dresses, I bet he’s not in his preferred gear of frayed black jeans and black leather biker jacket. Maybe he bought some appropriate designer clothes in Florence. I picture him in a suit walking through the stunning baroque room where the reception is taking place, with its ceiling fresco, tall tables decorated with rose-filled gold vases, and line of gilt framed paintings on the walls. It’s the kind of setting where you’d expect to see James Bond sipping a martini as he waits for an opportunity to drop a witty remark to the latest megalomanic hell-bent on destroying the world. I can easily imagine Steve rocking Dolce & Gabbana there, even if he’s only ever bought one T-shirt by them, and that was in TK Maxx.

He’s used the hashtags #LaDolceVita #PeroniAndProsecco #LoveItaly with his photos.

My broken heart is beating faster just thinking about him, and I have to remind myself that I’m looking at the timeline of my ex. Yet no matter how many times I tell myself this, and despite living my life without him ever since that awful day, I’m still having a hard time believing it.

The carousel judders into life, and Celeste nudges me, because the very first case that appears is the brand-new pink and yellow Samsonite I bought specially for this trip. That was when I thought I was coming to the Caribbean to get married and I was shelling out money on fancy things because, well . . . #GettingMarried.

I drop my phone into my tote and grab the case. There’s a slightly longer wait before Celeste’s blue one arrives, but once we have both of them, we make our way through the customs area and out of the terminal building. A group of tour agents is waiting outside, and I find the one that Steve and I booked with. The agent smiles in greeting and points us to the taxi that’s already beside the kerb. As we set off for the White Sands Resort and Spa (#BarefootElegance), I lean my head against the window and exhale slowly.

‘We’re going to have a great time.’ Celeste squeezes my arm. ‘Girls on tour.’

I don’t say that I was supposed to be woman on honeymoon.

Celeste knows that already.

The drive to the hotel takes less than half an hour, and my spirits are lifted by the blue skies and aquamarine sea and the bright colours of the bougainvillea, hibiscus and other flowering shrubs that border the narrow road. It’s hard not to feel uplifted too by signs with names like Pirates’ Cove or Coconut Bay or Rum Runners’ Beach. Nevertheless, I can’t help thinking how much more exciting all this would have been if Steve was beside me and we were going to get married this week.

I manage another surreptitious look at Instagram when we arrive at the hotel and Celeste takes charge of checking us in. Steve has moved to a restaurant near the gallery for rigatoni pasta and chianti: #Friends #GoodTimes #Colleagues #BestMates #Firenze #Italia #LivingTheDream. I grimace.

‘May I offer you a welcome drink?’ A young waiter smiles at me and tells me that the exotic creations on the tray he’s holding are called White Sands Experiences. They’re mocktails, though, which is disappointing, because right about now I’m aching for a large gin and tonic, heavy on the gin and light on the tonic. But I’m thirsty so I take one anyway, and so does Celeste, who now has the keys to Room 501.

A porter, whose name badge identifies him as Janiel, has already loaded our cases onto a trolley and leads us from the reception area, with its high cathedral ceilings and lazy fans, through expansive gardens filled with highly scented tropical plants. The rooms at the hotel are located in a variety of small buildings, each with a magnificent view of the clear Caribbean Sea. Steve and I chose Room 501 because it was a corner room with its own private jacuzzi. When I wondered aloud if we weren’t being over-extravagant, he told me that his princess deserved the very best for her honeymoon. I know it sounds saccharine sweet, and in all honesty I’m not a princessy sort of person, but it was lovely when he said it. After we split, Celeste insisted on listing all the royal princesses who have had a hard time of it, including Princesses Grace and Charlene of Monaco as well as Princess Diana and Princess Aiko of Japan. Meghan Markle too, if a duchess is also a princess. I’m not up to speed on titles.

‘OK, not the best of circumstances, but – wow!’ exclaims Celeste when we step into the room and Janiel opens the doors to the enormous balcony. ‘This is absolutely stunning. No wonder they call it Paradise Island.’

I say nothing, but fumble the tip. Janiel, a supreme professional, manages to make it less awkward than it could have been. When he’s gone, closing the door silently behind him, I follow Celeste to the balcony. She’s opening the bottle of champagne that’s been left on the small round table along with two glasses and a pretty flower arrangement. I suppose the champagne and flowers are left for everyone, not just wedding couples, though I can’t help feeling that the rose petals that I noticed on the white bed linen (the room has two king-sized beds) are exclusive to honeymooners and have been put there by mistake.

‘Come on, Izzy!’ She hands me a glass. ‘Onwards and upwards. Everything happens for a reason!’

I clink the glass against hers and take a long drink.

I think of the pictures on Steve’s social media.

I finish the rest of the champagne in a single gulp.

Steve Carter became my ex-fiancé the day after I’d paid the balance of the money for our White Sands Five Star Exclusive Wedding Experience. We’d been alternating paying it off in instalments, him making one and me the next, and mine was the final payment. When he detonated his bombshell, he told me that he was happy for me to experience the White Sands by myself, as he planned to be in Florence that day organising the light installation for an art exhibition in a prestigious gallery. His boss had assigned the job to him as soon as he heard that Steve would be available owing to not getting married. It took a while for me to process that Steve’s boss knew about my status as an ex-fiancée before I did.

I listened, speechless, as he told me that ‘gifting’ me the honeymoon that I’d paid half of myself was the least he could do, because he knew that breaking off the engagement would be a big blow. He never wanted to hurt me – he caught me by the hands when he said that, and his dark brown eyes looked soulfully into mine – and said that it wasn’t me, it was him. He loved me but he wasn’t ready for marriage.

‘I’ll always love you, Izzy,’ he said as he traced his finger along my cheek. ‘But it would only hurt you more if I married you at the wrong time. I’m too young,’ he added. ‘Too irresponsible. I’m not good enough for you.’

As break-ups go, it was cinematic. As though he was reading from the script of a romantic drama. Even as my heart shattered into a thousand pieces, I was falling in love with him a little bit more.

‘You’re not too young,’ I said. ‘You’re thirty-two.’

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