Page 20 of The Honeymoon Affair

‘You’ve said you’re writing about someone who wants to find themselves,’ I tell him. ‘In this, the detective inspector is going through a very personal trauma. The first victim was running away from her family. The second . . . well, no spoilers, but there’s a lot of finding oneself going on.’

‘I really think—’

‘You could write a crime novel and make it sort of literary,’ I say. ‘Use your flashy way with words. Start at the beginning and keep on going till the end.’

‘You’re giving me writing advice?’ He shoots me an amused look.

‘I’m not really offering advice on writing,’ I say. ‘I’m offering advice on how to get things done. That’s something I’m good at.’

‘Right,’ he says.

‘Read the book,’ I tell him. ‘I haven’t finished it myself yet, but your need is greater than mine. I’m pretty sure whodunnit at this point, though as Janice always keeps a few twists for the final chapters, I could be wildly wrong.’

He hesitates, then reaches into the backpack beside his seat.

‘I’ll do a swap.’

He hands me his Booker Prize-winning book, Winter’s Heartbreak. The cover is grey and silver and says that more than five million copies have been sold. I wonder if he carries it around with him all the time, to remind him how good he is at writing.

I don’t say that some kind of tragic romance is the last thing I want to read.

Chapter 6

Iseult

We cannot choose where to start and stop.

Chris Cleave

The wedding takes place at four o’clock in the afternoon, when the heat of the sun has abated enough for everyone in the wedding party not to melt. The men are in proper suits and have been waiting for a good twenty minutes in the gazebo before the bride arrives. She’s wearing a traditional white dress and a long veil that’s fixed to a garland in her hair and is lifted gently into the air by the warm breeze. The music of the reggae band wafts towards the beach, where everyone has turned to look at the bridal couple, because you do, don’t you, when there’s a wedding? You can’t help yourself. I imagine what it would have been like for me, walking along the flagged path to the gazebo, standing among the tropical flowers and making my vows with Steve, knowing that we were the centre of attention, and although I don’t want to cry, the tears flood my eyes all the same.

I didn’t go for a blingtastic dress in the end, despite Celeste’s encouragement. I chose mid-length white silk, with spaghetti straps and pearl buttons down the back. I thought it was very sophisticated but also casual enough for a beach wedding. The bling was on my wedge sandals, which had diamanté straps and silver heels.

There’s a burst of laughter from the gazebo, then the sound of clapping and the pop of a champagne cork. And then the guests walk back to the hotel while the bride and groom have their photos taken. I wipe my eyes, take out my phone and check Steve’s location.

He’s on the M50 again.

I lie on my sunbed and take a picture of my legs stretched out, the beach and the sea in the background, and immediately post it: #HolidayBliss #CaribbeanMagic #LuckiestGirlInTheWorld.

It’s nearly an hour later and I’m four chapters through Charles Miller’s bestselling book when the catamaran floats in to shore and I see Celeste jump down and walk along the beach. I put the book to one side and wave at her. When she reaches me, she flops down on the vacant lounger nearby.

‘Good day?’ I ask.

‘Fun,’ she replies. ‘How about you? Did you see the wedding?’

‘Hard to miss it.’ I don’t want to talk about someone else’s wedding. ‘Tell me about the trip. Did you stop off anywhere interesting?’

She says that the most interesting part was the snorkelling, which she loved, and that the views of the shore from the catamaran were stunning. She hands me her phone and I flick through various shots of the green island rising from the aquamarine sea and the pristine beaches in secluded coves, as well as the people on the boat enjoying the sun, sea and cocktails. I pause at one of the photos. The cove it shows looks very like the one where I met Charles Miller earlier, although there’s no sign of either of us in the photos. I tell her about it, and about having lunch with him at his reserved table.

‘Look at you.’ Her eyes widen. ‘I leave you alone for a few hours and you’re hobnobbing with the celebs.’

‘Hardly a celeb,’ I say. ‘A bit up his own arse, to be honest.’

‘I should have recognised him but he looks different in real life.’ She glances at the book on my lounger. I’ve left it open at the page I was reading. ‘He gave you a copy of his book?’

I explain about swapping it for my Janice Jermyn and she laughs.

‘I read Winter’s Heartbreak when it first came out,’ she says. ‘It was lovely. The second one wasn’t bad either. I don’t think I’ve read the others, though.’

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