Chapter 5 Jade

5 JADE

NOW

I scan the room before I sit upright in bed. Rob’s not here. I hold my breath, listening hard to pick up any sign of him behind the closed door of the bathroom. On the bedside table, bright sunlight falls on something metallic—his platinum wedding band, just five days out of its velvet box. He’s probably at the gym.

I tiptoe to the bathroom, just in case. My little gecko friend is there, sitting on my makeup bag. A long tail lies across my toothbrush.

A small eye tracks me as I stand before the washbasin, looking over the bruise that’s darkening beneath my left eyebrow.

I feel like I’m in a nightmare, like I’ve stepped inside a parallel universe.

Two years. That’s how long Rob and I had been together before it started. We’d just gotten engaged, and he’d thrown a massive party with all our friends to celebrate. Oh my God, I felt like the luckiest girl in the world.

Two nights later, Rob got in a mood about something and started asking me about a guy I’d been chatting with at the party. I had literally no idea who he was talking about. He kept on about it, badgering me. I was just home from work, exhausted after a long shift. I hadn’t even had time for lunch. I was rummaging in the cupboard, trying to find some pasta or something, as Rob hadn’t bothered to cook. He came up to me as I turned on the gas cooktop, his face close to mine. I remember flinching at his expression—it didn’t look like him at all. It was like someone pretending to be my fiancé, my lush boyfriend. The one everyone said I was lucky to have.

He started pointing in my face, then dug a finger into the top of my arm, between my shoulder and chest. It really hurt, and I lurched away. “Hey!” I shouted. “Rob, for fuck’s sake!”

And then he hit me. An open hand that he brought quickly across my face.

It was a soft slap, not hard enough to knock me over or anything. But I reeled at the fact of it, the words Rob has just slapped me running through my mind.

He apologized immediately, and I watched as the strange imposter seemed to melt away from him, returning the man I loved. He said he was having a bad time at work. I knew he was. It all made sense. Rob would never hit me, not intentionally. He’d snapped. He didn’t mean it.

Eight months passed. We planned the wedding. Rob went all out, insisting that we have the kind of wedding I’d always dreamed of. And the honeymoon, too—I’d have been happy with a few days in Crete. But then Rob’s nephew got married, and the newlyweds went to the Maldives for their honeymoon.

Rob started telling everyone we were going to the Maldives for our honeymoon, too, before we’d even discussed it. I knew he’d inherited a bit of cash when his mom died, but I thought we’d put that toward buying a house. No, he said. We had the rest of our lives to do boring stuff like that.

The day we booked the honeymoon, he pulled my hair. The imposter was back—I could see it on his face, smell him on the wind. I remember how I felt strangely unnerved the minute I got home, as though the air carried an invisible code that I could decipher.

Rob asked me if I’d gotten the confirmation email about the booking for the Maldives. I said I had. And this I remember—I opened a packet of potato chips, because I hadn’t had time for lunch again, and asked him if he’d booked the right date. I asked this because the wedding venue—Lindhurst Hall—had queried the wedding date we wanted, which was the second, and asked if we could do the third. We both kept mixing up the dates as a result, and I worried that we might have accidentally booked the honeymoon before the bloody wedding.

I saw his eyes harden. I’d only asked him if he’d booked the right date. But he slapped the packet out of my hands, sending a shower of chips to the floor.

“Rob!” I shouted, throwing him a bewildered look before bending to pick them up. As I lowered myself, he grabbed a fistful of my hair, pulling me to my feet with a yell. I turned to him, horrified, and saw the rage in his eyes. He let go and stormed off.

Again, the imposter fled, and the man I loved returned, brimming with mortification and apologies. It seemed so genuine, so plausible. And the thought of losing him was devastating.

I was excited for our wedding, seriously. But I also had this weird feeling in my chest.

The year turned, and Rob was his old self: funny, kind, sexy. No way does he look forty-one. Anyway, I was determined to make our wedding special. I planned it all myself. Reception menu, dress fittings, cake tastings. Seating arrangements to ensure estranged relatives weren’t in speaking distance.

The night before our wedding, Rob hit me with a closed fist.

It wasn’t hard enough to knock me down. But it was a punch, and it hurt. It left a mark that grows uglier by the hour.

I’d heard about other women getting punched and secretly judged them when they didn’t pack their bags and leave. But this isn’t the same. Every relationship is different, right? He apologized; the stress of wedding planning was driving him insane. Our budget was blown, since we’d chosen the Maldives over a few days in Crete. I considered mentioning that the Maldives honeymoon and the big fat wedding were his idea, but thought better of it. After all, he was ashamed of his behavior, was eternally in my debt—but now that I look back on it, I see that his apology had something new about it. An extra quality.

Blame, just a hint of it.

He was sorry, but I had used a tone, and that had made him snap.

I pushed the blame to the back of my mind and told myself never to use a “tone” with him again.

I was causing this. I was the one screwing up our relationship.

Instead of walking down the aisle crying tears of joy, I walked toward my hubby-to-be worrying that I hadn’t applied enough makeup to hide the bruise he’d left on my face. When I said “I do,” I felt numb. When I signed the register, I wanted to vomit.

It’s so hot here, ninety degrees, 80 percent humidity. But I feel cold inside, the numbness that crept in just days ago now reaching my bones.

I brush my teeth, then slip out of the lace negligée I bought for our wedding night and back into my bikini. Here, concealing the bruise with makeup is pointless—it just slides off. At the airport, I bought sunglasses and a beach hat with a wide brim. That should cover my eye. If anyone does ask, I’ll tell them I whacked my face on a cupboard door.

From somewhere in the villa comes a knocking sound, as though someone’s trying to get my attention. I freeze, listening hard for the heavy footsteps that announce Rob. In a matter of seconds I realize it isn’t him—I’ve dialed in to his every movement now, can read his mood from a mile off. No, whoever is inside the villa is not Rob. Maybe it’s Devaj, our butler.

“Hello?” I call out. “I don’t need any new towels, thanks.”

“Oh, sorry,” a voice says. An English accent. I look out of the bedroom door over the mezzanine. A woman in an orange dress is standing there, a Chanel bag held at her side.

“Sorry,” she says again, looking up at me. “I must have the wrong villa.”

She pulls out some paperwork to check, and I throw on my robe to head downstairs.

“Do you need help finding your villa?” I ask gently.

She studies her paperwork. “I’m in villa number four.” She rakes her eyes over me, and I flinch. “What number is this?”

“Villa three.”

“Oh God, I’m sorry. My key card worked, though—”

“That’s fine. Don’t worry about it, really. I mustn’t have locked the door properly.”

I ask her if she wants me to show her where her villa is and she says no, she doesn’t need me to go to any trouble, but I insist. I like the way she’s dressed, so stylish. She’s about my mum’s age but she’s slaying in those gold sandals and the floaty orange dress.

We head outside to the wooden causeway, and I walk with her along to the next villa on the left.

“You been here long?” she asks.

“Three days. Ten days left.”

The woman smiles. “You liking it?”

“It’s nice.”

“Where’re you from?”

“South London,” I tell her. “Though Liverpool originally. Most of the other guests are from Germany and Spain.” I don’t know what else to say. “Are you on your honeymoon?”

She gives a loud, filthy laugh. “Oh, no ,” she says. “I’m here on a divorce trip. There’s three of us, celebrating my friend’s divorce.”

I raise my eyebrows. What a weird thing to celebrate. To each their own, I guess.

“What about you?” she says, and I see her eyes settling on the bruise above my left eye. “Holiday?”

“Honeymoon.” I reach up self-consciously to flatten my fringe over my forehead. Wrong move—she clocks it.

“Looks like you hit your head,” she says.

“Had a fight with a cupboard door,” I say, the words rolling easily off my tongue. She nods, but I’m not sure she’s convinced. I glance nervously behind me in case Rob’s heading back from the gym.

“Anyway,” I say, nodding at the villa we’ve arrived at, “this is number four.”

“I’m Camilla,” she says, extending a hand, and I shake it. “It was nice to meet you.”

“Jade. You too.”

“Have a drink with us later, won’t you?” she says, opening the door.

I feel myself blush, flattered that someone so confident and stylish is interested in me. “I’d love to.”