Chapter 1

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.'

‘But inside – inside I'm reckless, feckless and impulsive. I'm not marriage material. Not yet, anyhow.'

He was certainly impulsive the first time I met him. But so was I.

It was at a summer concert in Dublin's Fairview Park. The weather was glorious and the park was crowded with concert-goers, all singing and dancing beneath the blue skies. It was the kind of meet-cute moment that sometimes even happens in real life; when two people accidentally bump into each other, gaze into each other's eyes and fall in love for ever.

When Steve and I first looked at each other, I was smitten.

Then he kissed me and I was in love.

I know, I know. How can you love someone on the basis of a single kiss? When you don't even know their name?

So maybe I actually fell in love with him later, when he came back to my house because he lived on the other side of town and there wasn't a taxi to be had, while I live a mere ten minutes away.

‘This is cosy,' he said when I opened the door. ‘Is it yours?'

I explained, as I made coffee and brought it out to the patio table in the small west-facing garden, that it was our family home but that I was currently living there on my own. My parents had recently headed to New Zealand to see my brother, his wife and their newly arrived twin boys. As my dad was now retired, they planned to stay for a couple of months, although I already had the impression that they wouldn't mind extending their visit. Cori and Adrian live just outside Napier, and Dad, who's originally from Wexford, likes both the coastal town and the green spaces. Mum likes them too, but it was the lure of her grandchildren that made me think she was in no rush to come home.

Anyhow, my parents being away gave Steve and me time and space to get to know each other. He moved in, and I can honestly say there was never a moment when I wasn't ecstatically happy. We got engaged at Halloween – I know it was quick, but I was madly in love; besides, his proposal was romantic and original in equal measure.

I came home to find that he'd added a selection of orange and purple balloons to the rather terrifying decorations we'd put up earlier in the week.

‘What's all this about?' I asked as I took off my heavy work jacket and sniffed the aroma of spicy chicken.

‘A gesture,' he said. ‘So that you know you're the best thing that ever happened to me.'

‘Oh, Steve. How lovely of you.'

Despite his hard-man exterior, Steve likes cooking, even though most of his sauces (like mine) are from jars. But he pulls it all together better than I ever do.

‘I'd have run you a bath if there was one,' he said. ‘But maybe you'd like to take a shower and change anyway?'

He'd put spooky candles in the bathroom and had replaced my usual shower foam with a gel that called itself Spectral Slime. Much as I appreciated the nod towards the horror theme, I retrieved my rice milk and cherry blossom Rituals product from the shelf beneath the sink, then showered and came downstairs wearing my blue satin-look pyjamas.

‘Best I could do to keep the Halloween vibe going,' I told him as I sat at the table.

‘You can be my sultry spectre any time.' He kissed me and then put a plate of piri piri chicken in front of me. ‘Eat up.'

After the meal, we went into the living room, where even more balloons were bobbing about.

‘This is for you,' he said, producing a pin.

‘What for?' I looked at him in surprise.

‘You have to use it. On the balloons.'

‘I hate bursting balloons. It's proper Halloween horror for me.'

‘Oh, go on,' he said. ‘This once? I promise you'll like it.'

I always found it impossible to say no to Steve. So I scrunched up my eyes and jabbed nervously at each balloon. The box with the engagement ring was in the purple one with the witch's face.

It was the most romantic moment of my life. Spooky, but romantic.

I still relive it.

Celeste was surprised that we'd got engaged so quickly, but even she said that we seemed ideally suited and totally in love.

Mum and Dad thought the same when they came home, sorry to have left their grandchildren but full of excitement at seeing me and meeting my fiancé. They liked Steve's easy-going nature and his quick humour, although Mum did remark that he was too handsome for his own good. He moved back to his own family home on their return, and I missed having him with me every day. But there wasn't an affordable rental to be had in Dublin and we were saving up, both for the wedding and to be able to get something suitable after we got married.

However, we were back together again sooner than I expected, as Mum and Dad decided to move to the Dingle Peninsula for the summer, a place we'd often gone to on holidays when Adrian and I were children, and where they'd found a picturesque cottage overlooking the sea. I said I hoped they weren't doing it on my account. Dad shook his head and said no, that he was taking advantage of his retirement package and they'd be back in Dublin as soon as the days got shorter and the nights longer.

So Steve moved back in and we settled into a happy routine together. With the possibility of both New Zealand and Dingle as potential retirement locations for my parents, I couldn't help wondering if they'd consider selling the house in Dublin to me and Steve, but it wasn't a subject I was ready to raise with them. I didn't want them to feel obliged to say yes. Then news came from Napier that Cori was pregnant again, and that her baby was due in a few weeks' time. We were all astounded, although apparently not as astounded as Adrian and Cori, who hadn't realised for ages that she was pregnant. She'd decided not to share the news sooner because she couldn't quite believe it herself. My parents booked return tickets to New Zealand for the birth, since Cori doesn't have any close family and Mum thought she might need some support. Adrian agreed.

Baby Azaria was born shortly after they arrived, and Mum fell in love with her straight away. New Zealand was definitely trumping Dingle in the possible retirement stakes for my parents.

Meanwhile, everything was on track for our winter wedding. We'd explained to family and friends that we were trying to save money by having it alone in the White Sands, and even though I know Mum was disappointed that there wasn't going to be a big day out at home, she was also pleased that she wouldn't have to leave the twins and Azaria to head to the Caribbean in November.

When Steve delivered his hammer-blow rejection, I completely understood why Cori had kept the news of her pregnancy to herself for so long. It was as though by not saying anything to anyone, it hadn't really happened. I told Celeste, of course, but begged her not to share it with Aunt Jenni and Uncle Paul until I gave her the go-ahead. I needed to tell my own parents first, but it took me a long time to feel able to break it to them.

Mum was shocked and upset for me, saying that he'd seemed such a nice young man she couldn't quite believe it. Dad was furious. I had to assure them that there was no need to race back to Ireland to take care of me (or, in Dad's case, ‘knock that young pup's block off'). I said it was better that Steve had changed his mind now rather than later, and that although I was upset I'd get over it. I told Mum to concentrate on Cori and the babies and not to worry about me. She said that looking after her only daughter was as important as looking after her grandchildren, but I managed to persuade her that I was absolutely fine and that it was all for the best. I'm not sure how convinced she really was, but in the end she stayed put.

Of course I wasn't absolutely fine. I hadn't been from the moment Steve told me it was all off. Right then, all I wanted was to cling to him and say that I still loved him and would always love him and that I wanted to marry him whenever he liked and I'd do anything to make that happen. I thought of all the things I could do to change his mind, starting in the bedroom and ending up . . . well, probably in the bedroom too. But Steve doesn't respond well to clingy women. So I took off my engagement ring and handed it to him, then told him to get his things and move out. I applauded myself even though it was a struggle to keep the tears from falling.

‘Right now?' He looked alarmed. ‘I haven't got my stuff together. I thought we could be grown up about this. I hoped we could be friends. After all, I want you to go to the Caribbean, have a good time, chill out.'

‘We can't be friends,' I told him, even though right then I was thinking that perhaps friends with benefits could lead back to what we had before. ‘If you don't love me any more, you've got to leave. And I'd rather it was now.'

‘I see that. I do. But . . . well, I couldn't start packing before I told you. Look, there's no need for us to fall out over this. Just because we're not getting married doesn't mean we have to hate each other.'

‘Is there someone else?'

I had to ask even though I didn't know how he'd have time for someone else, because when he went out with the guys it was always to sporting events, and the rest of the time he was working or with me. But men and women have managed to cheat on those closest to them for centuries, and I told myself, no matter how little I wanted to believe it, that Steve was no different.

‘No one else,' he assured me. ‘Honestly. It's the whole go to the Caribbean, have an amazing wedding, being married thing . . . it's all so much and I'm not ready for it.'

‘It's best you leave now, Steve.'

I didn't trust myself around him. I didn't trust myself not to throw myself into his arms and beg him to stay. He went upstairs and came down again ten minutes later, a black bin bag full of clothes in his hand.

‘What about the rest of my stuff?' he asked.

‘We'll arrange a time.'

‘OK.'

He left.

I cried.

Inside, I'm still crying.

‘You all right?' Celeste's voice, quiet and concerned, brings me back to the present.

I'm suddenly aware that the sun has almost sunk below the horizon and that the lights either side of the pathways from the individual two-storey blocks of the hotel are glowing gently. I can hear the chirp of cicadas above the distant sound of the waves breaking on the shore, and every so often a burst of laughter floats upwards on the evening air.

‘Just thinking,' I say.

‘Don't think,' she tells me. ‘Enjoy yourself.'

‘I was supposed to be getting married this week,' I remind her. ‘I'm not sure enjoying myself is an option.'

‘You came, didn't you?'

‘Only because the insurance didn't cover my fiancé becoming my ex-fiancé,' I say. ‘I wasn't going to cut off my nose to spite my face and stay home. Doesn't mean I have to enjoy it.'

‘If you don't enjoy it, you'll definitely be cutting off your nose to spite your face.' She grins at our use of one of my mother's favourite sayings. ‘Come on, Izzy. We're in the Caribbean. It's warm, summery and lovely. It's cold, dark and wintry back home. You've got to make the most of it.'

‘I'll do my best.'

But my mind isn't in wintry Dublin. Or in the eternal summer of the Caribbean. It's in Florence.

‘Do you want to get something to eat?' asks Celeste.

I can't remember the last time I was genuinely hungry, but I nod, and we lock the door behind us before making our way along the curving pathway, past the beach to the main hotel dining room. I've done this walk a thousand times on the virtual tour of the White Sands website, so even in darkness, everything seems familiar. The dining room is calm and spacious, divided up by tropical plants and with warm, intimate lighting.

One of the waiters brings us to a table in a corner, and I wonder if he's been given instructions to tuck us away out of sight, lest anyone realise I'm the woman who's been dumped. I know this is a ridiculous thought, but I can't help having it. I pick up the menu and look at it, although I'm really looking at the other diners, thinking that they're all on their dream holiday while I'm here being miserable.

My phone pings, and I glance at it, hoping for a moment that perhaps it's a message from Steve to tell me that he's sorry and that he's missing me and that he hates Florence and is on the way to the Caribbean right now. I picture him walking up to me and sweeping me into his arms, telling me he can't live without me and insisting that the wedding must go ahead as we'd planned. Even as those thoughts flicker through my mind, I wonder how I'd react. After all, no matter how badly I might be managing it, I'm trying to get over him. Besides, what would happen to Celeste, who's sharing the room with me? Where would she go? (Even if I'm hopelessly romantic about some things, I'm also eminently practical. Steve turning up would be a disaster. Though certainly something to write home about!)

The message is actually from my phone provider telling me about the extortionate charges for roaming services, so I switch off my mobile data, although I don't plan to venture further than the resort with its excellent Wi-Fi.

‘Everything OK?'

I nod, though I'm a bit tired of Celeste asking me that. I know she means well, but I'm on my fecking honeymoon with her, so it's hardly going to be OK, is it?

‘I think I'll have the red snapper.' She closes the menu. ‘What about you?'

‘The Caesar salad.'

‘Why don't you try something a bit more substantial?'

‘I'm more tired than hungry,' I tell her. ‘It's been a long day.'

Which is true. We were up early this morning for our eight-hour flight, and of course we're now four hours behind GMT, so even though my watch is telling me it's 7.30, my body thinks it's half past eleven.

‘I was tired until I started reading the menu.' Celeste grins. ‘But it's so exciting!'

Celeste is a chef, and so the White Sands, with its reputation for fine dining and excellent cuisine, is like heaven to her. I know she's not happy that my engagement was broken off, but she's ecstatic about being on my honeymoon.

The food arrives, and while she attacks her red snapper with enthusiasm, I pick at the salad and check out our fellow diners. Most of the tables are occupied by couples; the White Sands isn't a couples-only resort, but with the whole wedding vibe thing it has going, it's very much geared towards romance rather than families. If you're having a big wedding, they provide private dining, keeping the public dining rooms from being taken over by groups of revellers. As Steve and I had planned to come here by ourselves, we would have had a room-service dinner on our balcony overlooking the sea, with our very own waiter for the evening. It would have been perfect.

Among the couples sitting in the restaurant, I decide that the youngest two, who only have eyes for each other, are newly-weds. They're both wearing very shiny wedding bands and her engagement ring is glittering in the light of the table lamp. I'm reckoning some of the older diners might be celebrating anniversaries; they're not quite as besotted as the newly-weds, but there's an empathy between them even when they're sitting in silence. Along with the couples, there are also a few intergenerational families, although no children. At what can only be described as the best table in the room, in a small corner that juts out over the sea, is the only solitary diner, a man who could be anything between forty-five and fifty-five. His face is tanned and his silver-grey hair far thicker and more luxuriant than you'd expect on someone that age. His eyes, behind heavy horn-rimmed glasses, are a surprising arctic blue. His navy linen shirt is open at the neck and the sleeves are rolled up, revealing a slim watch on his left wrist and a selection of leather bands on his right. He looks vaguely familiar, but even after staring at him for longer than is polite, I can't tell how.

‘Well, I don't know.' Celeste shrugs when I wonder aloud where I've seen him before. ‘Someone you stopped at the port, perhaps?'

I'm a customs officer, so I stop a lot of people at Dublin Port on a daily basis, usually truck drivers. And it's not that I can profile someone simply by looking at them, but this man doesn't look like a truck driver. Besides, I have a good memory for faces, and his isn't one of my regulars.

‘I wonder why he's on his own?' I muse aloud.

‘Maybe whoever he's with is joining him later,' said Celeste.

‘Perhaps,' I agree. ‘Or he could be a widower, returning to a place he and his wife once loved.'

‘That's a bit sad,' says Celeste. ‘Though I'm thinking if he's a widower, he's far more likely to be here with his new girlfriend than his melancholy thoughts.'

I tell her she has a heart of stone. I'm not sure why I'm so convinced he's alone, but there's something about him . . . I flinch as he looks up from the Kindle he's reading and his eyes meet mine. I don't shift my gaze, and pretend I'm not looking at him but at the blackness of the sea behind him. Then, thankfully, a waiter appears with more iced water and I turn to him instead.

Celeste has almost finished her red snapper and I've eaten more of the salad than I expected, along with one of the small warm bread rolls that accompanied it. When the waiter appears again and asks about dessert, Celeste chooses cheesecake while I opt for some fruit.

‘If nothing else, I'd get into my wedding dress no problem now,' I observe when she comments on my healthy choices.

‘You never had any problems with your wedding dress,' she protests. ‘You looked fabulous in it.'

She was with me when I bought it. It's hanging up in my wardrobe at home. When we get back, I'll try to sell it online. I remind her it was always a bit tight but that it was very slinky.

She makes a face and scoops up the last of her cheesecake.

I pop a chunk of watermelon in my mouth.

We briefly ponder the possibility of having a nightcap before bed, but I'm suddenly exhausted and can hardly keep my eyes open. Celeste confesses to tiredness too. So we go back to the room.

For the first time in weeks, I fall asleep straight away.