She looked at her watch.
“What’s everybody doing?” he asked. She realised that this was his way of asking where David was.
“I think that Clover’s with James. Out on their bicycles, I think. Billy’s at that dolphin place with Margaret. David’s working.”
“Does he ever take any time off?”
“Sundays, usually. Otherwise … no, he’s pretty busy.” She looked at him. His eyes were registering pleasure at what she said.
“How about it?”
The sea was calm as they edged out into the sound. They had boarded the boat in the canal along which he moored it – a thin strip of water that provided access to four or five rather run-down houses. Dogs barked from the bank as the boat made its way towards the sea; a large Dobermann, ears clipped, kept pace with them, defending its territory with furious snarls.
She pointed to one of the houses. “Who lives in these places?” she asked.
“You can tell from the dogs,” he said. “That Dobermann belongs to a man who owns two liquor stores, and a bar.” He made a calming gesture towards the dog. “Dogs are aspirational here. Like boats.”
She laughed. “That’s his boat there?” She pointed to a gleaming white vessel. A towering superstructure was topped with a bristling forest of aerials and fishing rods.
“Must be.”
Once in the sound he opened the throttle and the boat surged forward across the flat expanse of sea. The sky was high and empty of all but a few cumulus clouds on the horizon, off towards Cuba. The water was a light turquoise colour, the white sand showing a bare six feet below. Here and there, patches of undulating dark disclosed the presence of weed. In the distance, a line of white marked their destination, the reef that protected the sound from the open sea beyond. That was the point at which the seabed began to drop until, a few hundred yards further out, it reached the edge of the deep and fell away into hundreds of feet of darkness. The dive boats went there, dropping their divers down the side of a submarine cliff. It was dangerous: every so often divers went down and did not come up; nitrogen-drunk on beauty, they went too deep and forgot where they were.
It was hard to make oneself heard against the roar of the engine. He signalled to her where they were going, and she strained to make out the break in the reef that provided a passage out into the open sea. A small cluster of boats congregated not far away – the boats that took people out to see the school of giant stingrays that swam into the sound to be fed by the boatmen. The rays, accustomed to people, would glide obligingly round the legs of swimmers, taking fish from the hands of the guides. They had taken the children there on numerous occasions – it was one of the few outings the island afforded – and the memory reminded her that she was a mother. She looked away, and thought: I should ask him to go back. She wondered why she had said yes to this. It was … what was the right word for it? Folly. That was it. Folly.
He had slowed the boat to negotiate the difficult passage between the outcrops of coral that made up the reef. It was a clear enough route, and everybody who took a boat out there learned it soon and easily enough. One had to line up several points and keep a careful eye on which way the current was flowing. One had to read the sea, which provided all the necessary signs, particularly on a calm day like this.
“Are you all right with this?” she asked as he steered them towards the gap.
“Yes,” he said. “I’ve done it a few times. You have to watch out, but it’s simple enough.”
“I won’t distract you.”
She looked over the side of the boat. The water was shallow enough to stand in, she thought. There was weed, lines of drifting black. A large shell, she thought – a conch, perhaps; a blur of white against the sand. There was a flash of colour as a school of bright blue fish darted past. There was the shadow of the boat on the seabed below.
“There.” He had brought them through, and the reef and the breaking waves were suddenly behind them. He opened the throttle again to put water between them and the coral. The sea now was a different colour – a darker blue – and it was rougher too, with a swell bowling in towards them.
He throttled back, making the bow drop down. Then, glancing at a dial on the console, he switched the engine off entirely.
“We might as well conserve fuel. These big outboards are thirsty.”
She leaned back against her seat and closed her eyes. She felt the sun on her face; the breeze too. There was silence.
“It’s the peace, isn’t it?” she muttered, to herself as much as to him. “It’s the peacefulness.”
She opened her eyes. He was struggling with the catch of a small cool-box that he had brought with them.
“Somebody gave me a bottle of champagne,” he said. “A grateful patient.”
The catch shifted and the champagne was revealed. Two glasses nestled against the ice, alongside the bottle. She wondered why he had packed two glasses. He had had the cool-box with him when he had met her at the tennis club, but he would not have known that she was there. So this could not have been planned for her. For his wife? For Alice?
The cork popped, shooting up into the air to fall into the sea beside them. She watched it floating away on a swell.
“I didn’t mean that to happen,” he said. “I disapprove of people who shake champagne and pop the corks. It’s one of the biggest causes of eye injury there is.” He grinned. “Not that I’m a spoil-sport.”
He handed her a glass of champagne. “Here. For you.”
She took the glass, which was cold to the touch. She raised it to her lips. It’s too late, she thought. This is it.
He took a sip. “You don’t mind, do you?” he asked.
“Mind what? Being here? Drinking champagne instead of being at the supermarket?”
He looked serious. “You don’t mind that I asked you?”
She shrugged. “Why should I?”
He was studying her reaction. “Because I can’t pretend that I didn’t hope that I would find you at the tennis club.”
For a while she said nothing. It thrilled her: she meant something to him. There was no dismay; just pleasure.
When she spoke the words, it seemed to her, came from somewhere else.
“I hadn’t envisaged this happening. But it happens, doesn’t it? It … well, it comes over one. I never thought it would. I never thought about it. It just happens.”
He nodded. “I hadn’t anticipated this either.”
“So what do we do?”
The question hung in the air.
“Do?” he said. “I hadn’t thought that far.”
“Neither had I.” She put down her glass. “Because we both have children to think about.”
“Yes,” he said. “And others.”
“By that, you mean …”
She thought that he did not want her to see his wince, but she did. “Alice and David.”
It was a mistake, she thought, to mention the names. They had not been present until then, but now they were. And there were only two glasses of champagne.
She drew in her breath. “I think maybe we shouldn’t take this any further. I’m sorry.”
His mouth opened slightly. She saw that he was gripping the glass tightly, as his knuckles were white. I’ve said the wrong thing. It’s entirely the wrong thing.
“Is that what you feel?”
She nodded, and glanced at her watch. “I think it would have been nice. But it can’t be. It just can’t.”
“If that’s what you feel …”
“It is. I’m really sorry, George. I wish that I were free to say yes. I wish that. But I’m not. And I don’t think you’re free either.”
He looked down at the deck. “You’re probably right.” He drained his glass and put it back into the cool box. Then, picking up the bottle of champagne, he looked at it, held it up against the sun, and then poured it out over the side of the boat. She watched in astonishment, noticing the tiny bubbles, visible against the surface of the se
a for a few instants before they disappeared.
“I’m so sorry,” she said.
He replaced the bottle and took her glass from her.
“You don’t have to say sorry,” he said. “I’m the one who should apologise.”
“No. You don’t have to.”
He reached for the ignition. “I suggest we write the whole thing off to experience. That’s the civilised way of dealing with these things, I think.”
It could have been said bitterly, but she did not detect any bitterness in his voice. He was a kind man, she thought. He was exactly what she thought, and hoped, he was.
9
When George turned the key in the ignition, the outboard engine spluttered into life briefly, but did not catch. He attempted to start it again. Sometimes it took a second try for the fuel to get through; a small blockage, a bubble of air could starve the injectors of fuel but these would right themselves. This time there was no response at all. He looked down at the safety-cord – this was a small key-like device that operated against a sprung switch and had to be in place for the engine to fire. It was correctly slotted in. He tried once more, and again there was no response.
She had not noticed the first failure, but now she did.
“Trouble?”
He raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know. It won’t start.”
“Are we out of fuel?”
He pointed to the gauge. “We’ve got at least ten gallons. Maybe more.”
“Perhaps you should try again.”
He reached forward and turned the key. There was complete silence.
“I can check the batteries. A lead might have detached itself.”
He opened a hatch, exposing two large twelve-volt batteries. All four leads were in position, and secure. He tried the key again, with the same result.
She glanced over her shoulder. After they had cleared the passage, they had gone half a mile or so out onto the open sea. Now, carried by the swell, they were little more than several hundred yards off the line of surf marking the location of the reef. In ten minutes or so, possibly less, they would have reached the point where the waves would carry them onto the reef itself.
“Have you got a radio?”
He shook his head. “I’ve got my phone. We’re not too far out. We’ll get reception.”
She felt a surge of relief. “Then phone somebody.”
“Who?”
She frowned. “The police. They’ll know what to do.”
He reached into his pocket to retrieve his phone. As he did so, he looked about, scanning the sea. On the other side of the reef, in the protected waters of the sound, he could see three or four boats still bobbing at anchor round the sting-ray feeding grounds. He could make out the heads of swimmers in the water.
“Could we attract their attention?” she asked.
“I’m not carrying any flares. If we had a flare they’d see it. But I haven’t.”
She stood up and looked over in the direction of the knot of boats. She had been frightened, but the human presence not too far away reassured her. If the worst came to the worst, they could abandon ship and swim back through the passage in the reef. They would be seen then, or they could even swim over to join the boats at anchor. It was not as if they were far out at sea; and the water, as usual, was invitingly warm.
She saw that George was looking anxiously at the reef, to which they were slowly being carried by the swell. She looked down: they were in about forty feet of water, she thought, but as they approached the reef that would diminish. Could they not anchor and then wait for help – boats regularly used the entrance to the sound and they would not have to wait too long.
“Your anchor,” she suggested. “Couldn’t we …”
“Yes,” he said. “I was thinking that.”
He moved to the bow and opened a locker. Reaching in, he lifted out a rather shabby-looking anchor to which a line of rusty chain was attached. He looked over the side of the boat.
“We’ll have to get a bit closer to the reef,” he said. “It’s too deep here.”
The swell seemed to pick up, and they found themselves being pressed closer and closer to the breaking waves and the jagged points of coral. When they were only a few boat’s lengths from the first of the outcrops, George heaved the anchor over the side, paying out the chain and line.
She felt the boat shudder as the anchor line took the strain.
“She might drag a bit,” he said. “We’ll have to watch.”
But it held, and the boat was soon pointed into the incoming swell, riding it confidently.
George sat down. He wiped his brow and smiled at her. “There we are. Emergency over.”
She scanned the sea. “No sign of anything.”
He seemed confident that help would not be long delayed. “Something will come by. A fishing boat. A yacht. Less than an hour, I’d say.” He looked at her apologetically. “I’m sorry about all this. You went off to play tennis and ended up shipwrecked.”
“Not quite.”
“Near enough. And I rather wish I hadn’t disposed of the rest of the champagne.”
She made a sign to indicate she did not mind. “I’m fine.”
He was about to say something, but did not. She was pleased that he did not, as she did not wish to discuss what had gone before. Some lovers, she thought; some affair.
She steered the conversation to neutral topics. They discussed the plan to extend the system of canals to sensitive mangrove swamps. They discussed the ambitions of the developers who were setting out to cover the island with concrete and pastel-coloured condos. He became animated on the subject of corruption. She listened, and found herself agreeing with everything he said. David was far less harsh in his judgement of developers; in fact, he spoke up in favour of them. That was the difference.
She looked at her watch. They had been anchored for forty-five minutes and there had been no sign of any boat. It was barely noon, and there were another six hours of daylight, but what if nobody came? Who would report them missing? David had no idea where she was and she did not want to ask George whether Alice knew that he was going out in the boat. If she did, then she would raise the alarm and they would send out a search party, but if she did not know, then it could be the next day before anybody came and found them. Did they have enough water, she wondered. And there was no food, although one could last for a long time without anything to eat.
“You aren’t worried?” he asked.
“Not really.” She hesitated. “No, maybe a bit.”
“We’ll be all right. In fact …” He broke off, as he had seen something and was standing up, shading his eyes with his hand. “Yes. Help’s on its way.”
She stood up too, and he pointed out the direction in which she should look. He took her hand in his, to do so, which was not strictly necessary – he could have pointed. But she felt a stab of excitement at his touch.
There was a boat in the distance – a powerboat churning the sea behind it, heading their way.
She squeezed his hand in relief, and he returned the pressure. Then he leaned over and kissed her gently on the cheek.
“See,” he said. “We’re saved.”
She felt herself blushing at the kiss, like an innocent schoolgirl. He should not have done it, she thought, because they had agreed, had they not, that they were not going to take this further. But she was glad that he had because the kiss had felt so wrong and so right at the same time.
As the boat approached, George began to move his arms from side to side in the maritime gesture of distress. Figures could now be made out on the deck of the other boat and there was a response. The boat slowed and changed course towards them.
“Thank God,” said George.
“A relief,” said Amanda.
“I’m going to have to get a new outboard after this,” George said.
The other boat was a rather larger cruiser, set up for deep-sea fishing, although not sporting any rods. Gingerly it came alon
gside, taking care to leave sufficient distance so as not to be pushed by the swell on to the anchored boat.
“What’s the trouble?” asked the man at the controls.
“Engine failure,” shouted George. “We’ll need a tow.”
The man nodded. “We’ll throw you a line. Ready?”
Amanda had been looking at the other skipper. Now she looked at the crew, of whom there were four. With a start she recognised John Galbraith, one of David’s partners in the firm. He saw her at much the same time as she saw him, and he waved.
“Amanda!” he called out.
She acknowledged the call.
“I didn’t expect to see you,” he shouted out. “Are you all right?”
She cupped her hands and shouted a reply. “Fine. Absolutely fine.”
John gave the thumbs-up sign and then busied himself fixing the line to a cleat at the stern of the boat. Then the other end of the line was thrown across to George. It went into the sea the first time, but was retrieved and thrown again. This time it was caught and secured to the bow of the stricken vessel. The anchor was pulled up and the rescuing boat took the strain.
Progress under tow was slow, but once through the passage in the reef there was little to do but to sit back and wait. Amanda went to the stern and sat by herself, deep in thought. The implications of what had happened were slowly sinking in. The odds against being rescued by somebody she knew were not all that high. The island was small and people knew one another. If she had imagined that she could go anywhere – anywhere at all – and not be spotted, then she was mistaken. Yet it was particularly bad luck that it should be John, of all people. He and David saw one another every day, for most of the day; he would be bound to mention that he had rescued his colleague’s wife.
She felt raw inside. Dread, she thought. That’s what dread feels like. Rawness. Hollowness. She would have to speak to John. She would have to ask him not to say anything. And that meant that she would have to confess that her presence on George’s boat was being kept secret from David. It was nothing short of an admission of adultery.