Catherine Steadman - Something in the Water - A Novel

And then we hike, the breeze reaching us over the treetops, shifting stones and dust underfoot, muffled chatter, sweat running down between my breasts, heavy breathing, Mark’s darkening T-shirt ahead of me.

By the end of our hike I’m exhausted but satisfied. My legs heavy and loose.

Mark’s cheeks have picked up some sun, making him look irresistibly healthy, outdoorsy. I haven’t seen him this happy for a while now. Old Mark. I can’t stop touching him. His browning skin. On the boat trip back to the hotel, I rest one warm thigh over his. Territorial.

I told him about the bag; he actually thought it was quite funny when I told him about it. Fawlty Towers funny. Hotel mishaps funny. I never really got Fawlty Towers, to be honest; they always seemed so angry. Disproportionately angry. Maybe that’s what’s so funny. I don’t know. Python I love, but Cleese needs some tempering. Straight-up Cleese is too rich for my blood.

When we’re back we dive straight into bed, make lazy love, and nap until sunset.

Once we’re showered and dressed, Mark leads me out onto the decking and pops a bottle of champagne. Eddie’s champagne. Or as I told Mark, “Fred’s champagne.”

He offers me a full glass, the fizz misting off its surface. You can tell a champagne’s quality by the size of the bubbles, did you know that? The smaller the bubbles, the more there are available to release the aroma and flavor. The carbon dioxide bubbles pick up and carry the flavor molecules; the more there are, the more refreshing and subtle the flavors will feel to your palate. My glass is alive with long strings of tiny, ascending bubbles. We clink.

“Marrying you was the best decision I’ve ever made.” He smiles. “I just want you to know that I love you, Erin, and I’m going to look after you, and when we get home I’m going to get another job and we’re going to make a proper life together. Sound good?”

“Yes, that sounds perfect,” I reply.

I take a sip, the bubbles bursting over my lip and nose. It’s heaven. I smile. Thank you, Eddie.

“What shall we do about…?” I nod my head back toward the suite.

He grins. “I’ll take it to the dive center tomorrow and give the dive coordinator the area location. He can deal with it. Or maybe he’ll just put it back in our room, of course! Either way.” He laughs.

Music starts across the lagoon.

On Sunday nights there’s a traditional Polynesian dinner show on the beach. I said to Mark, it does sound a little like eighties dinner theater. But he reminded me this is the Four Seasons, so it’s a five-star three-course meal on a torchlit tropical beach followed by traditional Polynesian water-drumming and fire-dancing.

“Right, like dinner theater?” I say. They do that at dinner theater, right?

—

We’re seated at a table right at the water’s edge. There are only ten other couples, spaced out across the sand lit by candles and flaming torches all along the water’s edge. We give the couple from the hike a wave. Daniel and Sally. They smile and wave back. Everyone loose-limbed and happy. The scent of Tahitian gardenia and fire fills the air.

We sip more champagne and talk about the future. What we’ll do once we’re home. I tell Mark all about Alexa, her plan to get pregnant, I tell him about Holli, everything. I don’t mention too much about Eddie, of course, or Eddie’s gift. Mark listens, rapt. I think he forgot somehow that I was still living my life while he was so wrapped up in his, but he’s interested now. He asks why they’re letting Holli out at all. He asks if I think Alexa regrets what she did. We talk into dessert and through coffee. And then the show begins.

Polynesian dancers, male and female, dressed in traditional costume, flip and somersault across the sand with flaming torches clasped in bronzed hands or between clenched teeth. Leaping into the air, diving into the water. Percussionists stand knee-deep in the waves and beat floating drums and the water with open palms.

The music builds, builds and climaxes with the waves flashing on fire for a moment in front of us, a circle of white-hot flames licking up off the surface of the water. And then darkness, claps, and whoops.

We move to the bar afterwards and on to cocktails. We dance, we talk, we kiss, we canoodle, we drink some more, and not until we’re the last ones standing do we call it a night and stumble back along the jetty to our room.

And there it sits, waiting. I get some nail scissors from the bathroom and we open it.

I wake up late.

Mark is out cold beside me, the smell of booze thick over us. We forgot to order breakfast or even turn the air-con on before we fell into bed last night.

My head is fuzzy and I’m hungry. It looks like we ordered more room service last night. I roll out of bed carefully and wander over to the abandoned trolley.

Melted ice cream and an upturned champagne bottle in a bucket.

How much did we drink? Jesus. My tongue feels fat and dry in my mouth. And I’m absolutely starving. I make an executive decision and head for the phone.

Halfway across the floor, I feel a sharp pain shoot up through my foot and I lose my balance, crashing down hard onto the stone tiles.

Fucking hell, ow ow ow. Fucking ow.

A bright bulb of blood blossoms on the arch of my foot. Fuck. I see the offending scissors kicked up next to me. The bulb of blood bursts into a dribble and runs down and drips to the floor. My head throbs.

Oh, fuck this. I stand slowly, cautiously, and hobble to the phone. They pick up after two rings.

“Hi there. Can I order some room service please?…Yes, that’s it. Yes. Can I get two full breakfasts…poached, coffee for two, pastry basket….Yes, yes, that one. Orange juice for two. And do you have plasters?…No. Plasters—Band-Aids?…No. Band—? Like a first-aid kit or…Oh, oh yes! Yes, that’s great. Yes, great. Thank you.” I hang up and collapse back into bed, my foot bleeding into the sheets.

Mark stirs next to me. He grunts.

“Twenty minutes,” I mumble, and fall asleep.

I wake as Mark pulls the breakfast trolley through the room and out onto the deck. He’s wrapped in a hotel robe, bright white against his tanned skin. I grab the first-aid kit they brought and limp out to join him. Oversized T-shirt covering my underwear, foot crusted over with dried blood.

We eat in silence, staring dazed into the middle distance. I hobble back in to fetch us painkillers. Then after putting a plaster over my injury, I make the short move across to a sunlounger and promptly fall asleep again.

When I wake I see Mark has pulled the sunshade over me. God, I love him. I test my head with a gentle nod, a gentle shake. Yes, better. Much better. Maybe a shower now. I hobble back into the room past Mark watching Attenborough on cable and into the bathroom. He blows me a kiss as I pass by.

I let the cool water run over my face and hair. I rub the shampoo deep into my scalp; the massage feels heavenly. I think about last night. What did we do once we got back? I don’t remember having ice cream. I remember the scissors, getting the scissors, for the bag. That’s it.

I wrap a fresh towel around myself and wander back in to Mark.

“Did we open it?” I ask. I really hope we didn’t. There’s no way we can hand it in if we’ve ruined it.

He grimaces and hauls the bag up onto the bed.

It’s very clearly got a hole in it. We really didn’t get very far last night. God, drunk people are idiots. I notice Mark’s hand has two of the Band-Aids stuck to it. I guess he was in charge of scissors last night. I sit down on the bed and inspect the bag. The hole is useless. I can’t get a finger in to stretch it wider and I can’t see anything through it. Maximum impact, minimum results.