Stevie had attempted to make sense of their argument. She knew Cacatra Island was owned by Reuben van der Meyde, and dim recollection prompted the image of him sitting at JB Moreau’s side at the Frontline Fashion event she’d been invited to in Vegas, the one Xander had refused to attend.
Old adversaries
, he’d said. How he was whenever the fashion magnate was brought up in conversation, like he’d seen a ghost. Was that it? Was this something to do with JB Moreau?
Xander had turned on her, gesturing between them.
‘It’s not about … this, is it? ’
Their phantom baby. Nothing, still.
‘Why would it be about that?’
She had taken his hand.
‘This isn’t about running out on you, all right? I love you.’
‘Then go someplace else. Anywhere else. Please. ’
The last thing Stevie wanted was a marriage of secrets, even though they were under a year in and already seemed to be building up an arsenal of the things. For, despite Xander’s evasiveness, she had to admit she hadn’t been honest with him, either: the truth about Linus Posen’s death hung over her like an axe … but she had to respect Bibi’s confidence. She began to wonder if they might have
rushed into the wedding. The more she tortured herself, the less convinced she became that she knew her husband at all. What if their relationship was a fake? What if she’d signed on to spending the rest of her life with a stranger? Whatever Xander was hiding, it clearly had to be enough to compromise their relationship—his behaviour was too bizarre for it to be anything else.
Around lunchtime Stevie swam in the sea, floating on her back with her palms in the air. The sun was blazing and the water was cool, lightly rocking her body. The current was stronger than she’d thought and when she went to put her feet down, expecting to meet sand or rock, she was surprised to find that she’d drifted out. Her limbs felt tired and the distance back to the villa, against the tide, was disheartening. Behind her, further out, was a lighthouse island, closer to her than the main beach. She let the current wash her towards it, deciding to rest there till she had strength to swim back.
The shore was rocky and sharp, painful on the soles of her feet, and because of the lone building’s sheer walls there was little if any shade. The lighthouse itself dated back, she guessed, to the sixties. It was typical of its style and fairly well preserved, given the battering it must have received over the years, its white-hot walls only slightly chipped, flaps of paint peeling away. She felt thirsty and a bit sun-sick, and hammered her fist on the door once or twice in the hope someone might hear. There was no response. Raising a hand to ward off the midday sun, she spied a small rectangular window at the very top. It was impossible to see clearly but she thought she saw the dark outline of a person back away from it.
‘Hello?’ she called. A seagull swooped overhead with
a lonely cry, coming to rest on the chalky tip. It flapped its wings once or twice. Stevie squinted at the window, wondering if the island and the heat were playing tricks on her.
There was a docking space and a landing rope on the south of the islet. She touched the tip of the rope with her toe and felt it was still wet. Obviously the building was still in use, though for what she couldn’t imagine. It didn’t look like a working lighthouse and, anyway, from what she could gather, visitors typically arrived by air. She attempted to peer into one of the lower windows but they were too high. With a little jump she could catch a gloomy glimpse of its interior, but all she could decipher were piled-up boxes and what looked like paperwork. Folders and files, too many to count, and a system of shelves that would have been more at home in a library, with large initials at the end of each row: A, H, M… P, S, W…
She was relieved when a speedboat approached, its tail of white foam looping as the vessel came to rest. A man in uniform was at the wheel.
‘Everything all right?’ he asked. He helped her on to the boat and close up she saw that he was young, with a broad, flat face that brought to mind the back of a wooden spoon.
‘I came out further than I meant to,’ she said. ‘Thanks.’
‘I’m afraid the lighthouse is off-limits,’ he told her. ‘No access here at all.’
She found his expression curiously blank. ‘Like I said, it was a mistake.’
They travelled back to Cacatra in minutes. Stevie looked behind her, the lighthouse diminishing, smaller and smaller, in their wake.
‘Where’ve you been?’ Bibi asked when she got back. Her friend was relaxing on a wicker lounger, legs tucked under her, magazine in hand, a long-forgotten smile on her face. Dirk Michaels had advised her to see a therapist while she was here—Cacatra had the best, he promised—and while Stevie knew Bibi wouldn’t be revealing the final details of Linus’s death, it seemed like the appointments, however they were being used, were having a positive effect.
‘Long story.’
‘I was getting worried! ’
Stevie sat down. ‘Good session?’
‘I think so.’ Bibi shrugged. ‘I got so relaxed I fell asleep!’
She surveyed the lunch menu. ‘I’m starved.’
‘Me too. Let’s order a feast.’
After they’d eaten, Stevie went on to the veranda to hang her bikini to dry. She noticed a couple of maids cleaning out the adjacent villa, efficiently stripping sheets and carrying bundles of linen across the walkway. That was strange. She had seen Rita Clay there only this morning—the women had met through Marty King—and could have sworn Rita told her she planned to stay another week.
Confused, Stevie checked the villa on her other side. No, she was positive it had been that one. Never mind, maybe something came up and Rita had been obliged to return home.
She made her way back inside. ‘Take a walk with me?’
Bibi yawned, stretching her arms high. ‘I’m kinda tired. Might sleep for a bit.’
Stevie hesitated. She’d wanted to broach the subject since they’d got here but hadn’t found the right time. Was there ever a right time to discuss what they needed to?
‘B, what are we going to do?’ she asked softly.
‘About what?’
‘You know about what.’
Bibi started packing a bag with beach things, even though she’d said she was staying in. ‘I’m not thinking about it. It’s over.’
Stevie was unsure whether to go on. ‘You can’t pretend it didn’t happen,’ she said.
Bibi snapped. ‘You feel sorry for him or something, is that it?’
‘Of course not. Never.’
‘Because it’s not like what I did to him even came close to what he did to me.’
‘I know.’
‘You can’t possibly know.’
‘I’m trying. I want to help you.’
‘Then let me forget it.’ Bibi was shaking. She vanished into the bathroom. ‘I don’t want to regret telling you, Steve,’ she said through the closed door.
After a moment, Stevie knocked gently. ‘Let me in?’
‘No.’
‘Telling me was the right thing. That isn’t in question.’
‘You’re saying I should confess.’
She chose her words carefully. Was it possible to live life by a moral compass when other people didn’t? Wasn’t everyone equally at sea?
‘No, actually, I’m not.’
‘I’m a murderer.’
‘Linus was evil,’ she said. ‘I’d have done the exact same thing.’
The lock on the door clicked. Stevie pushed it open and saw Bibi on the loo with her head in her hands.
‘But I do think you’re going to have to try and work this
through,’ she continued, ‘if you want to get your life back. Otherwise it’s going to destroy you.’
‘You said you owed me,’ Bibi said quietly. ‘Do you remember? When you won the Lauren audition?’
‘Yes, I remember.’
‘So this is it. This is when I get to cash in.’ She looked up. ‘Please, Steve, I want to forget it happened. I want to
forget
. That’s why I’m here, in the middle of the goddamn ocean, in the middle of nowhere. I’m praying that by the time we go back—’ she gestured around, as if the bullshit of LA were something she could clear, like steam ‘—people will have moved on, and it won’t have to be the first thing I see or hear or think about every single day when I wake up. So leave it,’ she finished. ‘All right?’
Stevie rested her head against the doorframe. ‘All right.’
That Friday, she got her period. It happened unexpectedly, when she was swimming. She’d been late, just a few days but wondering all the same …
if
. If she was, it meant being able to have a family. If she was, then there was nothing the matter with her. If she was, then she could go back to Xander with the news and that would make everything all right. But she had known, really, the moment she’d woken that morning and felt the scrape in her gut.
She was hurrying back to the villa, wrapped in a towel, when, eyes down on the beach, she ran straight into JB Moreau. Embarrassingly she sort of collapsed into him and he had to gather her, holding her at arm’s length like a puppy brought out of a box.
‘My fault,’ he said. ‘Didn’t see you coming.’
Stevie’s mind was blank, aware of the pressure of his touch on her shoulders. At the Vegas event she had thought
him handsome, but in proximity he was magnetic in that way so particular to dangerous men. There was a look in his eye that reminded her of her first day working at Simms & Court. How she’d entered his office, primed for direction, and he’d turned from the window to face her and everything in his expression had said:
This is inevitable
. Once you gave away an innocent heart, you could never get it back.
‘I don’t think we’ve met.’ JB extended his hand. ‘Jean-Baptiste, call me JB. I’m a business partner of Reuben’s. We look after the island.’
Stevie found herself drawn involuntarily to his eyes, which were of a startling, unusual blue. She shook his hand firmly, registering the quiet strength of his grip.
‘Stevie Speller.’
‘Yes, I know.’ That smile again—it was killer. ‘Xander’s wife.’
The observation struck her as blunt and a little rude. ‘I prefer not to think of myself as just someone’s wife,’ she said, aware she sounded stuffy.
‘Xander’s not just someone,’ JB countered, dark humour in his voice that she couldn’t account for. Stevie had the sense he was feeling his way, aiming to grasp how much Xander might have told her. ‘He’s an old friend of mine.’
Old adversaries
.
JB waited for her to confirm or deny her knowledge. She decided to do neither, though it was beyond tempting to ask him to elaborate on their relationship.
‘How is he?’ he asked smoothly. ‘It’s been a while.’
‘Fine,’ she said carefully. ‘We’re very happy.’
He smiled. Stevie saw his teeth were very nearly straight but not quite, the imperfection, as with the scar, adding to
his weird beauty. His canines were slightly sharp, giving his mouth a malevolence. ‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ he said. ‘We used to know each other well.’
Stevie returned the smile, close-lipped.
‘Well, it was good to meet you,’ she said, backing away.
‘Likewise,’ JB said. ‘Perhaps we’ll run into each other again?’
‘Perhaps.’
As Stevie crossed the bridge to the villa she sensed his eyes on her back. Despite the searing heat, cold seeped down her spine like syrup dripping from a spoon.
41
Lori
Lori was due to return to LA the following morning. She had been on Cacatra for eight weeks.
Island life suited her. ‘It better had,’ said Jacqueline when she told her she was coming home. ‘Your schedule’s back-to-back.’
‘And Peter?’
‘Gone quiet. Moreau was right about this break—it was for the best.’
Lori hadn’t seen him for days. He had been tied up in meetings with Reuben van der Meyde. She wasn’t sure what the connection was between the men but recalled Desideria telling her JB ran a number of pursuits separate to the fashion house and decided this must be one of them. While it was tempting to read more into his attentiveness during her stay on Cacatra, as she was a Valerie Girl owned by La Lumière it stood to reason he would make the effort.
But then she would think of the time he had taken her
out in his boat and caught a fish the size of a violin, slipping his thumb into its mouth to kill it; or when he’d dived with her, moving through underwater shadows and across knuckles of pink coral; or the way he was with the child Ralph, like an elder brother, how it lit him like a flame in a glass; or how he’d held on to her that day she’d hurt her ankle—and all the longing would seep back in, under the door she’d closed on it, insistent and everywhere, like trying to hold back a furious river with only her hand.
He invited her to dinner that night. One of his assistants came to Villa 19 just as the light was fading behind Cacatra’s serrated silhouette. Lori was pulling her bags together for the early-morning departure, holding close items of clothing and breathing them in, wanting the scent of the island to travel with her. But clothes, like memories, would be washed clean: replaced, renewed, until they forgot the places they’d been.
It was a relief to know she would see him one last time before she left. She fully expected him to withdraw the moment they were back in America. It was wise. JB Moreau was unavailable, in every sense of the word.
‘Give me an hour,’ she told the assistant, even though she could have returned with him. It was an hour to sit at the window of her villa and embrace the view that had become over the past two months as familiar and beloved as the one from her childhood bedroom, when her mama was still alive and life was laid out ahead of her in its glory. What it was, she saw now, was possibility. Chances. A view, plain and simple.
She made her way to JB’s villa along the beach. His had a wide veranda carved out of the rock—she’d been up once
before when he’d taken her on a tour of the island—and, up on the terrace, she was surprised to find a table set for two, covered in long white linen and overlooking the sea. An ice bucket was positioned to one side, chilling champagne.
JB was standing at the balcony, his back to her, head tilted towards the stars. He was smoking a cigarette.