Silver Bay (24 page)

I shook my head.

‘And we didn’t, did we? I was a good husband to Jean and you know it.’

Oh, I knew it. I’d spent more than half my life thinking about it.

‘Then why? Jean told me – Jesus, with her dying words – she told me that she wanted me to be happy. She as good as told me that we should be together. What the hell is stopping us? What the hell is stopping you?’

I had to get up to leave. I shook my hand at him, the other pressed over my mouth as I made my way unsteadily towards my car.

I couldn’t tell him – I couldn’t tell him the truth. That what Jean had told him was a message, all right, but it was a message for me. She was telling me through him that she’d known – that for all those years afterwards she’d known. And that woman understood that knowing this would fill me with guilt for the rest of my days. Jean Gaines had known both of us better than Nino thought.

That night I didn’t go out to the crews. Guessing correctly that their indignation would fuel a long evening, I let Liza serve them and pleaded a headache. Then I sat in my little office at the back of the kitchen, where I worked out the guest accounts, and stared at the years of ledgers, the accounts that charted the hotel’s history. The years from 1946 to 1960 were fat binders, telling in the width of their spines the hotel’s popularity. Occasionally I would open them and look at the parchment-like bills for sides of beef, imported brandy and cigars, evidence of celebrations for a good day’s catch. My father had kept every last receipt, a habit I have carried with me. That was when the seas were full, the lounge area was loud with laughter and our lives were simple, our chief concern to celebrate the end of war and our new prosperity afterwards.

The spine of last year’s book was less than half an inch wide. I ran my hand along the row of leatherbound volumes, letting my fingertips register by touch the diminishing widths. Then I looked up at the photograph of my mother and father, solemn in their wedding clothes as they stared down at me. I wondered what they would have thought of my predicament. Nino had told me I could probably sell this place to the hotel people; that, given the right negotiator, I could argue the price up. Maybe get enough to start somewhere new. But I was too old for house-hunting, too old to cram what remained of my life into a boxy little bungalow. I didn’t want to have to find my way round new medical centres and supermarkets, make polite conversation with new neighbours. My life was in these walls, these books. Everything that had ever meant anything to me stood in this place. As I gazed at those books I realised I needed this house more than I had admitted.

I’m not a drinker, but that night I reached into the drawer of my father’s desk, opened his old silver hip flask and allowed myself a tot of whisky.

It was almost a quarter past ten when Liza knocked on the door. ‘How’s your head?’ she said, closing it behind her.

‘Fine.’ I closed the accounts book, hoping I looked as if I’d been working. It didn’t hurt. But I did. Everything about me felt weary.

‘Mike Dormer has just walked in and gone straight upstairs. He acted like he’s not going anywhere. I thought you should probably have a word.’

‘I said he could stay,’ I told her quietly, rising from my seat to place the book back on the shelf.

‘You did what?’

‘You heard.’

‘But why? We don’t want him anywhere near us.’

I didn’t look at her. I didn’t need to – I could tell from her appalled tone that her face would be pink with anger. ‘He’s paid up to the end of the month.’

‘So give him his money back.’

‘You think I can throw that sort of money away?’ I snapped at her. ‘I’m charging him three times as much as anyone else.’

‘The money’s not the issue, Kathleen.’

‘Yes, it is, Liza. The money
is
the issue. Because we’re going to need every last penny, and that means every last guest who wants to stay here is going to get a welcome from me, even if it makes my darned blood curdle to do it.’

She was shocked. ‘But think of what he’s done,’ she said.

‘Two hundred and fifty dollars a night, Liza, that’s what I’m thinking. More for the girlfriend’s meals. You tell me how else we’re going to make that kind of money.’

‘The whale crews. They’re out there every night.’

‘How much money do you think I make off them? A couple of cents per bottle of beer. A dollar or so per meal. You really think I could charge proper money when I know half of them are living on free biscuits? For goodness’ sake, haven’t you noticed that half the time Yoshi doesn’t have the money to pay us at all?’

‘But he’s going to destroy us. And you’re going to let him sit up there in your best room while it happens.’

‘What’s done is done, Liza. Whether that hotel goes ahead or not is out of our hands. All we need to think about is making the most of our income while we still have one.’

‘And bugger the principles?’

‘We can’t afford principles, Liza, and that’s the truth. Not if we want to keep Hannah in school shoes.’

I knew what she was really saying, what neither of us could bear to say out loud. How could I willingly harbour the man who had broken what remained of her heart? How could I put her through the ache of having to watch him and that girl float around her home, flaunting their relationship?

We glared at each other. I felt breathless, and put out a hand to steady myself. Her lips were tight with hurt and indignation. ‘You know what, Kathleen? I really don’t understand you sometimes.’

‘Well, you don’t have to understand,’ I said curtly, making as if to tidy my desk. ‘You just get on with your business and let me run my hotel.’

I don’t think we’d had a cross word in the five years she had lived here, and I could tell it had shaken us both. I felt that hip flask calling to me, but I wouldn’t take it out in front of her: I didn’t want her to take an example from me and get drunk herself in case it led to another catastrophic encounter with Greg.

In the end she turned sharply and left, bristling, without a word.

I bit my tongue. I couldn’t tell her the truth behind my decision, because I knew she’d disagree: she’d react badly even to the merest suggestion of what I suspected to be true. Because it wasn’t just about money. It was because I understood, more than anyone realised, how that young man had got into the situation he had. More importantly, it was about bait. And despite everything that had happened, my gut told me that keeping Mike Dormer close to us was going to be our best chance of survival.

Fourteen

Mike

The dog-walkers had stopped waving to me. The first morning I ran past them, I assumed they hadn’t seen me. Perhaps my woollen hat was pulled too far down over my face. I’d got used to our little morning exchanges, and had found myself looking out for familiar faces. But on the second morning when I lifted my hand in greeting and they turned away their faces, I realised that not only was I no longer anonymous but, in parts of Silver Bay, I was now public enemy number one.

The same was true at the local garage, when I pulled in for fuel, at the supermarket checkout and in the little seafood café by the jetty when I sat down and tried to order coffee. It took nearly forty minutes and several reminders to arrive at my table.

Vanessa was bullish. ‘Oh, you’re always going to ruffle a few feathers,’ she said dismissively. ‘Remember that school development in east London? The people in the flats opposite were funny about it until they discovered how much it would push up the value of their properties.’

But that had been different, I wanted to say to her. I didn’t care what those people thought of me. And, besides, Vanessa wasn’t having to confront Liza, who managed to behave both as if I were no longer in existence and treat me with a kind of icy resentment.

On the one occasion I had found her alone in the kitchen – Vanessa had been upstairs – I had said, ‘I’ve told your aunt. I’m going to try and stop it. I’m sorry.’

The look she gave me stopped me in my tracks. ‘Sorry about what, Mike? That you’ve been living here under false pretences, that you’re about to ruin us, or that you’re a duplicitous sh—’

‘You told me you didn’t want a relationship.’

‘You didn’t tell me you were already in one.’ As soon as she said this her expression closed, as if she felt she had given too much away. But I knew what she had felt. I had rerun that moment in the car as if it were on a spool tape inside my head. I could have recited word for word what we had said to each other. Then I was reminded of my own duplicity on so many levels, and at that point I usually rang Dennis or found some administrative task to do with the development. That’s the beauty of business: it’s a refuge of myriad practical problems. You always know where you stand with it.

I told Vanessa why I thought the development was no longer right as the plans stood. She didn’t believe me, so I took her out on
Moby One
with several tourists and showed her the dolphins. Yoshi and Lance were courteous, but I felt an almost physical discomfort at the lack of good-humoured conversation, and I missed Lance’s caustic insults. I was no longer one of them. I knew it and so did they.

That sense of silent disapproval followed me around the bay until I was convinced that even the Korean tourists on the top deck knew what I was responsible for. ‘I might as well stick a harpoon in my hand and label myself “whale-killer”,’ I said, when the silence became too much.

Vanessa told me I was being oversensitive. ‘Why should you care what they think?’ she said. ‘In a few days you’ll never have to see any of them again.’

‘I care because I want to get this right,’ I said. ‘And I think we can get it right. Ethically and commercially.’ I knew it was vital to have Vanessa on side if we were to convince Dennis to alter the plans.

‘Ethical business, eh?’ She raised an eyebrow, but she didn’t write it off as an idea.

Then, as if in answer to my prayers, the seas opened. Yoshi’s voice came over the PA system, lifted with excitement as it always was in the presence of a whale. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ she said, ‘if you look out of your portside windows – that’s left for those who don’t know – you can just make out a humpback. She might be headed towards us, so we’re going to turn off the engines and hope she comes close.’

There was a swell of excited chatter on the top deck. I pulled my scarf up round my face and pointed to where I’d caught sight of a blow. I watched Vanessa’s face, knowing that this moment might be crucial, praying that the whale would know what was good for it and impress her.

Then, as if on cue, it breached not forty feet away from us, its huge, prehistoric head turning as it splashed back into the water. Like me, she couldn’t help gasping, and her face softened with a child-like joy. For a moment, I saw in her the girl I had loved before I had come here. I took her hand and squeezed it. She squeezed mine back.

‘You see what I mean?’ I said. ‘You see how this is impossible?’

‘But the planning’s going through,’ she said, when she could tear her gaze away. ‘You made it.’

‘I can’t live with myself,’ I said. ‘I’ve seen what can happen and I don’t want to feel responsible for spoiling something here.’

We stood and watched as the whale breached again, further away this time, then disappeared under the waves, no longer diverted by curiosity, compelled to continue its journey north. The tourists around us hung over the rails, hoping it might re-emerge, then drifted back to the plastic chairs and benches, chattering and comparing images on their cameras. I thought of Lance, below us in the cockpit, breathing a sigh of relief at another whale-watching trip successfully completed. Perhaps he and Yoshi would be discussing the animal’s movements, chatting on the radio to the other boats as they worked out where to go next. If Vanessa gets it, I thought, we have a chance of making this thing work.

I stood and let my eyes run 360 degrees around me, taking in the distant coastline, the series of small, uninhabited islands that stood like sentries to the greater expanse of land. Above us birds swooped and dived, and I tried to remember what the crews had previously told me: ospreys, gannets, white-breasted sea eagles. Around us the sea rose and fell, glinting on one side, darker and apparently less amenable on the other. I no longer felt alien out here. Despite their lack of money, their insecure lifestyle and, their diet of cheap biscuits, I envied the whalechasers.

It was then that Vanessa spoke. Her hat was pulled low over her eyes so it was difficult for me to see her face. ‘Mike?’

I turned to her. She was wearing the diamond earrings I had bought her for her thirtieth birthday.

‘I know something’s gone on,’ she said carefully. ‘I know I’ve lost a bit of you. But I’m going to pretend that none of this has happened, I’m going to pretend that you and I are still okay, and that this is some kind of weird reaction to the shock that you’re getting married.’

My heart skipped a beat. ‘Nessa,’ I said, ‘nothing happened—’ but she waved a hand to stop me.

She looked at me, and I hated myself for the hurt in her eyes.

‘I don’t want you to explain,’ she said. ‘I don’t want you to feel you have to tell me anything. If you think we can be okay, that you can love me and be faithful to me, I just want us to carry on as we were. I want us to get married, forget this and get on with our lives.’

The engines started up again. I felt the vibrations under my feet and then, as the boat swung round, the wind picked up and Lance started to say something over the PA system so I wasn’t sure if she said anything else.

She turned back to the sea, pulled her collar up round her jaw. ‘Okay?’ she said. And then again: ‘Okay?’

‘Okay,’ I said, and stepped forward. She let me hug her. Like I said, she’s a clever woman, my girlfriend.

In the five days that remained before we travelled back to Sydney, Vanessa and I spent most of our time locked in our room. We were not engaged in the kind of liaison I suspected Kathleen and Liza imagined, but hunched over my laptop, working out how to alter the plans in a way that would satisfy her father and the venture capitalists. It was not an easy task.