The Day Of The Wave (8 page)

Several small villas, all the same with wooden porches and hammocks are dotted about the place, and the lawns between them are manicured and glistening with water from the sprinklers. Frangipani trees add bursts of white and yellow every few meters and the sing-song thrum of birds and wildlife in the ocean of trees is a crazy stereo soundtrack. I forgot how loud the jungle is. My mom was obsessed with the sound of crickets and cicadas. Before we even came here she had a jungle CD she'd put on at night to help her sleep.
I'm here, mom. Are you still here?

I spot a woman in her mid-forties hanging wet swim stuff over the railings of one of the villas and Ben holds his hand up at her. I do the same and she waves. She could've been her. Everything's so nice and normal, just like it was before...

Don't think about it. 

The path in the trees comes to an end and there it is, the beach, right in front of us. I hold my breath. It doesn't get any easier seeing that ocean, infinite and deceivingly friendly. I hate it. I focus on the sparkles, the way several large rocks are jutting out like emerald sculptures, the curve of the white sand against the blue. My breath escapes, slowly. I hate it, but it's really pretty. 

'Over here,' Ben says, fishing in his pocket and pulling out a set of keys I saw him take from the reception desk at Dream Dive. He leads me to a villa like the other ones, except this one faces the ocean. 'I reserved this one for you, in case you showed up,' he says, walking up the wooden steps. 'Mine's the next one up. If you don't like it you can stay in another one, it's pretty quiet right now, end of season, you know.'

I didn't know that. I don't know anything about Thai seasons. All I know is it's September. I follow him up the steps. An orange and green hammock is hanging from chains on the overhang and two wooden slatted loungers face the beach. He unlocks the door and I turn to the water. 

Panic
. It almost blinds me. I picture a tsunami, the moving wall of it coming right at me while I'm trapped here, throwing me against the building. It's tall as a skyscraper, sweeping this whole hut away in a heartbeat and taking me with it. I must make some kind of sound because Ben's beside me in a second. 

'Izzy?'

I can't even speak as I grip the railing. The water is calm and flat and there's barely a breeze. The chances of it happening again are slim to none. It won't happen again.

'It won't happen again,' Ben says, making me look at him in surprise. Is he reading my mind? 

Yes. Of course he is. He's been through it, too.

He covers my white knuckles with his hand. 'Nothing can hurt you.'

I suck in a breath, nod my head, look at his big hand over mine. He squeezes it and I can smell him now he's so close. Sunscreen and the ocean and man. I'm an idiot.

'Do you want to stay in one that's more inland?' he asks and I contemplate it, seriously contemplate it. 'It's not a big deal,' he adds but I shake my head. 

'I'll be alright,' I say. 'I'm sorry... it's all just a bit...'

'Don't apologize.' He keeps hold of my hand for a second. 'We have escape routes now, and warning sirens. We get text messages. It's covered.'

'Really?' 

'Yes. I'll show you everything, don't worry.' He ushers me into the villa. It's more of a hut, really. It's basic but it's clean. 'The bathrooms are the best,' he says, dropping my hand but leading me towards a door at the back. I can't help smiling a little now; he actually looks excited to show me, like a six-foot version of the enthusiastic kid he was. 'Open... all open!' he beams. 'See?'

I step through and he's right. There's a small palm tree in a patch of brown earth right between the gray tiled shower and the toilet. There isn't even a mosquito net over the roof; just a wall between me and the jungle. 'This is brilliant,' I tell him, matching his infectious grin. 'I always wanted to look at the stars while I have a wee.'

He laughs, says the word wee again, shaking his head. He points out the soap dispensers and the fact that no matter which way I turn the taps, the water will probably never get hot. There's a frangipani in the sink, another in the bottom of the toilet. I look for a third... it's there on the shelf by the towels. I don't know if they've been blown there or placed there, but I like them.

I follow him back out onto the balcony. This time my heart doesn't jolt when I first see the ocean but I'm still trying to keep how much I hate it off my face. I can deal with it. I have to. It's why I'm here, isn't it? To face it; to see if it helps. 

'I'll go back and get your stuff,' Ben says now. 

'On the scooter?'

'Yes ma'am, how else?'

I shrug and he does that comical thing with his eyebrows again. 'I'll be five minutes, you want a beer while you wait?'

'I don't drink.'

'You do now, you're on a beach! It's essential.' He runs down the steps to the villa next door and comes back ten seconds later with two cold Chang beers. They remind me of the Scot in his tourist T-shirt and I grit my teeth. 

I don't know if he's the one who took my purse, of course. I'd prefer to give him the benefit of the doubt, seeing as he was so nice, but I had to tell the police he was sitting next to me, and that he's gone to Phi Phi. Who knows if they'll care enough to go check him out? They seemed to be pretty pre-occupied with peeling some purple mangosteen and watching a Thai TV show when I was filling out my report. One even had his boots up on the desk. I sat there thinking how different our countries are. Would an English policeman have sat there with his feet up, watching Eastenders, peeling fruit, while someone was literally in the middle of reporting a criminal incident? The thought made me laugh.

A girl I got talking to at the police station, who'd lost an engagement ring, asked me why I didn't seem too upset. I didn't really have an answer. Of course I'm annoyed, but losing a purse is no tragedy. I've lost more than that before. I really could have done with the photo though; I take that one everywhere. 

Ben flips the top off one of the beers and hands it to me. 'I'll have mine when I get back. An incentive to be fast,' he says, walking back into my room and putting it my own little fridge. I watch his muscles flex again as he moves.

'Be safe,' I tell his bare chest as he heads back out. I mask another flurry of panic that surges through me at the thought that he might not come back again, for whatever reason. He can tell, I know he can.

'Izzy, I'm always safe and so are you while you're here.' He puts a hand to my shoulder, forcing my gaze up to his. That smell again, pure man. The blue of his eyes, so ridiculously blue. 'Trust me.' 

Just the smallest bit of her beer has gone when I get back with her bag. The afternoon sun is glinting off her hair, which she's taken out of its band. She's staring at the ocean like she's challenging it to come at her, or apologize. I can't decide. 

'Thank you so much for doing that, and for organizing all this,' she says now, standing up and taking the case as I go to wheel it inside. She takes over, lifts it onto the bed, opens it up and gets out her iPad and charger. I watch as she plugs it in by the bed. 

'It's not a problem. There's no WIFI in the rooms though, sorry,' I say. 'We can get you a SIM card for that tomorrow.'

'It's alright, I only have one article to submit while I'm away.' She walks back to the suitcase and pulls a hairbrush out. I feel like I'm watching a ghost go about her daily routine, trapped in time; only Izzy never really died. The insanity of it all just won't leave me.

'Article?' I say, realizing what she just said. I walk to her fridge and get the beer out, flip the lid and throw it into the basket on the floor. 'So you're a writer? Like you said you'd be?'

She smiles, runs the brush through her hair. 'Did I say I'd be a writer?'

'You said a lot of things. I could hardly get a word in.'

She flicks her hairband at me and I dart to miss it, then pick it up from the floor. 'Feisty. Just like I remember,' I say, flinging it back at her. 'So where do you work?'

'London. The very prestigious
Sweet Eats Magazine.
You won't have heard of it.'

'Can't say I have. Do you get free food with that job?'

'That's such a boy thing to say,' she says, laughing suddenly. I think the tiny sips of beer she's had must be going to her head. She has the same laugh I always loved and it's just as adorable. Memories are crashing over me now. 'But yes,' she continues, 'I get a lot of free food. I got the job through my godmother's connections, I was an intern for a long time, worked at another mag for a bit before they gave me a real job at Sweet Eats - you have to work your way up, you know?'

'So, wait, why were you in Bangkok? It wasn't for that cookbook was it?'

'That's the one. And the dinner you apparently missed,' she says, putting the brush down.

I feel my eyes widen. 'That was supposed to be with
you?
Holy shit, that's weird.'

'I know. I think she was trying to set us up,' Izzy throws me a look. I catch her gaze for a moment. I remember Chinda saying something now about me missing dinner with my wife. Crazy.

'What about your books?' I ask as she looks away. 'You were always going to write novels.'

Izzy sighs, pulling some clothes out of her suitcase and opening the closet. I drink my beer, sit on the bed, watch her move in the stream of sunlight pouring in through the open door. She folds each item carefully and I can't be totally sure but I think she's layering them up according to their colors.

'I've started a few books. I have an idea for another one, one I really want to write,' she says. 'But it's kind of hard to start. Even harder now - the notes I made were in the book that just got nicked.'

I scrunch up my face. 'Shit, sorry. What's it about?'

'What do you think?' She cross back to the case, pulls out some nail polishes and three books. She lines the books up perfectly in a pile by the bed with their edges completely straight. 

'The tsunami.' I say. 

She sighs. 'I want to write it down, all of it, but I'm never really sure how to start,' she says, getting out what look like bath salts now. 'My boyfriend keeps telling me...' 

Izzy pauses, looks at me. I can't help the look that must be on my face at her words; shock, amusement, maybe both? But who am I to say anything to that, anyway? I have a girlfriend.

She's talking again, lining up the three bath salts in a row by the books. 'We were together four years.'

'Were?'

'We broke up, but it was more like a pause to see if that's what we really want. We had some... issues.'

There's trepidation in her voice. 'Sounds complicated,' I say. I can't even contemplate being with anyone
four months
, let alone four years. For some reason I'm trying to imagine what he might be like, this guy, probably in London somewhere. Probably some successful accountant or banker, or whatever city people do behind desks all day to afford those debt-fuelled, cooped up 'enviable' lifestyles. 'What's his name?' I ask.

'Colin,' she replies somewhat wearily, putting what looks like a red dress on a hanger in the closet between a red shirt and a pink shirt, and shutting the door. She walks back to the porch, picks up the beer and I follow her, sit in the other chair. I look at the outline of her slim figure and shapely legs as she rests on the railings, facing me with the afternoon sun behind her. 'How long have you been with Kalaya?' she asks.

I rake a hand through my hair. 'Not so long.' 

'She seems nice.'

'She is. She's really nice.'

Izzy's silent for a moment. I can feel her eyes on me as I roll my bottle between both my palms. 'There were loud Americans on the bus,' she says eventually. I grin, looking up. I pretend to be shocked. 

'I don't know how that's possible. I mean, I don't know how you could've heard them over the loud
British
people.'

'Brits aren't loud, we're very quiet and conservative,' she says, smirking. 

'Not after twenty shots of vodka and a bucket,' I tell her. 'It's always the Brits who throw up first. Then the Aussies. Then the Swedes, God bless 'em. The Russian's don't vomit.'

She raises her eyebrows. 'Did you say
bucket
?'

'You haven't had a bucket?'

'That sounds scary. Why would I want a
bucket
of alcohol?'

'You say that now,' I tease her. 'But you only just got here. You're a Brit, you'll crack eventually. It's in your blood.'

'Getting horribly drunk?'

'Absolutely!'

'I think you're generalizing, Benjamin,' she tells me with faux annoyance. 'Some of us just like to read Jane Austin and model top hats in bright red phone boxes.'

'Har har!' I get up from the chair. 'Can I interest you in another beverage, my lady? It's been a pretty bloody shit day for you, so far.' 

She rolls her eyes, holds up her bottle with a good half still left. 'Oh God, is that your attempt at a British accent?'

'Good, huh?'

'Bad. Don't do that again. Ever.'

'Cor blimey, that's a bit rude, I'll tell the Queen you said that, you cheeky monkey.'

She laughs and it's infectious, the way she holds her head back now and closes her eyes, puts one hand to her heart. 'That's awful, seriously, stop!'

I'm laughing now too as she scrunches up her nose and shakes her head. Every time a new expression crosses her features I can't help feeling like I'm seeing her for the first time. But I can't stop comparing her now to the teenager she was when I last saw her. She was always striking but she's grown into her features even more. Her cheekbones are softly slanted and her slightly upturned nose gives her a cuter, younger look; still girlish in spite of being twenty-six. A woman. 

She catches me looking at her, still standing here with my empty bottle. 'I haven't had a beer in... I don't know how long,' she tells me now, looking at me like I might reprimand her.

'Then you definitely need another.' I jog past her quickly to the steps, head next door. I feel like that kid all over again; the one who poked fun at her, vying for her attention, bouncing up the beach after her like a puppy dog. I need to get a grip, though. She's not here to rekindle some stupid half-lit flame and that's not why I asked her here either.