doubt at all the woman was very, very wealthy. That was a given. And underneath the camouflage she was also clearly very beautiful. ‘I don’t know, Becs. Probably a film star or something. I reckon she’s about my age, give or take a few years. Her skin’s amazing, her teeth like an advert, and her nails immaculate. She was dressed in jeans and a blouse, very smart, no visible designer label, but screaming quality. The more I think about it, I’m pretty sure the black hair was a wig. She’s somebody all right. I’m quite sure about that.’
‘I wonder if anybody round here knows who she is.’ Becky glanced at her watch. ‘Come on, let’s go across to the pub. Somebody there might know.’
Sam took a moment to throw her soaking clothes into the bath tub and then walked up the road to the Smugglers Arms with Becky. On the way she pulled out her phone and tried calling Neil, more out of a sense of duty than for any other reason. He didn’t answer and, somehow, she wasn’t surprised or, for that matter, bothered. After her ordeal that afternoon when she had almost lost her life, it seemed ridiculous to struggle on in a moribund relationship. The more she thought about it, the more she realised there was nothing left between them worth saving.
They soon discovered that nobody in the pub knew anything about the owner of the island, but there was no shortage of suggestions. What was certain was that it had been sold at auction less than a year before to an undisclosed buyer. It had gone for an inordinate amount of money and it was clear that only the richest of the rich would be able to lay their hands on that sort of cash. Samantha didn’t disclose that she had been on the island and had met the probable owner, even if she didn’t know who she was. She listened with amusement as the suggestions ranged from Hollywood stars to Middle Eastern potentates. A particularly inventive suggestion was the theory of it being used as a training camp for Islamic terrorists.
They had a most enjoyable time in the Smugglers Arms. It was a very old inn with a low ceiling, supported by massive dark oak tree trunks. Between the beams, the plaster had probably once been white, but centuries of open fires and tobacco smoke had turned it a mustard yellow colour. The bar was so festooned with an amazing selection of objects plucked from the sea that the bar staff seemed in imminent danger of being submerged by them all. There were star fish, seashells, glass floats to hold nets, and huge chunks of the nets themselves, hung with an eclectic mixture of driftwood, stuffed fish and topped off with some unconvincing plastic lobsters. Casks of real ale with names like Old Thumper or The Pirate’s Revenge stood on a bench behind the counter, and more modern beers, wines and spirits lined the bar. Although most of the other customers were tourists like themselves, there was a fair sprinkling of locals, mainly bewhiskered fishermen types in heavy woollen jumpers or cotton smocks, like something out of a sepia photo.
The other girls returned from their surfing expedition in the course of the evening and regaled Sam and Becky, as well as half a dozen hopeful young men who had collected on the sidelines, with the tales of their day. By agreement, Becky and Sam made no mention of her exploits on the water. This was for two reasons; firstly because she felt rather ashamed at her foolhardiness and, secondly because she had got the distinct impression the woman over there had been trying to maintain a low profile. After her hospitality and kindness, the least Sam could do was to respect that. It was a pleasant evening but by about ten, she began to feel very tired and she left the others to it. On her way back to the house, she tried Neil again. This time he answered.
‘Yes, hi Sam. What is it?’ There was music in the background. It wasn’t heavy-duty disco music; more background lounge bar music. No doubt he had a pint in his hand. Sam was on the point of telling him all about her escape from disaster when she thought to herself, why bother? Instead, she just kept it to a few generalities.
‘I thought I’d just check in. Tell you I’m still alive. Having a good time. All that sort of thing.’
‘Yeah, well I’m alive too.’
‘What’re you doing?’
‘Down the pub with the boys. We’re going for a curry in a bit.’
‘Sounds like fun.’ In fact it sounded like what he had been doing every Saturday night for the last year. ‘Don’t overdo the beer.’
‘Me, overdo the beer? Bye.’ And that was that.
Next morning Sam didn’t get up early and, unusually, she didn’t feel like going for a run. When she awoke, she found she was aching all over and decided to go back to sleep until mid-morning. In the next bed, Becky showed no signs of life after presumably coming in late. Sam hadn’t heard a thing. She must have gone out like a light.
When she finally dragged herself out of bed it was almost eleven o’clock. Her hair felt stiff and unresponsive, now even lighter than its normal colour after all the salt. She searched her washbag for a bottle of shampoo and tottered into the shower. The good news, she reflected, was that she wasn’t suffering from the flu. It was just the muscles she had used to paddle with all her might that were complaining. By the time she emerged from a hot shower she was feeling more human. By the time she had let Becky persuade her to have a plate of bacon and eggs at the nearby café, she was back in the land of the living.
‘So what’s the plan for today?’ Becky was peering out of the window apprehensively. The mist had cleared, but it had been replaced by a persistent and uninviting drizzle. Sam’s eyes followed hers. Rock Island was just visible through the grey shroud and it looked a lot further out than she remembered. She reflected, as she had been doing for hours now, just how silly she had been and how lucky to find shelter over there.
‘I’ve got to do something to thank the people over there on the island; not just for the welcome and the clothes, but for saving my life.’ She caught Becky’s eye. ‘They really did, you know. I could be dead.’ Put like that, it would be almost impossible to find a thank you present that represented the gravity of the situation. Somehow, a box of chocolates wouldn’t do justice to what had happened. She mulled it over as she finished her breakfast, finally arriving at a conclusion. ‘They’ve got pots of money, so whatever present I buy won’t mean a thing to them. No, it’s got to be something more personal.’
‘You could try serenading them from the harbour side, but I’ve heard you sing, Sam, and it wasn’t pretty.’ Becky was doing her best to help. ‘You could try sex with the steward chap, but then you’ve still got the problem of the woman, unless she’s…’
‘I very much doubt it, Becs. Anyway, that’s not exactly what I meant when I said I wanted to do something personal. Forget sex, forget singing. What else have I got to offer?’
‘Sports coaching?’
Sam thought about it. ‘Well, they both looked very fit, but she’s most probably already got a personal trainer.’ They sat there for a few minutes before the same thought occurred to both of them at the same time.
‘Archaeology!’ Becky got there first.
‘Archaeology. Becs, that’s right. The island’s an amazingly historic place and she said she loved history. I could offer to come over with a team and do an archaeological survey for them.’ Sam was sounding more animated. ‘That’s what I’ll do. I’ll send them a card and make the offer. You’d be up for it, if they say yes, wouldn’t you?’
Becky nodded emphatically. ‘Helipad, luxurious furnishings, designer clothes… just try and stop me, Sam.’ She grinned across the table. ‘To be honest, the way I’ve been feeling lately, I would probably be prepared to take a stab at sex with the steward as well, if it helps.’
Sam grinned back at her. ‘I don’t think that’ll be necessary, thanks.
