Chapter 1
”How many times am Istill going to pinch myself today?” Sally whispers to me as the valet opens the door of our taxi.
Not as many times as me, I want to say, but I only smile at her. ”Enjoy every minute but don”t take the toiletries in the hotel bathroom when we leave in two days, okay?”
Sally is my rookie assistant, fresh out of design college and bursting with enthusiasm for every new assignment we win. Lately, assignments have been rolling in at a steady pace, making me think I”m finally finding my feet again.
”The website says it”s Oscar de la Ren—”
My raised eyebrow stops her mid-sentence and I extend a well-heeled foot into the wall of humid air associated with paradise. ”I”ll buy you some in New York if after two days you can”t carry on with life without Oscar.”
Sally shoots me a stupid grin. God. I give anything to be so innocently appreciative of the littlest things again.
I step out of the taxi and look up at the wide pillared portico, with the ancient palm trees that line the outside of Le Paradis”s entrance. Fairy Queen hibiscus in heavy bloom gives color to the otherwise monotonous white of the exterior. I already know the signature light pink of the flowers is replicated throughout the hotel, from the bespoke occasional chairs in the lounges, to the towels at the hotel”s impressive swimming pool. Magnificent clusters of orchids in lighter or darker tones of pink grace the hotel”s general guest area. The whole is striking and exquisite and subtly underscores opulence in a way only the careful paring of a pastel with a richer palette could.
The door attendant opens the glass door with a smile, and we walk into the lobby. Inside the air is much cooler, away from the oppressive tropical heat and glaring sun. I blink to adjust my eyes to the darker interior and stare through the guest lounge to the pool and the beach beyond.
”Nothing has changed,” I whisper in surprise. From the woven palm leaf fans that circle overhead to the patterned tiled floor, the lobby looks as charming as it did ten years ago when I came here for the first time. I’m not sure what I expected. That one of the most sought-after boutique hotels in the Bahamas would change their interior to help me survive two nights of staying here?
”Nothing has changed?” Sally repeats behind me.
For a moment I”ve forgotten Sally is with me and that she isn”t dragging an overweight suitcase of memories with her on a simple business trip.
I close my eyes against the images that flitter through my mind. Ten summers ago. Graeme waiting for me at the reception counter, chatting to the staff, as I rushed to the toilet for the last time before we took our day trip around Rose Island to go swim with the pigs. Graeme sitting in a plush two-seat sofa, a beer sweating on the coffee table, busy on his work phone in the only WiFi hotspot the hotel had at the time. Graeme kissing me behind one of the many smaller palms that decorated the interior and toying with the strings of my bikini in a slow tease that even now made me pulse with sudden, unexpected awareness.
”Absolutely nothing,” I whisper in awe. And yet, everything has changed.
”You”ve been here before then?” Sally stares at me with bated breath.
”On honeymoon, ten years ago.” Almost to the day.
”Jeez,” Sally frowns and looks down at my hands which grace two rings, neither of them a wedding band. ”I didn”tknow you were married.”
I shrug and walk over to the reception desk. There”s no way I”m going to feed Sally”s imagination by letting her into the secrets of my past life.
”Hi, we”re checking in under the Anderson party? We are here for two nights for a site visit and meetings.”
The receptionist smiles and nods. ”Brooke and Munroe? Both Ms? Two singles? I have you right here.”
So smooth. Of course, the receptionist knows who we are. The client service at Le Paradis and its sister hotels is always beyond superb. I fill in the obligatory forms and decline the welcome cocktail, although Sally quickly downs her through the environmentally friendly metal straw. Maybe some things did change.
”The porters will show you to your rooms,” the receptionist says as she hands us our card keys. ”We tried to allocate your rooms close to each other, but the hotel is full this week.”
”It doesn”t matter,” I assure the receptionist. I suspect I”m going to need my privacy these two days. Being here have my emotions packed as tight and invisible as bubbles in a Champagne bottle, and I need to keep them all contained, no matter what.
With promises to catch up for drinks before dinner, we each follow our assigned porter.
No hotel corridor should classify as a trip down memory lane, but this one is. Graeme and I shared two blissful weeks in Le Paradis”s East Wing ten years ago, where the most expensive suites are situated. Surely, this is an error. How can I be assigned a suite? I can”t stop my heart from beating faster as the porter homes in on the familiar door, newly oiled against the tropical elements, with the pesky little number of 69.
Thehoneymoon suite. The one that features on the hotel”s website and basically sells this destination without anybody lifting a finger. The suite that boosted my budding Instagram account into a religious following of wannabees and bored-we-are”s which swamped social media. Followers they call them nowadays. I had over five million when I sold my Instagram account a year ago.
It turns out that faking perfection is really hard when your life is in shambles.
I open the door with the card key and stall two steps into the room. It”s breathtaking. The king-size four-poster bed with the romantic mosquito netting, the lounge to the left, the en suite to the right, and all along the room a balcony, edged with a private rim-flow pool and spectacular sea views.
The porter wheels my suitcase in, and I turn so abruptly, I bump into him. ”Sorry, this is a mistake. This room can”t be allocated to me.”
”Madame?” The porter frowns.
”I think there”s been a mix-up with the reservation,” I explain and wave in general at the room.
”No-no-no,” the porter insists, but I don”t give him half a chance.
My heels click all the way down the corridor back to the reception, my light white dress rustling in my haste. I can”t stay there. I just can”t.
I”m halfway to the reception desk when I grind to a halt. Two men stand at the desk, checking in. I recognize both of them in an instant. The one to the left, with his profile turned toward me, is Florian Paul, architect extraordinaire who slaves away for the super-rich.
The other man...it”s the shape of him, from the crown on top of his head that makes his dark hair fall just so, to the width of his shoulders, amplified by the white shirts he prefers, the lighter back skin of his forearms, muscled and veined like a road map from all the cycling he does, the lean frame of his legs and those boat shoes he always wears in the tropics.
This man, with his back towards me, is Graeme Carlyle. Architect and god of environmental design. My husband and the last man I expected to find in the Bahamas.
I take a step backward, turn, and flee on tiptoe to my room, oblivious to every memory that invaded my mind minutes earlier.
What is Graeme doing here?
Is it really him? Can I be so sure, not having seen his face?
His body is a memory stamped on mine. I’m more than a hundred percent sure, even though I haven”t seen my husband in two years.
With ever-widening steps, I rush away from the reception, back to the suite where I don”t want to spend any time. The porter hovers outside my door, and I slip my hand into my purse to extract a tip for him. With a wide smile, he leaves me alone and I close the door behind me with a sullen click.
For a moment I only breathe and count through the shock. I have no idea how this happened.
My work contract for the interior design was signed with billionaire Richard Anderson. In the few emails we exchanged, Richard mentioned Florian Paul was the architect. I”ve been obsessed with Florian”s work for ages, and to finally work with him will be the ultimate privilege. But no one mentioned Graeme”s involvement in any capacity. I dealt with Anderson”s Real Estate PA for all the travel arrangements for a site visit to Anderson”s private island, which happens tomorrow.
Tonight, we”re having a team dinner to start discussions as to the design and expectations of our mutual client, who briefed Florian Paul and couldn”t be here in person, for obvious billionaire reasons. Graeme must be here in an advisory capacity, or he is working with Florian now.
God, I’m stupid.
Blindsided, I toss my purse to the bed and sink down to the upholstered bench that graces the foot of the bed. Richard Anderson, a tech billionaire, is from San Francisco and loves buying up real estate all over the world to protect endangered environments. Graeme relocated to San Francisco more than two years ago. Well, not exactly relocated, but he got serious long-term work in California. His semi-permanent move, and my unflinching East Coast attitude and very busy schedule was the last nail in the coffin. I”m still not sure what the status of our marriage is, but by that time, our marriage was dead for months. Maybe even years.
The pang of loss hits me hard in the chest as the thought of Graeme and what we used to have surface with force.
It”s this room. This suite and our memories here that get to me.
I bite down on my jaw and with an iron will push my feelings to the side. But the sting behind my eyes doesn”t subside and with an angry swoop, I brush at the budding tears with my fingertips.
I”m not having a meltdown. I”m not giving up this gig. This is what I always wanted if I look beyond my past Instagram life and broken marriage.
My choices are limited. I”m not getting off this island without facing Graeme. Tonight. Happy and all smiley-wavey, not shattered and broken as I am underneath my white dress, heeled sandals, and perfect make-up.
Faking it is the only option. I”ve been at it so long, two more days should hardly be a challenge.