SAM #2
From across the table, Eleni snorted, then tried to disguise the sound with a cough.
‘You all right there, Eleni?’ Sam asked with a grin. ‘Something go down the wrong way?’
‘Ha, no – I’m fine. Maybe it’s just me, but I didn’t realize financial analysis was something that gave Rory such a buzz. It’s literally just a bunch of numbers, isn’t it? Or am I missing something?’
Lucy’s face fell. ‘Well, I … er …’
‘Now, now, Eleni,’ Rory interrupted. ‘It’s far more than just a bunch of numbers when Lucy’s saving me ten times your annual salary in a thirty-minute meeting.’
Eleni flushed pink. ‘Of course,’ she said, her voice small. ‘Sorry, Lucy – Rory – I was only teasing.’
‘Well,’ said Talia coldly, ‘I think we can all do without that kind of teasing over lunch. Everyone is here because they’ve made a valuable contribution to Ashworth – no matter what their role is.’
Eleni stared at the table, shame-faced. Sam cringed. Oh, shit. Looks like she’s got on the wrong side of the boss’s wife already.
In an ill-disguised attempt to dissolve the tension, Rory stood up with a satisfied groan, and stretched. ‘Well, that was bloody marvellous. Michaela, please tell Leilani how much we all enjoyed it. And look – we were so busy concentrating on our lunch, we didn’t even notice, but – land ahoy!’
Rory was gesturing wildly, almost leaping up and down now, as the yacht sailed into a bay then began to slow, the revs of its motor dying down.
The deck crew jumped into action, radios crackling with instructions from Captain Taylor: ‘Deck team, I need your eyes on the reef … make sure we’re clear … ’
The bosun released a chain in stages to let down the anchor, and then the boat steadied and became still.
Here they were: Opunohu Bay on Moorea. They’d arrived at their first stop.
The lagoon where they’d anchored was, no contest, the most stunning place Sam had ever laid eyes on: a pristine beach with pinkish sand lined the nearby shore; the coral reef shone with hues of vibrant pink and orange; the water was so clear that he could see the detail of each tiny pebble and the patterns on every shell.
And it was peaceful – there were only a couple of other yachts moored close by, a smattering of tourists roaming the beach.
It was paradise – and it was nearly all theirs.
After a safety briefing from Noah, the bosun, on the stern of the main deck, everyone stripped down to their swimsuits and put on snorkelling masks.
They were also offered flippers – Sam didn’t bother; he found them cumbersome, he could swim better without them.
They made their way to the swim platform and splashed into the sea, following Noah’s instructions to head towards an area of bright orange-pink coral.
‘Remember – don’t touch or step on the reef, and keep a safe distance from marine animals,’ he called after them.
Sam ducked his face under the water. The ocean was cool and quiet; as he swam and took in the rainbow of colour in the water – orange clownfish and white butterflyfish and patterned bannerfish – he felt like he was in his own protective undersea bubble.
A stingray swam so close to the underneath of his stomach, it almost brushed against him.
He nearly laughed; he just stopped himself before he snorted out his mouthpiece.
Claire would bloody love this.
More fool her for dumping me less than two weeks before a trip to paradise.
Gazing around under the water’s surface, he realized he’d lost track of the others. He should probably move closer to them, for safety – that was what Noah had said earlier.
Sam lifted his head above water, removed his mask and scanned the ocean. There they were – everyone else was about twenty metres closer to the shore. He tugged the goggles back down and swam smoothly underwater to reach the group.
He could see them through the crystal-clear waters.
It was shallower here, so most people had a hand or a foot on the ground, taking care to avoid the patches of reef.
He swam closer, until he was just a few feet away, his eyes moving between the stunning array of sea life underneath him and the legs of his travel companions.
He couldn’t make out who was who as he approached them underwater; he surfaced just as Rory popped up right next to him, removing his mouthpiece.
‘Ah, there you are, Sam,’ he said, strings of saliva connecting his lips to the mouthpiece. ‘Looked like you were drifting halfway out to sea, over there.’ He lifted up his mask. ‘Wouldn’t want the current to drag you away now, would we?’
Sam narrowed his eyes behind his mask, then tried to move backwards and away from his boss, as fast as he could.
And then – ouch, what the hell was that? – his foot brushed against something sharp on the seabed. He’d been so busy trying to get some distance between himself and Rory, he’d put it down without thinking, not checking what was below.
A hot blast of pain shot across the sole of his right foot. As he lifted it, he saw a spiral of bright red clouding the clear water, and the pink formation underneath.
They even warned us about this.
He’d just done exactly what Noah said not to – in his haste to move, he’d dragged his foot across a patch of sharp coral. As he examined it, he saw a shallow but jagged cut slicing his sole horizontally. It was stinging like hell in the salt water.
He focused all his efforts and energy on swimming back to the yacht, trying to keep his injured foot above the water, attempting to wave for help from the deck crew.
I can’t fucking believe this.
It was only day one, and Sam was already adding to his list of things to hate Rory for.