The Island Getaway

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Nelly

Having screwed up her previous friendly-sounding note and thrown it in the bin, Nelly has left a new one for Frank. Ican’t go on like this, it says. Iknow you’re hurting but you need help, and I’m not the person who can give you that. Not when you’ve come back smelling of another woman on top of everything else. I’ve asked the hotel to move me into a different room here and I’d like to get an earlier flight home.

Frank, I’ve loved you so much. We had so many good times together. But Ithink we’ve both got to face up to the fact that this marriage has broken beyond repair. Let’s talk when you are up and about today, and discuss where we go from here. Nelly x

It’s almost one o’clock now, and she still hasn’t heard anything from him. She doesn’t know what to do with herself. The thought of going down to the pool or beach, or enjoying any normal holiday activities, seems impossible while the mother of all difficult conversations hangs over her head. Still, as luck would have it, with the summer season being over there are a few empty rooms at the hotel, and when Nelly asked to move into a different one the young man on reception merely nodded and began tapping on the keyboard. ‘But is everything all right? Mr Neale– he moves as well, or. . . ?’ he had asked a moment later, looking confused.

Oh Lord. It’s awful having everyone know your business. First the sweet woman Duska yesterday, now this dark-eyed man in his slightly too large suit jacket. ‘Everything is fine with the room, thank you. Mr Neale will not be moving,’ she had said crisply. ‘Only me.’

‘Okay. And this is for how many nights?’ he wanted to know next, before he took in her stricken expression. ‘Imean, we are not full, you can have the room for as long as you want, but. . .’

‘Idon’t know,’ she had said, feeling tired and flustered. ‘Can Iget back to you on that?’

‘Of course,’ he told her, handing over her new key.

It has taken all her willpower not to go and check on Frank while she’s been waiting for him to get in touch. She did leave him safely in the recovery position, as comfortable as she could make him, she keeps reassuring herself. The ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign is on the door, so the cleaner won’t find him lying on the bathroom floor and freak out. Hopefully he’s come round by now anyway, at least enough to relocate to the bed and sleep off his hangover in greater comfort. She’s so used to caring for him, used to fitting her life around his, that it’s hard not to keep wondering what he might be doing every minute.

Marriage is a deep river, with subcurrents and countercurrents, she thinks to herself, lying on the bed and staring up at the ceiling. The problem is, marriage to Frank has often been so turbulent, she has felt on occasion as if she might be dragged under. As if he might not even notice her drowning. It’s exhausting, frankly, and it’s been lonely at times, too. She’s not sure she has the energy to carry on like this any more.

Her stomach rumbles, reminding her that she hasn’t eaten anything for a while. She leaves the room and seeks out a quiet table on the restaurant terrace beneath a big patio umbrella, where she orders herself a salad and some iced water. The salad, when it arrives, is huge and delicious-looking, full of the ripest tomatoes, plump kalamata olives and piquant crumbly feta, but she feels too agitated to eat more than a few bites. She hides behind a book, but the words keep jumbling before her eyes whenever she tries to read a sentence. Besides, her own life feels far more volatile and urgent than any fictitious plot.

She’s about to venture back upstairs when she sees a woman in a big hat and sunglasses walking across the terrace to the bar area. It’s the actress, she realises, remembering Frank pointing her out the other morning at breakfast, although she must be wearing a wig, because she’s now sporting a dark brown pixie cut. She’s with the Guy Drewers agency, like he is, apparently. (The agency that– sidenote– is headed up by Nelly’s former fashionista colleague Cath these days. Go, Cath!). ‘And we saw her in a play, remember,’ Frank had said. ‘Years ago, at that place in Islington, you know the one.’

She does know the one– the Almeida– because being in a long-running marriage means the sharing of thousands, millions of shorthand memories between them. All the plays they have seen, the dinners they have eaten. Concerts at the Barbican and the Albert Hall. She couldn’t remember precisely the play Frank meant at the time he was pointing out the actress, but seeing her now in that wig is ringing a faint bell in Nelly’s memory. It’ll come to her. Meanwhile, the bartender has rushed out from behind the bar to put his arms round the actress, who appears to have burst into tears. Oh dear.

In the next moment, though, she forgets the scene entirely, because her phone buzzes with a notification: a text from Frank. Her heart seems to stall, her fingers feeling stiff and clumsy as she unlocks the phone. Here we go, she thinks. What does he have to say for himself?

Nelly, I’m sorry. Where are you? Let’s talk. X

A pent-up breath sighs out of her as she reads the words. He’s alive, then, she thinks numbly. What next?

I’m down in the restaurant, outside, she replies. Are you up to a walk? Better to be out in the warm benevolent September sunshine, she thinks, than back in the same room where she knelt earlier this morning to peel off his sodden, stinking underpants. No doubt he’d rather avoid that indignity too, because his response is almost immediate: I’ll come down and meet you, he writes.

Now she feels so jittery she can hardly sit still. Adrenalin fires in bursts around her body, her senses heightened and on alert. Her mind turns to that dashing, cheeky young man she first met back in her Soho temping job and it’s hard to believe that the years between them have now taken them to this precarious place. It feels as if someone has pressed fast-forward on their relationship in the last fortnight and they are currently hurtling towards the final denouement. The endgame.

Here he comes, loping towards her with his old easy grace, smartly dressed in pale trousers and a loose white shirt, every inch the gentleman abroad. You’d never know to look at him the state he was in a few hours earlier. She stands to greet him as he approaches, fumbling her phone and book into her bag, her pulse racing. ‘Hi,’ she says, taking in his freshly shaven jaw, the clean scent of him. She feels as if her heart is shattering.

‘Hi,’ he says, and puts his arms round her. For a moment she wants to protest– no, you can’t just do that any more– but she knows, as she thinks he does, that this is the end. She could scream and shout at him, she could push him away, but they’ve almost gone beyond that now, to a new place of uncertainty, where they have to figure out how the future will look without one another. It’s because of this that she leans against him, as she has done so many times before. They stand there together for a moment and it’s so easy, so natural, it’s a wrench when they eventually pull apart. ‘Shall we wander down to the beach?’ he suggests.

‘Good idea,’ she replies.

They are both silent as they walk back through the hotel and out onto the beach road. The air is still and very humid, with only an occasional breeze to rustle the silver-grey leaves of the olive trees. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says, once they are quite alone, without anyone in earshot. His voice is low and husky, a far cry from the booming confidence of what she thinks of as his Showbiz Frank voice. ‘Iknow this is all my fault.’

He’s wearing sunglasses, so she can’t see his eyes, but she imagines they must be pretty bloodshot after the excesses of the night before. Repentant too, judging by his wretched tone. ‘Iwish you had told me where you were,’ she says quietly. ‘You scared me, Frank.’

Two young men zoom by on a moped, both of them with brightly coloured shirts open to their bare chests, and she thinks of her sons with a pain in her heart. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says again.

‘If I’d known, Icould have come and rescued you from yourself, before—’ She breaks off, not wanting to go any further. ‘Icould have come and intervened,’ she says instead. ‘Put a stop to. . . everything.’

He hangs his head and she hears his weary exhale. ‘You could have done, Nell, but. . . Well, you shouldn’t have to,’ he says. ‘It’s not fair on you.’

‘No, but. . . ’ She would have gone to his rescue, regardless of whether or not it was fair, she wants to say. It isn’t simply about fairness when someone you love is repeatedly pressing self-destruct buttons. You can’t help but want to protect them.

‘I’ve let you down,’ he says baldly before she can find the right words. ‘And– as my old mum would have said– I’ve let myself down too. I’ve messed up, and it’s not right that Ikeep involving you in my mess.’

‘But. . .’ But I’m your wife ;

it’s there, right on the tip of her tongue. For better or worse, she thinks. In sickness and in health. The words are too hard to say today, though, when she remembers how he smelled this morning, of this mysterious other woman. When she thinks about all of the other women he has hurt as well.

‘Everything got to me yesterday,’ he says when it becomes obvious that she can’t finish her sentence. They’ve reached the edge of the beach by now, and they make their way carefully down the rocky slope. The sand stretches ahead, soft and golden, giving way to the sea, where the waves are rolling in like long white ruffles. There are two rows of rustic-looking beach umbrellas with a pair of sunloungers beneath each one, but very few takers for them today; a sunburnt couple here and there, a family with two toddlers in brightly coloured sunsuits, both digging intently with plastic spades. She thinks again of their sons, who also loved digging beach moats and trenches as little boys, how Frank would help them construct enormous turreted castles, big enough for them all to stand on together as the tide gradually came in. They’ve ended up on a lot of beaches together over the decades, she reflects; in Devon and Cornwall back in the early days, and then a whirl of others around the world during the giddy rise of his fame: Australia, Thailand, Mexico, California. She’s always associated the feeling of sand beneath her feet, the sound of waves rushing into shore, with good times. Happy times. She knows that this particular beach will snag like a thorn in her memory for all the wrong reasons though.

‘I’m not making excuses for myself, but it was the pressure from the last fortnight, the accusations, the speculation,’ he goes on. ‘It all just reached a peak. Iboiled over. Icouldn’t cope any more.’

She says nothing in response, merely stares out at the horizon as they walk along the shoreline. Call her disloyal but she’s always found it incredibly graceless when someone facing very serious charges positions themselves as the victim of the piece, the one who has really suffered. It feels even worse when that person is your own husband, someone you once idolised.

He starts telling her about the bar he ended up in, how he’d had an out-of-body experience standing there, ordering himself a vodka and then hesitating for a moment before recklessly throwing it down his gullet. How hard it had been to stop after that first shot, how easy, after all, it had been to relinquish everything to the drink. ‘Iknow I’m a bad person, Nelly,’ he says, voice shaking. ‘Iknow I’m not a good man.’

‘Frank—’ If she’s supposed to contradict him here, she’s not entirely sure she can.

‘But I’m going to sort myself out,’ he goes on. ‘I’m flying back to London this evening, and I’ve booked myself into rehab again. I’ve been speaking to my agent about making a new statement on the allegations and. . .’ His voice, which has been getting progressively lower, is barely audible over the crashing waves now. ‘Ithink. . . Imean. . .’ He takes a deep breath, tries again. ‘The thing is, Ido. . . recognise myself in those stories. The bad behaviour. Imean, a lot of those nights, Ihonestly can’t remember what Idid.’ He clutches a hand to the side of his face, a gesture of agony, before forcing the next words out. ‘But the things that have been said. . . Ican’t dispute them out of hand. Because. . . Because Imight have done them. Imight have been that person. And Ithink. . . Ifear. . . Iprobably was.’

He breaks down then, his hands coming up to cover his face in his distress. Nelly steers him to the nearest empty pair of sunloungers, where nobody is within earshot. ‘Come on,’ she says, positioning him so that he can sit with his back to the other beachgoers. She can’t see anyone nearby who looks like a citizen journalist or an amateur photographer, but you can never be too careful. She sits opposite him, their knees almost touching, and puts her hand on his arm. This is a big deal, him finally dropping his defences and admitting that there may have been wrongdoing. She can respect his honesty far more than his previous brick-wall defence, denying everything as malicious lies. All the same, it’s pretty devastating to hear the confessional note in his voice. Despite everything, there was a part of her that longed for the claims to be untrue as he’d initially professed. She looks away, her stomach turning. ‘Rehab sounds like a good idea,’ she says after a moment. ‘So does apologising in this new statement of yours, if that’s what you were thinking of doing.’ She hesitates, then forces herself to ask. ‘You are sorry, aren’t you?’

‘Iam,’ he says miserably, taking off his sunglasses and wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. His fingers are shaking, she notices, and he can’t look at her. ‘Iknow it’s over, me and you,’ he adds. ‘Iaccept that this has been my doing, and Idon’t expect you to stay with me.’

‘Frank—’

‘Imean it. It’s going to take me a while to get my act together and Idon’t want you to have to put your life on hold while Ido that. Ithink we should split up. You can be free of me. You deserve better.’ He lifts his chin and finally looks at her properly. ‘This is not me being self-pitying, by the way. I’m not saying it because Iwant you to argue that we should stay together. Ijust think it’s the right thing to say. The right thing to do.’

She doesn’t reply for a moment. Even though she agrees with what he’s saying, it’s still a jolt to hear the words out loud. Again, though, this is new, she reflects, glancing at his stricken face. For once he’s putting her first, rather than himself. Saying that he’s setting her free is a bit on the dramatic side but. . . well, there’s a truth there too. She feels like a caged bird whose door has swung open. Dare she fly out alone, now that they have reached this point?

‘Imean it,’ he says again, voice soft. ‘You are the most wonderful woman, Nelly. A brilliant, kind, funny, gorgeous wife. A fantastic mother. But being with me. . . I’m causing you pain– Iknow Iam.’ He starts to cry again and she reaches forward, puts a hand on his knee. ‘Ihave been lucky to have you in my corner for all these years,’ he says brokenly. ‘But it would be wrong of me to keep you there any longer.’

Her eyes sting with tears. She feels too numb to speak. The world outside the cage looks so big, so unknown, she thinks. What will being free even look like for her without having Frank to fuss around? Then she remembers Melissani the nymph plunging into the cave in sacrifice to Pan, no longer able to bear living. She will not be like Melissani, she vows.

‘The boys agree with me,’ Frank says with a hitch in his voice. He’s trying to laugh but it doesn’t quite land. ‘Well, not in so many words, but they’ve both let me know, in their own ways, that they think I’ve been pretty selfish. That Ishould be very sorry about the way I’ve treated you– and Iam. And obviously you can have the house, you can have. . . Well, anything. And don’t feel you have to rush back to London with me either– you can stay on here at the hotel, have yourself a proper holiday. Whatever you want, Nell.’

She still hasn’t said anything and has to clear her throat because her mouth is so dry. ‘I’m glad you’re going to get some help,’ she says carefully after a moment. There’s a bit of her that wants to dismiss his suggestions of splitting up, a bit that’s scared of such a change. She’s managed this long, hasn’t she? And she does still love him– or at least she loves the Frank of her many happy memories. Is it enough for her to stick by him while he gets himself well again? She exhales, forcing herself to dig deep into her own feelings. Would she ever, truly, feel relaxed and carefree around him again, after everything that has come out? Whatever marital loyalties still exist, she has to consider herself too. Plus ‘free’ is a lovely word, isn’t it? A glorious, boundless word; one that spins a globe in front of a person and says, Where next?

When, she wonders, did she last feel free?

She takes his hand in hers. ‘Thank you,’ she says eventually. ‘There’s a lot to think about. But. . . yes. That sounds. . .’ How does it sound? Overwhelming, heartbreaking, terrifying, a little bit exciting, the saddest thing to do, or possibly the best. No one phrase or word can sum up her turmoil. ‘Thank you,’ she repeats, in the end. ‘Ithink you’ve said what Icouldn’t bring myself to. And Ithink you might be right.’

‘Nelly Neale,’ he says to her, and there’s a glint of the old Frank still visible as he smiles. No longer quite so cocky, though. A little bit more self-aware. ‘When have Iever been wrong?’

The sea rushes in and the sea rushes out. A husband and wife stand up from their sunloungers and embrace one another tightly. The wife, practical as ever, is the first one to let go. ‘Come on,’ she says. ‘You’ve got a flight to catch. And Ibet you haven’t even started packing, have you?’