The Girl in the Mirror(15)

Noah hadn’t really broken up with me. Not completely. We were going to live in different countries and see other people for a while, that’s all. I wanted him to take his time and be sure, but I thought he should be fully informed about the financial situation. Maybe he wouldn’t even need to take this job with the fortune in our sights. We could elope, have a baby, and be rolling in riches within a year.

The plan went well at first. The day after I told Noah about the fortune, we applied to be married on short notice. Within a fortnight, we were husband and wife, and I had moved to Queenstown with Noah and even wangled my way into a position at his firm. I didn’t really want the job, but I didn’t think it would be for long. I would be pregnant by the time I flew back to Wakefield for Summer’s wedding. Things were looking good.

The first sign of trouble was when Noah didn’t want to go to Summer’s wedding a few months later. Something was wrong, but I didn’t know what. Was he angry that I wasn’t pregnant already? God knows we’d been trying. And Summer and Adam weren’t rushing to have a baby. They were going to buy Bathsheba and sail around the world with Tarquin.

Lawyers have a stressful job, especially new partners, and I could overlook a few indiscretions. The trace of another woman’s perfume, a purring voice in the background when Noah called to say I should go ahead and eat dinner on my own because he’d be working late again—these things don’t matter in the big picture. Lori was his ex-girlfriend, a childhood sweetheart. Now they were back at the same firm, I could see how it could happen. I didn’t care, did I?

But Noah and I weren’t even having sex anymore.

Around this time, Summer came to visit. While she was in New Zealand, she tried to persuade Noah to give our marriage another go. I had a bad feeling about it all along. Once you’ve spent time with the nicer version of me, why would you stay? Summer did her best, but Noah moved out while I was dropping her at the airport.

I went on deluding myself that I could stay in Queenstown and keep working at his law firm. We were going to stay friends, Noah and I. And Lori. We’re all adults. And if I was dignified and professional, or if he saw me dating some hot new guy, surely he would see what he was giving up and come running back to me. Maybe we wouldn’t get back together permanently, but I only needed him back for a month or two. Hell, one night might do it. Doesn’t everyone have sex with their ex a few times before they break up for good? It still seemed a better bet than trying to find a new husband, all the while hoping Summer would stay childless long enough for my divorce to come through.

Turns out that working for your ex alongside the woman he cheated with is one long exercise in humiliation, and sex with your ex isn’t always a thing. Who knew. And when you do manage to snare a halfway decent-looking guy to dangle in front of your ex, he says, “Good for you, Iris. I’m glad you’re happy.” And the new guy says, “You just wanted to show me off to your ex? Don’t call me again.”

So that was New Zealand.

None of it seems to matter now that I’m here. I walk around Bathsheba’s deck, checking that everything is shipshape, and it feels as though I’ve dropped my problems overboard.

Dad and I used to dream about this passage, so I know what’s ahead. A long glide westward across the Bay of Bengal, then we’ll dart south to cross the equator—squalls, doldrums—then a fast, wild ride across the western Indian Ocean, chased by the blustery southeast trades. Landfall in the Seychelles is about a fortnight away.

Time is of the essence. This late in the season, the easterly monsoon is weak, and in Thailand’s long wind shadow, where we are now, it dies out each day by midday. The result is eerie stillness—hot, windless, and rolly. One Easter holiday, we spent two hours in the middle of each day drifting and sweating on a painted ocean, like doomed ancient mariners. Dad refused to start the engine. He was what’s known in yachting circles as a “purist,” which means someone too stingy to motor, or to install a decent fuel tank, because he prefers to watch his crew wilt, even if his crew are his children. Especially if they’re his children.

But apart from the overreliance on her sails, Bathsheba is perfect. She’s sixty feet long, but she’s small for her length, as slender and light as a Thoroughbred horse. Her mast is tall, and her Bermudan rig enables her to sail fast upwind. Summer and Adam have replaced the rigging here in Thailand, and it’s flawless and new. It gleams in the morning light.

I’m most at home up here on deck. The stateroom has plenty of portholes and hatches for fresh air, but it’s still claustrophobic on a warm night.

I fell asleep down there last night, shattered from my flight, while Summer was still plying me with food and wine. She was in a confessional mood, as if trying to set the scene for our transoceanic twin-bonding marathon. In fact, as I stretched out on the bed and let my eyes swim shut, I’m sure she started talking about her sex life.

“He likes to take things slow,” she was saying. “I never feel rushed. He lights candles and gives me roses, and he knows just how to touch a woman. He gets so hard . . .”

Summer couldn’t really be telling me this, could she? She’s always been so prim. In my half sleep, I struggled to make sense of what I heard.

“The sweet things he says when we make love,” Summer went on, “even when he’s thrusting so deep that it aches . . . And when he kisses me, it’s like he’s thirsty. He says it’s like kissing the sun.”