I SWIM TOWARDS the back of the boat behind Neve after a day spent snorkelling and sailing, just the two of us. But I’m still distracted by what happened with Slay. I’d wanted to gouge out his eyes when he looked at Neve as if she was just another potential notch on his guitar. And when he disrespected her with that snide dig at me about sharing... I saw red, and for the first time in my life I’d wanted to hit my own father. To punch his million-dollar veneered teeth down his throat. And I might have, if Neve hadn’t defused the situation.
But that would have shown her exactly what I’m trying to conceal. Proved how much alike Slay and I really are in some areas. And I’m not ready to have her despise me the way I despised myself for many years. How could I have allowed Slay to burrow so deep under my skin last night?
It’s Neve. I’ve fallen for her so easily, and it’s as if Slay has deliberately come here to remind me of my every failing. I’m so buggered. I knew it the minute I opened my eyes after our first night together, and the fact was again cemented last night when Slay uttered the word share and I realised how much I had to lose.
Neve clambers aboard and then leans over to take my snorkel mask and flippers. We haven’t discussed it since the conversation in the bathroom last night. We showered and lay naked and entwined beneath the cool sheets all night. I couldn’t sleep, which meant I watched her sleep, marvelling at how perfect she is and how blind I’ve been all this time. But Slay’s presence, his little pissing contest last night in front of Neve, brought all my fears screaming to the forefront of my mind.
I don’t deserve her. All these years I’ve avoided relationships in order to protect myself from the pain and humiliation I felt at nineteen. I messed up following my split with Jane, crossing a line with Slay’s then-wife number three, proving how much like him I am. And I’ll likely mess up again if I try to have something real and committed with Neve.
But the selfishness that boils inside me won’t allow me to give her up...
Silently, we rinse off the sea water under the deck shower and then stretch out on a couple of loungers to enjoy the rest of the cruise around the atolls. Meanwhile, I debate how much of my secret she needs to know. Probably all of it, before she hears it from Slay.
‘I can’t believe we actually got to see dolphins,’ Neve says, excitement still gleaming in her eyes. ‘And that turtle was so beautiful.’
‘Pretty cool, eh? I thought the manta ray was the most impressive. Drink?’ I ask, selecting two ice-cold beers from the mini-fridge on the aft deck.
She nods, accepting my offering with a smile I now claim as mine. Just for me. Because it lights her eyes so I see things there that give me hope. The sensual heat is an incredible privilege, yes, but there’s also wonder and longing...as if she almost believes I’m the only man who can give her what she needs.
If only I was worthy of such belief. Statistically, I’m likely to disappoint and hurt her just as much if not more than the SBF Club...
‘Thanks for organising this—it’s a perfect way to have some space away from the others,’ she says about our private cruise with an experienced local captain. I arranged it so we could be assured of the best snorkelling spots and for his insider knowledge of the spinner dolphins, which frequent these waters.
Her reminder of my possessive leanings and the way our day almost derailed after a two-minute conversation with Slay pricks my skin with guilt. I need to be more open. Her push-back last night shocked me. It never occurred to me that she’d assume I didn’t trust her. It’s Slay I don’t trust. And myself.
But the last thing I want is him, or anything else, to come between us. I start with the easy news.
‘I agree. I don’t think we’ll be seeing Slay again. I heard this morning that my latest stepmother is history and he’s gone back to LA.’ I try to keep the relief from my tone.
‘Oh dear,’ she replies not bothering with commiserations. Now that she’s met Slay, she can see for herself that he’d stand a much better chance if he married a woman he shares something in common with.
‘Yeah,’ I snort. ‘Don’t feel too sorry for him. It’s only a matter of time before the next twentysomething catches his eye.’
‘How do you feel about that? Are you calm enough to talk about it?’ she probes, her hand on my thigh caressing away my agitation.
I shrug, pretending I can’t recall the sinking feeling every time a fresh wedding invitation from Slay lands on the mat. ‘You saw them together last night. Hardly a love match. Next time, he should at least try to find someone who isn’t after him for their fifteen minutes of fame. But perhaps that’s the attraction for him—the adoration. Until they get to know him.’ Resentment bubbles up anew inside me. I hate that I almost allowed Slay to ruin what I have with Neve.
Until I touched her, until he met her and showed me how much is at stake, I thought his hold over me was long past. In one way or another, he’s influenced every relationship I’ve ever had, whether disabusing me of my faith in first love, or through the early days after I came to London when I slept around as if to prove something—maybe that I could switch off the emotions that made me vulnerable. Or simply that Slay didn’t have the monopoly on bad-boy behaviour. And now I’m allowing him to cast doubt over what I have with Neve, this overwhelming need to protect her. I fear that I can’t commit and be what she deserves.
Because, for the first time in over ten years, I want to commit.
But could she ever take me seriously, knowing me as she does? And now also knowing Slay...
‘I have spoken about you to him before,’ I say, needing to reassure her. ‘He’s just too self-absorbed to notice what other people say most of the time.’ However Slay tried to paint her as some hook-up I’d just met, my feelings for her are deeper than ever. For the first time in a decade—not that the first time counted—I was barely a man. I think I might be in love. Terrifying, all-consuming love.
Panic beads sweat on the back of my neck. How can I confess that when there are more pressing things I need her to know? I feel like I’m about to split open, all my ugly secrets spilling free. Am I ready to expose my true self, the me I see every time I think about Slay? Will she still want me when she knows about my sordid past? At all, even as a friend?
I must have zoned out, because when she speaks I startle.
‘What did he mean about the sharing? Is he into threesomes or something?’ she asks outright, her mouth forming an ‘O’ over the neck of the beer bottle. She takes a long swallow, giving me precious seconds to formulate some words that don’t sound like a script for some hideous reality TV show.
My skin crawls. If only I could say yes. Better than the truth, which still has the power to make me shudder with shame, both for how Slay acted and how I acted out in return.
‘I wouldn’t put it past him,’ I say. I want to confess all my shameful truths to this woman who believes in my redemption. Who sees something that eludes me when I look in the mirror. But I also want more time. Because I’m learning new things about her every day.
‘He’s a drama queen who likes to stir up trouble,’ I continue, scrubbing my hand over my unshaven face. ‘He likes to get a rise out of me for sport.’ Perhaps Slay sensed what Neve means to me, so delivered a low blow.
I want to erase last night’s meeting with him from her memory, because standing in front of him beside the woman I love made me feel small and completely unworthy.
We’ll ruin her. Drag her down to our level. I can’t do that, but can I give her up?
Neve is watchful, silent. Waiting for more.
Unease creeps down my spine. I want to be honest. Every hour we spend together feels like we’re moving closer, but some things are too devastating to confess. Perhaps half the story...the less damning half.
‘Remember the night he took me to the strip joint?’ My stare falls on the endless blue of the Indian ocean because it’s hard to think about that night without feeling white-hot licks of regret and shame. ‘Well, in addition to his unique advice on getting over a woman by moving swiftly on to the next, he also informed me that Jane, the girl I was crying into my beer over, had allegedly come on to him while we were together.’
Neve sits bolt upright. ‘What? Seriously?’
I nod, my neck so stiff it spasms. ‘Seriously. “No use crying over pussy you never really had in the first place”,’ I say, imitating Slay’s words of wisdom.
She scoots to the edge of her lounger and reaches for my hand. ‘Did she?’
I shrug. ‘She half-heartedly denied it, but it doesn’t really matter who was telling the truth. I was a teenager, full of emotions, and that felt like my lowest ebb. And Slay kicked me while I was down, whether intentionally or through tactlessness doesn’t matter.’
I squeeze her fingers, needing to pull her into my arms but also hating that I’m the source of the appalled disbelief in her wide eyes. I know she feels empathy for my younger self, but she must also feel horror to a degree. No normal father behaves that way.
‘That’s horrible,’ she says, gripping my hand more tightly. I shake my head, cutting her off. I don’t deserve her pity, because I behaved as badly as him later that night. Worse, in fact. Because, whereas Slay claims never to have laid a finger on Jane, I went home alone to his mansion, furious and drunk after visiting her for confirmation.
Slay’s third wife, Aubrey, was in the kitchen. She saw I was upset. Poured me another drink. Made me spill the whole story. And then, somehow, I’d kissed her, or she’d kissed me, and with pain and humiliation driving me I’d allowed emotions to rule my head. I didn’t stop it. I slept with her. And afterwards she told me she was leaving Slay anyway so I shouldn’t feel bad. But I felt worse than bad. Confused and ashamed, because I wasn’t certain who had used who. But I was certain my actions were something Slay would have done.
And I was right. I’ll never forget the look of anger tinged with pride on Slay’s face during the inevitable confrontation the next morning. In trying to break free of him, I’d become something he could finally relate to and respect. My self-worth reached rock-bottom. Even now, years later, the shame defines everything I do. Why would my wonderful, beautiful Neve want anything to do with such a...weak degenerate?
‘“Don’t date with your head, boy. Use your dick”.’ I quote Slay, the sickening memories choking. ‘That’s the last time I turned to him for advice.’ I swallow, my throat aching because I’m back there, feeling helpless, vulnerable and inadequate for a woman like Neve.
She slides onto my lounger, her arms around my shoulders and her head tucked into my chest. ‘I’m so sorry you went through that.’
I press my lips to her forehead, selfishly sucking in the comforting scent of her skin. ‘I was lucky enough to have dual nationality. I caught the first flight to the UK, applied to university, spent the summer working in London and then I met you—a brilliant ray of sunshine,’ I say, trying to forget.
I acted out for months after that incident, some twisted part of me taking to heart Slay’s unwanted advice about women as I tried to make sense of my teenage angst and confusion over what I’d done with my father’s wife. But, aside from the attempt to protect myself from further heartache, it wasn’t me. Not the real me.
I shelved that version of myself when I woke up to the fact that my behaviour made me more like Slay, not less—terrified of his celebrity world in which I’d become caught up, where outrageous things seemed commonplace. Although by then my reputation was set with the British media and exaggerated by Slay’s publicists, who come from the school of ‘no publicity is bad publicity’.
I’d plastered on a mask and tried to banish my disillusion for a while, living out my early twenties avoiding getting too close to anyone. With the exception of one person.
The person now in my arms, making my heart clench with every beat.
I can’t lose her.
Not without losing part of myself.