We bounce out of bed early this morning. All the exercise and fresh air is knocking us out by ten most nights, and I feel great.
We handed the bag in last night when we docked at the hotel. Mark gave it to a porter and we explained that it had been found in the water. Mark didn’t think it was worth telling the guy on the dock about the coordinates, or the papers. Best to have a chat with the dive guy about it today instead—he seems a bit more on it and he might actually look into it.
We breakfast in the main restaurant today; it’s the Four Seasons Sunday buffet. It’s ridiculously opulent, everything you could ever want to eat: whole lobsters, pancakes with syrup, exotic fruit, full English breakfast, sushi, rainbow cake. Ludicrous. That’s another great thing about all this exercise: I can pretty much eat whatever I want right now and it’ll make no difference.
We’ve got exciting plans for today, 4x4 off-roading in the forest on the main island, followed by a hike up Mount Otemanu to the Sacred Cave, then back to the hotel for the Sunday evening torchlit dinner on the beach. The boat will be collecting us right after breakfast from the jetty. There’s no sign of the dive guy yet. And I need to nip back to the room to quickly grab my bag and sunscreen, so I leave Mark at the restaurant and run back to our room.
I don’t see it at first.
As I come out of our bathroom, toothbrush in my mouth, mid-stroke, there it is. Sitting neatly on the floor at the end of our bed. The bag. Someone put it back in our room. It’s dry now. Chalky salt tidemarks crust the black canvas. Padlock still safely fastened. They must have misunderstood what Mark was saying last night. And now it’s back.
I think of the thunk thunk against the side of the boat. The insistence. I wouldn’t have ever thought that a bag could be creepy, but there you go. You live and learn.
I’ll have to sort it out later. No time now. I finish brushing my teeth, grab my bag, and dash for the jetty. I’ll tell Mark later.
After the quick boat trip across the lagoon, we pile into an off-road vehicle. There are four of us as well as the guide in the 4x4. Us and another young couple. Sally and Daniel. We set off. Snapshots of jungle, the edge of a Jeep wing mirror, blurry smiling faces, hot black leather car seats against thighs, the smell of warm forest in the air, wind along the hairs of my arm, bumping hard over steep rugged hills, cool air and warmth.
And then we hike, the breeze reaching us over the treetops, shifting stones and dust underfoot, muffled chatter, sweat running down between my breasts, heavy breathing, Mark’s darkening T-shirt ahead of me.
By the end of our hike I’m exhausted but satisfied. My legs heavy and loose.
Mark’s cheeks have picked up some sun, making him look irresistibly healthy, outdoorsy. I haven’t seen him this happy for a while now. Old Mark. I can’t stop touching him. His browning skin. On the boat trip back to the hotel, I rest one warm thigh over his. Territorial.
I told him about the bag; he actually thought it was quite funny when I told him about it. Fawlty Towers funny. Hotel mishaps funny. I never really got Fawlty Towers, to be honest; they always seemed so angry. Disproportionately angry. Maybe that’s what’s so funny. I don’t know. Python I love, but Cleese needs some tempering. Straight-up Cleese is too rich for my blood.
When we’re back we dive straight into bed, make lazy love, and nap until sunset.
Once we’re showered and dressed, Mark leads me out onto the decking and pops a bottle of champagne. Eddie’s champagne. Or as I told Mark, “Fred’s champagne.”
He offers me a full glass, the fizz misting off its surface. You can tell a champagne’s quality by the size of the bubbles, did you know that? The smaller the bubbles, the more there are available to release the aroma and flavor. The carbon dioxide bubbles pick up and carry the flavor molecules; the more there are, the more refreshing and subtle the flavors will feel to your palate. My glass is alive with long strings of tiny, ascending bubbles. We clink.
“Marrying you was the best decision I’ve ever made.” He smiles. “I just want you to know that I love you, Erin, and I’m going to look after you, and when we get home I’m going to get another job and we’re going to make a proper life together. Sound good?”
“Yes, that sounds perfect,” I reply.
I take a sip, the bubbles bursting over my lip and nose. It’s heaven. I smile. Thank you, Eddie.
“What shall we do about…?” I nod my head back toward the suite.
He grins. “I’ll take it to the dive center tomorrow and give the dive coordinator the area location. He can deal with it. Or maybe he’ll just put it back in our room, of course! Either way.” He laughs.
Music starts across the lagoon.
On Sunday nights there’s a traditional Polynesian dinner show on the beach. I said to Mark, it does sound a little like eighties dinner theater. But he reminded me this is the Four Seasons, so it’s a five-star three-course meal on a torchlit tropical beach followed by traditional Polynesian water-drumming and fire-dancing.
“Right, like dinner theater?” I say. They do that at dinner theater, right?
We’re seated at a table right at the water’s edge. There are only ten other couples, spaced out across the sand lit by candles and flaming torches all along the water’s edge. We give the couple from the hike a wave. Daniel and Sally. They smile and wave back. Everyone loose-limbed and happy. The scent of Tahitian gardenia and fire fills the air.
We sip more champagne and talk about the future. What we’ll do once we’re home. I tell Mark all about Alexa, her plan to get pregnant, I tell him about Holli, everything. I don’t mention too much about Eddie, of course, or Eddie’s gift. Mark listens, rapt. I think he forgot somehow that I was still living my life while he was so wrapped up in his, but he’s interested now. He asks why they’re letting Holli out at all. He asks if I think Alexa regrets what she did. We talk into dessert and through coffee. And then the show begins.
Polynesian dancers, male and female, dressed in traditional costume, flip and somersault across the sand with flaming torches clasped in bronzed hands or between clenched teeth. Leaping into the air, diving into the water. Percussionists stand knee-deep in the waves and beat floating drums and the water with open palms.
The music builds, builds and climaxes with the waves flashing on fire for a moment in front of us, a circle of white-hot flames licking up off the surface of the water. And then darkness, claps, and whoops.
We move to the bar afterwards and on to cocktails. We dance, we talk, we kiss, we canoodle, we drink some more, and not until we’re the last ones standing do we call it a night and stumble back along the jetty to our room.
And there it sits, waiting. I get some nail scissors from the bathroom and we open it.