I gave an awkward shrug.
‘Don’t worry, Clare – she’s happily married.’
‘Dan’s happily married too,’ I said quickly, before adding, ‘Unless you know something I don’t?’
He didn’t respond. I wasn’t sure if Jamie knew about the current state of our marriage, but Joy probably filled him in during one of their Skype sessions.
‘Dan’s wasting his time,’ he said, nodding his head in the direction of the pool. ‘She’s not interested in old men.’ He winked.
‘Ouch, you know damn well he’s the same age as me.’ I gave him a playful nudge.
‘Oops, sorry … I’d better go before I dig myself into a hole,’ he laughed, and headed out towards the pool, without looking back. Despite his light-hearted banter, it was clear that Dan applying Ella’s sun oil bothered him as much as it bothered me.
I stood back slightly so I couldn’t be seen at the window but continued to watch as he arrived poolside, and from what I could tell, he was jokingly chastising Dan for his enthusiasm. It turns out there’s nothing like watching your brother-in-law tease your husband for touching his beautiful young wife to make you feel like a wallflower.
I was vulnerable that summer for so many reasons; if I’d been stronger, more tolerant, I wouldn’t have behaved the way I did. Maybe then we’d all have left the Amalfi Coast refreshed, with a suitcase of memories, ready to get on with our lives. But we didn’t, and I have to take some responsibility for what happened.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The next day, I felt like I couldn’t sit round the pool watching Ella preen, so suggested Dan and the kids and I go to the beach. Joy wasn’t too chuffed, but I wanted some family time, just us, and I thought I’d leave Joy and her new daughter-in-law to it. If they got on that well, then let them spend all day together – Ella could teach Joy some yoga, and they could cook together again. My theory was that after a day of mung beans and downward dogs, Joy might be glad to see me and the kids for some light relief.
It was beautiful on Positano Beach: lines and lines of overpriced parasols stood along the shoreline like vibrant soldiers, the surrounding cliffs stacked with houses and hotels in every shape and pastel hue. The kids were totally engrossed in the creation of a sandcastle close by, not easy with black sand, but Violet as project manager was making it work. ‘It’s a palace for a princess,’ she was insisting, much to Alfie’s disgust. Oblivious to his siblings’ preferences, Freddie happily staggered around precariously close to the castle, until one or both shouted, ‘No, Freddie!’
‘It’s nice to be on our own without Ella prancing around in her bikini taking selfies,’ I said to Dan as we watched them play.
‘She’s not so bad. Yeah, she prances around a bit, but she’s interesting.’
‘Really?’ I tried to be nice.
‘I reckon you don’t like her because you feel threatened,’ he said, gazing out to sea.
‘Wow. Why would you say that, Dan?’
I did feel threatened by her, but not in the way he meant.
‘Where do I start? She’s young, she’s got money, she’s child-free and her only worry is which pool in which resort does she choose to deepen her tan in a designer bikini?’
‘Not that you’ve paid much attention,’ I sighed, watching Alfie push gritty sand into his brother’s ear and giving him a warning call. ‘Okay, you have a point, I envy the way she does nothing, has no responsibilities, and apparently no job but plenty of money,’ I said, wiping the sand from my feet. ‘But there’s more to her than meets the eye.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I just feel like she’s not who she says she is.’
‘Who is she then?’ He was being obtuse.
‘You know what I mean, she’s all out there and posing, but I don’t trust her, Dan. I think she’s dishonest.’
‘In what way?’
I checked the children weren’t listening and, leaning towards him, said in a quiet voice, ‘I think she’s a thief.’
‘You can’t just say that, Clare! She’s Jamie’s wife. Ella isn’t a thief.’
‘Shhh… the children.’
Too late.
‘Who’s a thief?’ Violet asked, her worried little brow all rumpled. ‘Did you say it’s Ella? Should we call the police?’
‘Christ.’
‘Don’t say Christ, Clare, the kids…’