It was already 4.15 p.m. but, instead of heading back towards the schloss, Julia was leading us further away, insisting on showing us the acres of organic kitchen garden that enabled the head chef, formerly from a two-starred Michelin restaurant, to be self-sufficient in vegetables and herbs for our cuisine.

  We finally arrived back at our suite with just twenty minutes to go before the great man was due. The mean-minded part of me wondered if Julia had deliberately left me so little time to get ready. I looked down at his face on the brochure again. It was framed by his flowing, centre-parted wavy brown hair, the similar length, covering his ears, as before, that seemed to be so much a part of his persona. And those intense – but kind – eyes, tiny smile creases on each side visible through his arty glasses.

  With Teutonic punctuality, there was a ding of the bell on the dot of 5 p.m.

  It was like a starting pistol had fired inside my heart, sending all my blood cells racing to see which could complete a full circuit of my body first. I was shaking and feeling clammy, and suddenly sick with nerves. I took a few tentative steps towards the door, then stopped to check my appearance in a tall mirror. I really did care about how I looked when he saw me, I wanted him to really like and care about me, to share some of his wisdom with me, to be something of a best friend.

  I’d opted for a white blouse, tight jeans, my favourite platform-heeled sandals to bring me up a little towards his height, and a couple of sprays of Jo Malone on my neck and behind my ears. I dabbed some beads of perspiration from my brow, and as I reached the door, walking softly, I stood for some moments. Then I took in two deep breaths before opening it with a big, welcoming smile.

  Hans-Jürgen, dressed in his white tunic, had more lines on his forehead than when I’d last seen him, deeper creases in the corners of his eyes, and his beautiful chestnut-brown hair had been infiltrated by a lot more grey than I remembered. But his blue eyes looked at me just as intensely as they had before. That penetrating gaze, as if he was reading my soul, was just as intense now. Even more so. And he smelled, very faintly, of a very attractive cologne.

  He was beaming. Looking so genuinely happy. He took each of my hands in his own and squeezed them lightly. ‘Sandra! So good to see you. So very good!’

  His voice was so much part of his charm, too. That almost mellifluous broken English. Warm, so cultured.

  He simply released my hands and stood, looking down at me. ‘So good!’ he repeated. Then he totally broke the spell by shooting a glance at his watch, before looking back at me again. ‘All is good? Julia is taking care of you?’ He glanced at his watch again and rocked on his white trainers.

  I could sense he was on the verge of moving off and this was not in my script. ‘Well, yes, but—’

  ‘Something is wrong?’

  ‘Won’t you come in – have a coffee or something?’ I had a terrible plunging sensation deep inside me. This was just not what I had expected. But then, what had I expected?

  He looked at his watch yet again, then at me. ‘So Nicos? This has not worked out with my friend?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ I said. ‘No. Long story. You were right, the warning you gave me about him – if you remember?’

  ‘Ja.’ He shook his head. ‘He gave a very big donation if we would look after you in East Grinstead those years ago. I was not sure we should take it, but then I saw you and I was glad we did.’

  He gave me an intense look and smiled again. ‘So glad to see you here!’ Then he looked at his sodding watch again. A big fancy thing, all cogs and innards, with no conventional dial. I don’t know how he figured out anything from it, let alone the time.

  ‘I have an important telephone call in a few minutes, but I wanted to welcome you in person. I’m afraid I must go to a meeting in München tonight. Perhaps you might dine with me tomorrow tonight?’

  ‘Well, I do have a date with Tom Cruise, but I could cancel him.’

  He held his hands in the air. ‘No, please do not – we can see us on another time, perhaps?’ he replied, totally missing the joke.

  ‘Tomorrow will be fine,’ I said.

  ‘You are sure?’

  I nodded.

  ‘If there is anything you need, please ask Julia, OK?’

  I hesitated. But he was in a hurry. I had waited four years, another twenty-four hours was not, as a friend of mine used to say, going to change the price of fish.

  ‘All’s good.’

  He gave me a look that told me he could see all wasn’t good. Then he was gone. Without even saying the clinic greeting that he loved me.

  I closed the door, feeling very alone. Hans-Jürgen had been pleasant. Charming as he had been previously. But distant. Distracted by something. It sure hadn’t been the big reconnection I’d thought it might be. And he hadn’t given me the impression he’d spent the past four years thinking or caring about me, either.

  Something inside my head was shouting at me to get real. The words Nicos liked to use.

  I sat back down and stared at his face on the brochure again. Then I thought about Roy. It was just gone 5 p.m. here, which meant just after 4 p.m. England time. What was he up to on this September afternoon? Was it sunny in Sussex, too?

  He was at work, no doubt. But although I kept a frequent check on the Argus online I’d not seen any mention of him for some while.

  In those last days before I’d left him, Roy was very excited about work – he’d been told by his line manager, the Head of Major Crime, that he should apply for the position of Detective Chief Inspector and had a good chance of getting the promotion. But the last time I’d seen him named in the paper he was still just Detective Inspector and that’s how he was also titled on the Sussex Police website. So something hadn’t worked out. And I suddenly felt a little guilty that I might be part of the cause of that.

  How the hell are you? I wondered, my heart suddenly heavy.

  I was missing him, dammit, despite everything. I kept denying it to myself, but I was missing him more all the time. Thinking back to the life we had and realizing that it actually had been, most of the time, pretty good.

  Apart from that little issue of my gambling debt.

  Apart from that, Mrs Kennedy, how did you enjoy your trip to Dallas?

  I should have come clean with Roy. He would have sorted it out, he’d have found a way, he was one of life’s copers, he would always find a way to deal with anything. That was one of the things I’d loved about him, how safe he made me feel.

  Shit, I missed him. I missed our beautiful home.

  Are you looking after the garden, Roy? Or have you let it go to rack and ruin? You were never very green-fingered, were you? You were fine with mowing, you always said that relaxed you. But beyond that you were happy to leave the garden to me. Oh, and you did care for Marlon, the goldfish. You were diligent with him, changing his water, giving him fresh weed and always remembering his food.

  Are you on your own, or do you have a new person in your life?

  Do you still wonder what happened to me, after all these years? Over four years now. Gosh. Do you still think about me or have you moved on?

  What would you say if I rocked up on your doorstep with my son – who might or might not be yours?

  Would you greet me with a huge hug, or would you just stand there coldly and tell me to sod off?

  How would you react if I told you I missed you? That I’ve missed you every damned day since I left you?

  That the only reason I’ve not contacted you is out of fear? Fear that you might be so angry and disgusted with me. Fear that you might have found a new person and that you would reject me. Fear that it would be so pointless, that we would get back together and then the whole damned spiral would start over again. Fear that whatever we had together would never have been enough.

  I was in no mood to go to the restaurant – or Refectory as it was called – so a little while later I ordered a meal for Bruno and myself from room service. God, how much I could have done with some wine, or something stronger, to accompany it.

  Half an hour later two young men, each holding a massive tray, one looking broken by the climb up the steep stairs, delivered Bruno’s second cheeseburger of the day, and a Dover sole for me. Discreetly on the tray beside my fish, potatoes and beans was an envelope.

  I opened it after our two servers had departed, telling me they loved me. It contained a note from Julia Schmitt, along with four white tablets. Oh, thank God. Yes. Yes. YES!

  Dear Sandra, please take one twice a day. This will take care for your heroin cravings. Tomorrow morning I will give you your programme for the path to freedom of your spirit. My colleague Fabian Katz will collect Bruno for his first class at 9 a.m. Don’t forget to complete the breakfast form with your requirements and place it outside your door. Should you require turn-down service please inform the Housekeeper by dialling 7. The Management of Schloss Leichtigkeit wishes you a good evening and loves you.

  I sat there for a long while after reading this, while Bruno ate his burger, messily and happily, and I let my fish go cold. I had never, ever, in these past four years, missed Roy so much and wished I was back with him. Wished so much.

  I looked at my phone. It would be so easy to pick it up and dial his number.

  Except, I panicked briefly, I had forgotten it.

  Then it came back to me.

  But I left my phone on the table. And, instead, stabbed my fork into my stone-cold fish.

  67

  Autumn 2011

  It was probably the most comfortable bed in which I’d barely slept a wink, in my life. I both sank into it and it held me firm at the same time. The pillows were the kind I’d wanted for years and had never found. Feather clouds.

  Back in Jersey, although Nicos’s apartment had a magnificent sea view across St Aubin’s bay and the jagged promontory of historic Elizabeth Castle, it was close to one of the island’s busiest roads, Victoria Avenue. Despite our bedroom being at the back, I would go to sleep to an endless looped soundtrack of cars, trucks and motorbikes – punctuated by the occasional siren.

  Last night had been complete and utter silence. And eternally long.

  The new tablets had kept my cravings under control, without delivering any of the joy of those first hours after a fresh heroin fix.

  My mind was alive, whirring, an engine inside my skull that wasn’t responding to the off switch.

  I kept thinking of that drifting boat. I tried to tell myself that it probably had nothing to do with Nicos, or me. But I couldn’t shake off the thought of what might have happened to him, that he might be dead.

  I wouldn’t wish that on anyone and really didn’t want to have to live with that guilt. I just needed him out of my life – banged up in prison would be good.

  I’d left Roy. Then I’d dodged Albazi. And now run away from Nicos too. So far I’d got away with it but for how long?

  I was in a country I didn’t know, where I had some distant family who I had never met, one of whom had been decent enough to leave me some money in her will, although peanuts, relative to her net worth. I was staying in a place I couldn’t afford, and I had a responsibility to my son.

  It seemed just like my gambling. The final throw of the desperate gambler, down on their chips, is to put everything they have left on one last throw of the dice, or one last turn of the cards or spin of the wheel. It was known as going all in.

  I’d gone all in for Hans-Jürgen Waldinger. Had he really changed, less flirty and womanizing?

  At some point, I slipped out of bed and walked through into Bruno’s room. He was sound asleep and I just stood and looked down at his dark form, listening to his breathing, tears coming into my eyes. My son. My only real achievement after over thirty years on this planet. I whispered how much I loved him, that I would always take care of him. I told him he deserved that. And I told him I was sorry he had such a shitty mother.

  I told him he was going to make the world a better place, and then I would have achieved something.

  At some point, well after 4 a.m., I must have fallen asleep because I had a weird dream involving my parents. My father, who had never flown a plane in his life, told me he’d been in charge of air-sea rescue for the Channel Islands and he knew my secret. Then my mother, who had never organized a party in her life and had no interest in doing so, told me she had put up a marquee in her back garden and invited Roy, Roel Albazi and Nicos to come and celebrate my birthday – which was, actually, not until spring.

  I woke in a panic, wondering for some moments how the hell I was going to get out of the party. Then, as reality dawned, I felt so incredibly relieved it had just been a dream.

  ‘I’m hungry, Mama!’

  Bruno was standing at my bedside in his dinosaur pyjamas.

  I looked up at him. Despite the thick curtains, my room was light. The clock on my beside table said 7.22.

  ‘I think we ordered breakfast for 8 a.m., darling. Have you brushed your teeth?’

  ‘Not zactly,’ he said.

  ‘Go and do that,’ I encouraged him.

  With rare obedience, he padded back out of the room.

  Routinely, I picked up my phone and checked first Sky News, then I went to the Jersey Evening Post website. Because of the absence of Wi-Fi and having to download everything on my phone it took a while. But finally it arrived.

  And I stared at the front-page splash in shock.

  68

  Autumn 2011

  MARY CELESTE MYSTERY OF MULTIMILLION-POUND YACHT

  Below the headline it read:

  A full-scale search and rescue operation is underway between the Guernsey and Jersey coastguard agencies as well as Channel Island Air Search, UK and French helicopters after a St Helier-based motor yacht, Bolt-Hole, was discovered adrift and unmanned ten nautical miles off Guernsey on Tuesday night.

  The yacht’s registered owner, Nicos Christoforou, has not been seen in over twenty-four hours. The last sighting of the yacht was at 20.30 on Monday evening, as it passed the Corbière lighthouse radar.

  According to an associate of Mr Christoforou, Neil Wakeling, a fellow member of the St Helier Yacht Club, he was a keen fisherman who would often go night fishing in search of bluefin tuna.

  Inspector Callum O’Connor of States of Jersey Police told the JEP that the police are also concerned about Mr Christoforou’s partner, Sandra Jones, and her son, neither of whom have been seen in the past forty-eight hours.

  Our breakfast arrived, and, with both of us dressed in our white tunics, I ate the mushroom omelette and bowl of fresh berries I’d ordered in almost complete silence, deep in thought, while Bruno munched happily on his cereal, intermittently humming a tune I could not recognize.

  Within minutes of finishing his breakfast, he was whisked off to a kindergarten class with ten other kids his age or thereabouts. Soon after, I was collected by Julia Schmitt and delivered to a room where, she told me, I would be given the overview of the aims of the Association of Free Spirits.

  Dutifully clutching the notebook I had been told to use for all I took away from the lectures I would be attending during the coming days, I joined around thirty others, right across the age spectrum, seated at desks in tiered rows in a small lecture theatre. Many of them were wearing headphones for the simultaneous translation into English, French and Spanish on offer. Not one of whom, in my brief glance around the room, I felt I had anything in common with.

  On the stage stood a plump woman, probably a little younger than myself, with a tangle of frizzy hair and bright red glasses, who greeted us like the full-on, brainwashed eagle-eyed zealot for the International Association of Free Spirits she turned out to be.

  I donned the headphones on the clip in front of me and selected English. And after a short while, wished I hadn’t.

  She talked for just over two hours without drawing breath, followed by Q&A, spouting an interminable diatribe of, in my view, totally vacuous New Age claptrap, accompanied by a PowerPoint display that alternated between happy-looking residents of the schloss, meditating, running and doing all kinds of other happy stuff, and diagrams of algebraic formulas, purportedly showing how the paths to the levels of spiritual enlightenment could be accessed through the shedding of all our erroneous preconceptions about human value systems.

  These diagrams totally lost me. And the stupid-looking woman annoyed me with an intensity that increased, in a direct algebraic formula that I invented while I sat there, with every minute she spoke.

  The session began at 10 a.m. and finished at 12.30. Judging from the rapt applause all around me, everyone else had taken something of serious value away from this. I stood up, feeling only that I wanted two and a half hours of my life back.

  The printed programme Julia Schmitt had handed me indicated I should return at 2 p.m. for the afternoon session, following lunch, which I could either eat at a table in the Refectory, or take from the cafeteria to eat in the grounds.

  I chose the latter. A thunfischsalat in a polystyrene tub and a mineral water, which I carried on a tray out into the gardens, and ate, seated alone on a bench beside a large lake. At one point, as I sat there in the glorious sunshine, a heavily bearded man who could have made a great department store Santa Claus, also carrying a tray, asked me something in German, in a very polite voice. I’d no idea what he wanted.

  ‘Sprechen Sie Englisch?’ I asked him.

  ‘Ja!’ he replied with a big smile. ‘Would you mind if I sit here with you?’

  ‘You can sit where you like, but I’m leaving!’

  69

  Autumn 2011

  My afternoon session – at the start of which I noticed Santa Claus had seated himself as far from me as possible – began tediously and got rapidly duller. I wondered how Bruno was getting along, if his day was any better. If this morning we had had the induction, this afternoon looked like we were getting the indoctrination.