Chapter 4

      Samantha got back to the house just after half past five and dumped the kayak in the back garden. She walked back into the house, the bag of wet clothes in her hand, to find Becky watching the TV, blissfully unaware of the seaborne drama that had played out that afternoon. It was sobering for Sam to reflect that if she hadn’t been saved by the people on the island, she would most probably by now be way out in the English Channel without anybody being aware of what had happened. She really had been amazingly lucky.

      ‘Been shopping?’ Becky’s eyes almost popped out of her head as she saw Sam’s cashmere jumper. ‘Bloody hell. Have you won the lottery?’

      ‘A present from the people who just saved my life.’ Seeing Becky’s eyes open even further, Sam sat down and related the events of the afternoon. Becky’s expression went from surprise to terror to amazement. By the end of the tale, she was shaking her head in disbelief.

      ‘Wow! Talk about jammy! Christ, Sam, you could be dead. Instead, you’ve been treated like a queen and dressed like a celebrity.’ She settled back in the armchair. ‘So, who do you think she was?’

      Sam had been thinking hard along those lines for the past hour. She had no doubt at all the woman was very, very wealthy. That was a given. And underneath the camouflage she was also clearly very beautiful. ‘I don’t know, Becs. Probably a film star or something. I reckon she’s about my age, give or take a few years. Her skin’s amazing, her teeth like an advert, and her nails immaculate. She was dressed in jeans and a blouse, very smart, no visible designer label, but screaming quality. The more I think about it, I’m pretty sure the black hair was a wig. She’s somebody all right. I’m quite sure about that.’

      ‘I wonder if anybody round here knows who she is.’ Becky glanced at her watch. ‘Come on, let’s go across to the pub. Somebody there might know.’

      Sam took a moment to throw her soaking clothes into the bath tub and then walked up the road to the Smugglers Arms with Becky. On the way she pulled out her phone and tried calling Neil, more out of a sense of duty than for any other reason. He didn’t answer and, somehow, she wasn’t surprised or, for that matter, bothered. After her ordeal that afternoon when she had almost lost her life, it seemed ridiculous to struggle on in a moribund relationship. The more she thought about it, the more she realised there was nothing left between them worth saving.

      They soon discovered that nobody in the pub knew anything about the owner of the island, but there was no shortage of suggestions. What was certain was that it had been sold at auction less than a year before to an undisclosed buyer. It had gone for an inordinate amount of money and it was clear that only the richest of the rich would be able to lay their hands on that sort of cash. Samantha didn’t disclose that she had been on the island and had met the probable owner, even if she didn’t know who she was. She listened with amusement as the suggestions ranged from Hollywood stars to Middle Eastern potentates. A particularly inventive suggestion was the theory of it being used as a training camp for Islamic terrorists.

      They had a most enjoyable time in the Smugglers Arms. It was a very old inn with a low ceiling, supported by massive dark oak tree trunks. Between the beams, the plaster had probably once been white, but centuries of open fires and tobacco smoke had turned it a mustard yellow colour. The bar was so festooned with an amazing selection of objects plucked from the sea that the bar staff seemed in imminent danger of being submerged by them all. There were star fish, seashells, glass floats to hold nets, and huge chunks of the nets themselves, hung with an eclectic mixture of driftwood, stuffed fish and topped off with some unconvincing plastic lobsters. Casks of real ale with names like Old Thumper or The Pirate’s Revenge stood on a bench behind the counter, and more modern beers, wines and spirits lined the bar. Although most of the other customers were tourists like themselves, there was a fair sprinkling of locals, mainly bewhiskered fishermen types in heavy woollen jumpers or cotton smocks, like something out of a sepia photo.

      The other girls returned from their surfing expedition in the course of the evening and regaled Sam and Becky, as well as half a dozen hopeful young men who had collected on the sidelines, with the tales of their day. By agreement, Becky and Sam made no mention of her exploits on the water. This was for two reasons; firstly because she felt rather ashamed at her foolhardiness and, secondly because she had got the distinct impression the woman over there had been trying to maintain a low profile. After her hospitality and kindness, the least Sam could do was to respect that. It was a pleasant evening but by about ten, she began to feel very tired and she left the others to it. On her way back to the house, she tried Neil again. This time he answered.

      ‘Yes, hi Sam. What is it?’ There was music in the background. It wasn’t heavy-duty disco music; more background lounge bar music. No doubt he had a pint in his hand. Sam was on the point of telling him all about her escape from disaster when she thought to herself, why bother? Instead, she just kept it to a few generalities.

      ‘I thought I’d just check in. Tell you I’m still alive. Having a good time. All that sort of thing.’

      ‘Yeah, well I’m alive too.’

      ‘What’re you doing?’

      ‘Down the pub with the boys. We’re going for a curry in a bit.’

      ‘Sounds like fun.’ In fact it sounded like what he had been doing every Saturday night for the last year. ‘Don’t overdo the beer.’

      ‘Me, overdo the beer? Bye.’ And that was that.

      Next morning Sam didn’t get up early and, unusually, she didn’t feel like going for a run. When she awoke, she found she was aching all over and decided to go back to sleep until mid-morning. In the next bed, Becky showed no signs of life after presumably coming in late. Sam hadn’t heard a thing. She must have gone out like a light.

      When she finally dragged herself out of bed it was almost eleven o’clock. Her hair felt stiff and unresponsive, now even lighter than its normal colour after all the salt. She searched her washbag for a bottle of shampoo and tottered into the shower. The good news, she reflected, was that she wasn’t suffering from the flu. It was just the muscles she had used to paddle with all her might that were complaining. By the time she emerged from a hot shower she was feeling more human. By the time she