chapter 1

Ugly Duckling

March 2015

“Need directions?” I said quietly, pausing as I passed him in the lounge area.

I was always confident with men; completely comfortable flirting and making the first move. It never occurred to me to wait for them to approach me first. What was there to lose? I mean, what man doesn’t like being chatted up? It’s flattering, it’s a bit of harmless fun. I’d always check for the white tan line or indent of a missing wedding ring, of course.

I first saw Will in the Spring, standing in reception, looking lost in a West London hotel. As I left my room on the top floor and walked from the lift, I observed him from a distance: young, good-looking, clean shaven, athletic. Casually dressed in branded sportswear—yet immaculate, peering from beneath heavy eyebrows. There was something about heavy eyebrows for me.

He turned towards a group of lads at the bar who cheered loudly in the echoey space as they sunk a round of tequila shots. The hotel receptionist glanced up at them sternly, then to us, breaking into a forced smile.

“Just meeting the boys for a stag do,” he said, flashing a cheeky grin.

“I won’t keep you then.” I lowered my eyes in mock disappointment and turned to walk away.

“I’m Will,” he said quickly, in a less cocky tone, and followed me to the leather sofas like a puppy.

The predictable chat began. Soon enough we were in my room.

“I can tell you’re in the military. Very well trained, soldier!” I laughed, as he took off his perfectly clean trainers and placed them neatly under the desk.

“Yeah… old habits,” he said.

I sat on the bed, leaning back on my arms. He looked right into me as he came closer. His eyes were dark brown, kind, but solemn. At just twenty-eight years old he had an even younger face, and with a small dimple in his chin and freshly barbered hair—minus the Nike tee shirt—he could have stepped out of a 1950s film. He kissed me, confidently.

He was full of passion, full of energy. I’d forgotten what twenty-something boys were like. I was thirty-four, not a huge age gap, but there is a noticeable difference between men in their twenties and men forty-plus. I think I’d call it eagerness. They may sometimes lack knowledge of the complexities of women, which comes with the more mature or worldly man, but they made up for it with sheer stamina.

In the moments when we were catching our breath, he’d stare deeply into my eyes. I couldn’t believe it was so intense.

Exhausted, we laid on the bed, talking. Shapes entered the forefront of my sight; my visions were kicking in faster than normal, although this time they were out of focus, not as bright. I couldn’t see him, I couldn’t read his story. But I could feel sadness somewhere beneath the smiles. I could tell he concealed heavy emotions, so I kept the conversation light.

I told him about my life, the way I lived—well, most of it anyway—and what I wanted to do in the future. I told him more than I ever told guys I’d just met; I wasn’t sure why I was telling him, the words just seemed to spill out of my mouth. When I asked him about the Army, in true squaddie style he gave short answers, then reverted back to me.

“You’re perfect,” he said suddenly, out of nowhere.

“Perfect,” I laughed. “No, I’m not perfect… far from it.” I glanced to the bedside drawer, remembering how just moments before I met him I’d been reading books on how to heal from eating disorders, how to not hate your body when it gained weight. I’d stashed them away as soon as we got back to the room. Bulimia wasn’t very sexy.

“You are,” he said, dressing back in his clothes that hung over the chair. “I’ve gotta go already, I don’t want to, but I have to. I’m really sorry.”

“It’s fine,” I shrugged. “You don’t have to apologise.”

We were both adults, we knew what we wanted, and we took it. This wasn’t a new thing for me; there were plenty of men I’d slept with and never met again, never wanted to meet again. But the truth was, I hadn’t felt this strongly about anyone in a long time; the truth was I was already thinking I wanted to see him again. Exchanging numbers, he promised to call me when he next got time off.

“I can’t always use my phone,” he said. “I’ll message you, soon as I can.”

I didn’t know anything about army life. This was my first experience with a military boy—which was a surprise actually, given that my ‘experiences’ were pretty vast. I understood that communication could be tricky, which added to the excitement. My heart thumped as soon as he left. A soldier? What was I getting myself into? A mixture of anxiety and joy rolled over my body as I lay on the bed in laddered stockings, watching my imagination spiral and spin. It didn’t matter how detached I tried to be, the same old film roll of what-might-be, always played out in my mind whenever I met someone new.

Through summer and autumn, we only reunited a handful of times. We’d cocoon ourselves in hotel rooms for precious hours until the minute he had to leave again. I was intoxicated waiting for him to arrive; euphoric when we finally let loose on each other.

“Do you believe in destiny?” I asked him while nestled in his arms.

“I don’t know,” he said, frowning. “I mean, your actions determine your life’s outcome, don’t they?” He stared at the painting of a sultry white swan hanging on the hotel wall.

“Or maybe we all have a fate, no matter what we do?” I said, stroking his calloused hands, trying not to look at the Life Line on his palm, it was a habit I wanted to quit. “Maybe you’re destined to be a beautiful swan…. even if you’re an ugly fucker!”

Will burst into laughter. “You always see the bright side, don’t you? You’re so positive.”

I wondered if I should tell him that it hadn’t always been that way, that I used to suffer with depression; that it was meditation, magic, and prayer which saved me. But I always hesitated. He seemed such a realist; I couldn’t very well say, ‘All you need is love,’ when he spent his life preparing for war.

Once again, the part we dreaded came too soon and my tummy tightened, watching him pick up his coat to leave.

“Let me know when you’re ok over there,” I said.

“Of course. Remember though babe, my phone might not work all the time,” he sighed. I’d become used to this conversation. I still wasn’t entirely sure what he did when he was away, but I knew his current work was some sort of security out in Iraq. He said he wasn’t in too much danger but I still worried.

“Yeah, I know, I know,” I pouted.

“God, you’re so hot,” he said, grabbing my suspender belt, pulling me towards him. “How the hell am I gonna stop thinking about you in that outfit? I wish I could just be with you every day,” he bowed his head into my chest.

He told me that he’d never met anyone like me. He told me with melancholy eyes that I melted his heart. Each time he’d say things which plunged me deeper into a dream-like state.

Once he left, I’d wonder around town in a haze, visiting galleries, crystal shops, erotic boutiques, and bookstores, soaking up every minute of city life while I could. With all the entrepreneurs and creatives, and young minds buzzing around, you could taste the spicy diversity of London on your tongue, you could hear the hum of new electric ideas fizzing in the air.

Before I met Will I’d been flitting to and from the island and the UK more and more frequently. I was bored in Jersey, restless with small-town living, bumping into the same characters every day. Back when I lived in London I’d craved community, longed for familiar faces in the crowds, wished I had friends that weren’t a minimum of two train rides away. Pushing through the underground, angry eyes glared straight ahead or at screens, everyone an unknown, no one caring who I was, how I was. When I moved to Jersey it was only a matter of months before people knew me, waving enthusiastically across the road, calling my name across a crowded bar, coming up to say hi and give me a hug on the beach.

But slowly I became fed up with the familiarity, bumping into people left, right and centre who knew me, knew my business, or wanted to know my business. I drove my car in circles, looking for quiet spots to get space and privacy, always ending up facing the sea again within fifteen minutes, parked up at viewpoints next to teen lovers or weed smokers. I avoided the high street, wore a cap and sunglasses, dreaded going to the supermarket, fantasised about being surrounded by unknowns again; no questions to answer, no expectations to live up to. That’s just the way it is in a tiny place, all islanders understood that feeling. It’s a microcosm, a beautiful miniature world in which you can forget that the Universe exists beyond the seawater mote.

A thirty-minute flight over to the mainland brought me space, open minds, and most importantly, anonymity. I’d pick an area of the city and book a room or short-stay apartment, using it as a base to explore for a few days. It excited me, it made me feel alive, it reminded me of my teenage years back in my hometown, Surrey, when I’d sneak off to Waterloo, jump on the tube, and use my fake ID on the doors of sweaty clubs to dance all night with strangers.

Back on the island everything felt slower and so far-removed from the things I’d done in London. I threw myself into my sketchbook and counted down the days until I’d return. Since meeting Will my creativity had flourished; unique opportunities floated my way like cherry blossom. I was focused and driven with my painting more than ever before.

My thoughts constantly flickered between ideas for new paintings, and lying in bed with him. I’d catch myself on the bus, a wicked smile creeping up one side of my mouth, and press my lips together tightly to hide the heat rising uncontrollably in my body. I wasn’t sure what I loved more: actually being with him, or the way that the thought of being with him filled my whole being with wild inspiration, and made me more industrious with my art.

I was noticeably different to those around me. At a summer music festival by the sea my friend nudged me as cute guys looked our way, but I wasn’t interested. My usual frisky behaviour had simmered down; all I could think about was him. It was such a relief to feel free from the pursuit of attention. As far as I was concerned, I was saving myself a whole lot of wasted time, energy, and disappointment by staying away from other men while I waited for my soldier. These guys didn’t know the meaning of romance, they were too busy playing the field or playing computer games to understand what I longed for.

Six months later

Sitting in the pub toilet cubicle, I stared at the message on my phone, reading it over and over again. I tried to absorb the words, tried to stop the sentences from jumping around like sandflies. My head spun, my heart raced, the walls closed in.

I’d known something dark was on the horizon, the Tarot had told me. The Death card had been plaguing my readings for months. I knew deep down what was coming but I wouldn’t let the thoughts penetrate my brain.