‘For the time being. If I can. Managing the office of a stationery company isn’t exactly setting the world on fire, but it gave me purpose and structure at a time when I had none and I feel a certain degree of loyalty towards it. I get on well with my colleagues and right now it’s the only thing in my life that’s stable.’
‘Were you serious about the island?’
Ah, yes, the island. A dream I’d had for God knew how many years, a dream that had been formed when diving with my father, that had inspired my degree in marine biology, and been dashed when overnight I’d had to leave university early and get a job that would slowly but surely pay off the six-figure debt on my credit card.
Once upon a time, I’d pored over maps and trawled through data. I’d compiled lists and calculated costings. There’d been nothing I hadn’t known about endangered marine species and ecosystems. I’d filled a dozen archive boxes with my research and I’d hung onto them for months before eventually, reluctantly, heartbrokenly throwing them away.
‘Very much so,’ I said, thinking of the new folder I’d recently created on my laptop into which I was pouring ideas for everything I longed to achieve and was now within the realms of possibility if I didn’t screw it up, which unfortunately was entirely possible. ‘I’m hoping to set up some sort of marine conservation sanctuary. Bring in experts to build coral reefs and implement breeding programmes. That sort of thing. But I don’t have the faintest idea how to go about it.’
I half expected Nick to laugh at me, to tell me it was way too ambitious a project for someone with absolutely no experience—which was why I’d kept my plans deliberately vague—but, ‘I’ll look into it,’ was all he said.
‘Thank you,’ I said with genuine gratitude, the weight that had been crushing my chest for weeks lifting so suddenly I felt as if I were floating. ‘Don’t forget to send me a contract.’
He frowned. ‘A contract?’
‘Your terms and conditions. Your fees.’
His jaw tightened in a curious way, as if I’d offended him or something, which was bizarre. ‘Sure,’ he said with a strange twist of his mouth. ‘Give me a week or so to put together a proposal. I’ll be in touch then. In the meantime,’ he added, pushing himself off the counter and striding past me, pausing only to grab my suitcase as the whoop-whoop sound of an approaching helicopter filled the space around us, ‘here’s your ride.’
Seven days later, I was sitting at a table that overlooked the sparkling sea, replete after a platter of lobster followed by a fresh mango and papaya fruit salad. I took a sip of my postprandial limoncello, then settled back to watch the jet skis criss-crossing the bay and the yachts drifting along the horizon against a backdrop of an azure sky dotted with fluffy white clouds.
As warm dreamy languor spread through me, I reflected that the best hotel on Zanzibar was exactly the experience I’d hoped for. It was everything the website had promised, and more. The food—local, seasonal and mouth-wateringly spiced—was exquisite. My villa was the ultimate in luxurious comfort and I’d spent hours in the soothing tranquillity of the spa being pampered to within an inch of my life. I’d been diving each day and my tan was coming along nicely. With every minute that ticked lazily by, the stress and anxiety of the last couple of months faded that little bit more.
Of course, it might have been more fun to have a friend here to share it all with, and dining on my own meal after meal had begun to pall a little, but at least I could do what I wanted when I wanted and didn’t have to worry about whether that friend was interested in me or my money. I knew well that possessing a fortune didn’t come without its problems—especially with regards to other people’s take on it—and everything was so much simpler without the whole poor little rich girl dynamic.
If I found the luxury and extravagance of my surroundings ever so slightly overwhelming, the bling of the well-heeled clientele over the top and not a little obscene, that was just because I wasn’t used to them any more. Diving, with the conflicting feelings about my father that it triggered, would get easier with practice, I had no doubt, and soon I’d stop thinking about how much this was all costing and what else that money could buy, how much good it could do. I had more than enough to go round, and, now that Nick was on board, it was in safe hands.
Yesterday he’d sent me an email with his ten-page report. Over dinner, I’d scrolled through the tables, the figures and the recommendations with the intention of reading it more thoroughly this week, but it had struck me then that if I wanted to I could wash my hands of the details and know that my fortune would be well looked after. I didn’t much like Nick’s attitude towards me, but I’d always known where I stood with him. He’d never made any secret of the fact he found me lacking. He didn’t mince his words or adopt a facade around me. I found his consistency on this, the absence of pretence, unexpectedly reassuring and I was certain that with my money, at least, I could trust him.
The buzz of my phone, which I’d silenced for lunch, jolted me out of my reverie. I put down my glass and picked it up. It was my brand-new financial advisor, no doubt calling to discuss his report. As a kick of adrenalin struck me in the stomach and a frisson of anticipation rippled down my spine I hit the green button and lifted the device to my ear. ‘Hello?’
‘Amelia,’ said Nick, sounding even terser than usual. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine,’ I said, slightly perplexed by the way his voice seemed to grate over my nerve-endings until I realised we’d never spoken on the phone before, which was undoubtedly why it felt so odd. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘Have you been in touch with your family?’
‘No. I haven’t been in touch with anyone for days. What’s wrong?’
‘So you haven’t seen the headlines?’
‘What headlines?’
‘Forget it,’ he said, and cut the call.
For a moment I sat there staring at the phone in astonishment. What on earth had that been about? I’d never heard him so agitated. He’d sounded almost unhinged. But if he thought I was forgetting about anything after that, he could think again.
With my heart hammering like a steam train, I stared at the home screen, a powerful sense of misgiving sweeping through me. Was someone I loved hurt? What headlines could he be referring to? And why did I have seventy-eight unread emails in my inbox when an hour ago there’d been none?
Fifteen minutes later I had the answers to all the questions rocketing around my head, and a dozen more. Somehow, news of my lottery win had hit the papers. Under ordinary circumstances it might have merited a paragraph on perhaps page twelve, but the events of eight years earlier had elevated it to page one with links to opinion pieces and analysis.
It was all there. Everywhere. Rehashed photos of my hedonistic teenage years. Blistering commentary about privilege and responsibility and the frailty of human nature. Sycophantic messages from people I hadn’t spoken to in years. Brutal reminders of a painful time.
And now, as if it had happened yesterday, memories slammed into my head one after the other like a thundering cascade. The shock I’d felt at the loss of money and status. Worse, the crucifying plunge of my father from the pedestal I’d put him on. The reassessment of everything in my life I’d believed to be true. The cruel mockery of strangers and the bewildering abandonment by so-called friends. The guilt, the humiliation, the fallout that had lasted far longer than the headlines.
This time round, in addition to raking over the past, there were also opinions on the unfairness of luck. Photos of the building where I lived now lay alongside the Chelsea mansion in which I’d grown up, with suitably catty captions. They’d even tracked down my work colleagues, who’d known nothing of my win, who wouldn’t understand why I hadn’t told them, who might well be hurt by the omission. None of them had commented yet, nor had either of my flatmates, but it was only a matter of time.
Just as it could only be a matter of time before the press found out where I was. How long did I have? If past experience was anything to go by it would be hours rather than days.