Kiss Heaven Goodbye (15 page)

She looked out towards the Coral Sea, twinkling silver in the morning light. Over the horizon it blended with the Pacific Ocean, and beyond that was South America, over six thousand miles away. She allowed herself a smile as she reflected that she was as far away from London as it was possible to be without going to the moon. That, of course, was part of the appeal of Australia. Not the only one, of course: she loved the weather, the ‘no worries’ attitude; she even loved the way that while she was greeting a new day with a jog along the beach, in England it was still yesterday. She was separated by time and space – and that was just fine with Grace. She had been out of London nine months and had no plans to return, despite telling her parents that she just wanted a gap year after her degree and before she joined Ash Corp. And, yes, she was sad about not starting her MA at Oxford, but it was worth it.

Brushing the sand off her legs, she returned to the whitewashed clapboard cottage she called home.

‘God, you weren’t out for a run again, were you?’ asked Caro, her flatmate, as Grace came down after her shower.

Caro’s short platinum hair was sticking up at all angles and she was sitting hunched over a cup of coffee. The previous night they’d both been out to the Cross Arms hotel, the white colonial edifice on the esplanade, but Grace had left her friend surrounded by men and half-empty bottles; no surprise she was feeling rough.

‘You should have come with me,’ smiled Grace. ‘That would have blown the cobwebs away.’

‘Some guy with a nose ring did that for me.’ Caro smirked. ‘Dan? Stan? Dunno, but he just left.’

‘So that was the noise in the middle of the night. I thought it was a pack of dingoes.’

Grace had met Caro, a Kiwi from a small town in the South Island, in her first week in Thailand, when they were both staying in a small backpackers’ flop-house in Krabi. She was as streetwise as an alley-cat with a knack for seeking out all the coolest places to be. Instantly admiring Caro’s carefree attitude, Grace joined her on the boat to Koh Phi Phi, going on to Bali, Australia’s Sunshine Coast, finally washing up on the tropical shore of northern Queensland.

Reluctantly, Caro made herself presentable and they both left the house to head into the town. Ten years ago, Port Douglas had been a sleepy fishing village full of locals and the occasional backpacker, but the construction of a large glossy marina a few years before had brought yachts, and with them came upmarket hotel groups, and smart restaurants. The two girls had spent the last four months working on the
Highlander
, a sixty-foot catamaran that transported tourists to the Low Isles, a group of small sandbanks thirty miles to the east where they could snorkel and dive.

‘I’ve got something to tell you,’ Caro said as they walked down Macrossan Street, the main thoroughfare sprinkled with cafés and surf-style clothes shops.

‘What?’

‘I’m thinking of moving on,’ she said.

‘You’re joking.’

‘It’s getting too touristy around here,’ she said, crinkling up her nose. ‘And I’m not sure how many more prawn buffets I can serve up on the
Highlander
. I’m supposed to be a vegetarian, fer Chrissakes.’

‘Where are you thinking of going?’

‘Ah, dunno. India maybe? Fancy coming with me?’

Grace kept quiet. She had built such a happy life for herself here, she wasn’t sure if she was ready to leave it.

As they neared the marina, they saw the queue of tourists by the catamaran.

‘Check out the guy in the shorts.’ Caro whistled as they walked up the gangplank.

‘Ssh, don’t let the guests hear you,’ whispered Grace.

‘Fuck the guests,’ she said with a casual wave of the hands. ‘Actually, yes please,’ she added, meeting the dark eyes of the tall, swarthy man.

Grace blushed slightly and began taking the tickets off the passengers. Once everyone was safely boarded, the
Highlander
set sail for the Low Isles and the girls set about preparing meals, serving drinks and making sure the children didn’t jump overboard. Grace could see why Caro was getting sick of it; the job was monotonous and in places downright unpleasant, but there were certainly worse ways to earn a living than cruising around the Great Barrier Reef, even if you did have to scrape plates on the way back.

They were just approaching the Low Isles when Neil, the stern Canadian captain, approached.

‘You. Come with me,’ he said, pointing at Grace.

Raising her eyebrows at Caro, Grace followed Neil forward to the cramped cabin which served as an office and storeroom.

‘Now then, Grace, I’ve been watching you over the past few weeks,’ he began, ‘and I’ve decided to give you a promotion.’

‘Really?’ said Grace with surprise.

‘No, not really,’ said Neil, turning to a locker and flipping it open. ‘But I am changing your job description.’

She looked at him wide-eyed; maybe she could move up on deck. She had spent her childhood sailing, and when the sails were at full stretch and the male crew were hauling on the ropes, she longed to join in. Until now she’d stayed below deck, nervous that she might get spotted as Robert Ashford’s daughter, which she had mentioned to no one, not even Caro. Luckily in this part of the world, no one seemed to care who you were or where you came from.

Neil pulled out a large black SLR camera and handed it to her. ‘You are now the
Highlander
’s official photographer.’

Grace looked at him with her mouth open. ‘I’ve only used instamatics before.’

‘Well now’s the time to start learning. It’s either you or Caro, and I wouldn’t trust her to point it the right way, let alone get a shot in focus. All I’m asking is when we get to the island, take a couple of snaps of the passengers having fun. We get them developed at the marina. We put them in a fancy frame with “I’ve Been To The Great Barrier Reef” on it and flog ’em back to them for ten dollars a pop.’

Over the tannoy, Neil announced that a small tender boat would be ferrying the guests across and that snorkel gear and anti-jellyfish ‘stinger suits’ would be handed out when they got to the beach.

Grace rode with them, fiddling with the camera, then headed towards the American family who were struggling to set up camp with a huge amount of beach gear – chairs, ice box, an inflatable dolphin.

‘Hello there,’ she said, holding up the camera. ‘Would you like me to take a picture of you all?’

The father looked at her with hostility. ‘Another hidden cost? I’ve already shelled out for four sodas on your boat.’

‘Oh Kevin,’ said the mother. ‘It will be great.’

She gathered the children around her and the father stood at the back, chin jutting out, clasping a frisbee to his chest as if it were a badge of high office.

Grace squinted through the viewfinder. ‘OK, everyone smile . . .’ she said, pressing the shutter button.

And nothing happened.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Try again . . .’

Again, nothing. Flustered, Grace looked at the camera, trying to work out what was wrong.

‘Bear with me,’ she said distractedly.

‘Cowboys,’ muttered the father as the children began to whine and fidget.

‘Here, maybe I can help,’ said a voice.

Grace turned to see the handsome passenger she had noticed earlier.

He stepped away from the family, examined the camera then flipped open the back. ‘Film’s jammed.’

‘Bugger. I didn’t think I loaded it properly. And now I’ve left the bag of extra film on the
Highlander
.’

The man dipped his hand in his pocket and pulled out a yellow roll of Kodak. ‘Your lucky day.’ He smiled.

Bloody hell, he was good-looking, thought Grace, watching him swiftly reload the camera. His skin, the colour of pale coffee, stretched over fine bone structure. His dark, almost black eyes made him look serious, intelligent, even when he smiled.

‘Come on,’ shouted the father.

‘A slight technical hitch,’ said Grace, gratefully taking the camera. ‘All fixed now. OK, everyone say “Jellyfish”!’

In the end, Neil was right. The holidaymakers all wanted a memento of their trip to the island, so they were only too willing to pose, and now Grace knew which button to press, she felt like David Bailey. She was, however, disappointed that she was busy with her duties throughout the trip back and was unable to thank the man in the Bermudas.

‘Thank God that’s over,’ said Caro as they walked back from the marina. ‘So have you thought about coming to India? I reckon a few months there and you’ll be the naked one at full moon parties. It will do you a world of good.’

‘Thanks, Yoda.’ Grace grinned. ‘I didn’t realise all those pearls of wisdom like “Have another tequila” and “Aw, why don’t you just shag him?” were some sort of Zen-like spiritual training.’

‘We all have our reasons for coming travelling,’ said Caro more seriously. ‘We’re either trying to find something, or leave something behind. I’ve never worked out which one it is with you, Grace. What I do know is that you’ve got to stop living life like you’re scared of it.’

They reached the cottage and Caro put the key in the door. ‘Shit, we don’t have anything in for supper.’

‘I’ll go,’ said Grace, wanting to avoid Caro’s latest line of conversation.

She spotted him immediately, standing in front of a seafood restaurant, reading the menu. The handsome, helpful man from the boat had changed out of his shorts into sand-coloured slacks and a white short-sleeved shirt. For a moment, Grace wondered whether to walk past without saying anything, but the man spotted her first.

‘Hey, it’s Diane Arbus,’ he smiled.

‘Who?’

‘A famous American photographer.’

His accent was American mixed with something else – Spanish she thought from his dark eyes and golden olive skin.

‘I thought Americans didn’t do sarcasm.’

‘Not American, South American.’

‘Ah, sorry,’ said Grace. ‘This place is good, by the way,’ she said, ‘I can recommend the red snapper.’

‘The locals always know the best places.’

‘Hardly local,’ said Grace. ‘I’m on the wrong side of the planet.’

‘English, eh?’

Grace nodded.

‘The English are known in my country as having excellent taste in all things.’

‘I’d better get on,’ said Grace, blushing.

The man gestured towards the restaurant. ‘Are you hungry?’

She grinned. ‘Starving.’

‘In that case, I’d be honoured if you would join me here.’

She couldn’t believe she was still wearing her
Highlander
uniform, dirty and sweaty from the day’s work.

‘I don’t want to impose . . .’

‘Not at all.’

Stop living life like you’re scared,
she told herself.

‘Why not?’ She smiled, hoping that Caro could find her supper in the freezer.

He put out his hand. ‘Then I believe an introduction is in order. My name is Gabriel.’

Grace shook it. ‘Grace Ashford.’

The restaurant had a little garden area to the side and they took a table next to a tree covered in fairy lights. The sun had already dipped behind the far hills and the light was dimming to a blueygrey.

‘So. You know what I do,’ said Grace. ‘What brings you to Port Douglas, Gabriel?’

‘I’m a writer.’ He shrugged. ‘They are making a film out of one of my books in the area, so I’m kind of tagging along on set.’

She looked at him in horror. ‘Oh no,’ she gasped, her hand covering her embarrassed smile.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘You’re not Gabriel Hernandez, are you?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

Grace had read about it in the local paper a few weeks before: a big Hollywood studio was filming an adaptation of the massive literary hit
Cast No Shadow
.

‘I’m so sorry, I had no idea.’

‘You apologise too much.’ He smiled.

Grace had actually read
Cast No Shadow
a couple of years ago and had some hazy recollection of him winning a Pulitzer Prize. Or was it a Nobel? Something very impressive, anyway.

‘But isn’t the book set in the Caribbean?’ she said, hoping she had remembered correctly.

Gabriel nodded. ‘Apparently the studios will save a lot of money by filming out here. David Robb and Julia Collins only had a ten-week window in their schedules. It’s hurricane season in the Caribbean at the moment, so the production was moved out here. It’s a good choice: lush, lots of white sand, and those colonial clapboard houses by the harbour could easily be Key West or Bridgetown if you squint slightly.’

The observation unsettled her, but she was distracted by the waiter. They ordered their food – red snapper for both of them – and chatted about diving and sailing and the weather, with just a slight hint of flirtation on both sides. Grace was intrigued and surprised by Gabriel; he wasn’t at all the tortured poet she’d expected from reading the book, a story of star-crossed lovers, one driven to suicide by the infidelity of the other. There wasn’t anything pompous or gloomy about this man; he was intelligent and witty and warm.

‘So where are you going to take me now?’ said Gabriel as he waved away the bill, simply handing over his gold Amex.

Grace felt thrilled at his invitation to carry on the evening, quickly followed by horror at the idea of taking him back to the cottage, where no doubt Caro would be lying prostrate on the sofa surrounded by pizza boxes.
Not that it’s going to get that far,
she reminded herself.

‘Well, it’s Tuesday night,’ she said. ‘That means toad racing.’

‘Toads?’ he said, raising one eyebrow. ‘Toads as in frogs?’

She laughed. ‘Cane toads to be precise. They’re quite poisonous, actually, but it’s kind of the local sport around here if you’re a gambling man.’

‘Ah, you know us writers.’ Gabriel smiled. ‘We live close to the edge.’

Grace could tell the races were well under way before they even got close to the Iron Bar near the harbour; men were cursing or bellowing encouragement while shrill female voices shrieked with the excitement of winning a couple of drinks.

‘Around here, they say toad racing is better than sex,’ shouted Grace over the noise.