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I tug at my bikini bottoms, and try and pull them over my bottom but, nope, I’m still flashing a lot more of my bum cheeks than I’d like. Not that this should matter since I’m already topless, and only my husband can see me in our secluded honeymoon cottage.

‘Don’t do that,’ Piers says with a grin, sitting up on his sun lounger. ‘You’re ruining the view. I like you hanging out like that.’

I pick up my towel and throw it at him.

‘I must have got UK and US sizes muddled,’ I mutter, ‘because everything feels tighter than it should.’

‘Married for only a few days and already letting yourself go,’ Piers jokes.

I’ve run out of things to throw at him unless I lob the bottle of suntan lotion, but my remark stands true. OK, I’ve not exactly been wearing skin-tight clothing these past few days – only swimwear and maxi dresses – but they do feel more snug than I’d like and, wait, if I’d bought a US 6 instead of a UK 6 then the clothes would be big on me, not tight.
Irgh
. Is this it? Now I’m married, has my metabolism decided to kick the bucket?

‘Very funny, Mr Bramley.’ I settle for rolling my eyes as I walk towards him. I have put on weight then.

‘I thought it was hilarious, Mrs Bramley,’ Piers growls. I can’t help but grin at that as I once again rearrange my bikini bottoms.

‘This is so annoying,’ I say, sitting down next to him on his lounger. ‘I feel so uncomfortable in these.’

‘I have a solution.’

‘Oh?’

I’m waiting for Piers to suggest a trip to the shops as we’ve not left our cottage since we arrived in the Hamptons, not that that’s a bad thing. Our cottage may be secluded, but one phone call to the luxurious manor house where all the other guests are staying and anything we want is delivered to us by almost invisible staff. They are giving the Carmichael a run for their money with their level of service.

Piers reaches forward and unties the bows of my bikini bottoms, pulling them roughly from underneath me with a meaningful smile. I experience a jolt of longing as Piers throws the bottoms towards our private pool.

‘Just wear nothing...’ he murmurs.

Two hours later I emerge back into the fading daylight. It’s the third day of our honeymoon in the Hamptons, and the first time we’ve actually consummated our marriage. And the second time. And the third. Piers looks fit to drop, but for those two hours I felt like I was on my honeymoon without a care in the world – I forgot that my husband is still recovering, and I forgot my worries.

We’re in the Hamptons for ten days, staying close to the village of Southampton. It’s a stark difference to the city of Southampton back home where my dad has worked for most of his adult life. Both places are on the water, admittedly, but that’s where the similarity ends. There’s no industry or port here.

Instead, we’re a ten-minute walk to a white sandy beachfront and clear blue water; a fifteen-minute walk to the quaint village with its designer boutiques and decadent restaurants. I imagine it’s all utterly charming; I’ll be able to confirm that if we ever leave the cottage.

Though we’re now in mid-June, it feels cooler here than it did in the city, and I’m glad I’ve put my maxi dress on. I walk down the hedge-lined path, open the white gate, and I’m back by our small private pool. The pool itself is surrounded by lush green grass; a green hedge runs all around the periphery, giving us our privacy without blocking out the sunshine. It’s how we’d have private pools at home in the UK – if we ever had any decent weather, that is.

Opposite me there is a cute, yellow-and-white beach hut which looks like the ones on the Dorset coast, and on the lawn surrounding the pool there are two sun loungers with yellow-and-white padding. A folded-down matching umbrella stands next to them. It looks like I’ve walked into a
Vogue
fashion shoot. All that’s missing is a couple of pink flamingos bobbing around and a moody model posing in a trendy cut-out swimsuit that no one would ever actually buy since no one wants random hexagonal white tan lines on their body.

Sitting down on the nearest sun lounger I enjoy the silence. Here it feels like Piers and I could be the last two people in the world, and I’m enjoying our escape from civilisation and the chance to recharge with Piers. Isn’t this what a honeymoon is supposed to be about?

‘OK, we can’t get a reservation tonight, but the concierge has got us in for tomorrow night. Probably for the best as I’m knackered,’ Piers says laughing as he sits down on the sun lounger next to me, shattering the silence. He grabs my hand. ‘Do you want to go out for dinner, take a chance on finding a place, or are you happy for them to do what they usually do?’

We’ve left our meals up to the hotel’s award-winning head chef for the past few days, and we’ve not been disappointed with the delicious delicacies he’s cooked for us.

‘They can choose for us,’ I say with a smile, leaning into him.

We sit there for a few minutes enjoying the cool evening breeze before I let go of Piers’ hand and stand up. ‘I’ll give them a call,’ I say as I stretch out. ‘About an hour, OK?’

‘Perfect.’

Precisely an hour later Piers and I sit down at the bright white kitchen table tucking into another mouth-watering dinner as candles flicker all along the sideboards and in the open stone fireplace. Homemade pasta with juicy castelvetrano olives, salty capers and bursts of meaty grape tomatoes are the starter, followed by a seafood risotto crammed with chunks of buttery lobster, delicate mussels, grilled octopus and a handful of shredded fresh basil. Two generous-sized portions of red velvet cheesecake are sitting in the fridge along with mixed berries for dessert. It’s no wonder I’m putting on weight with meals like this every night, but it’s too tasty not to eat it all. Each mouthful is a deliciously balanced explosion.

‘I’m stuffed,’ I groan as we collapse on the sofa, the cheesecake left in the fridge for later, but it’s a happy groan.

I look around. I love how informal and cosy this cottage is. From the four-poster bed with its swathes of floaty creamy drapes to the gigantic cream sofa that is springier than a trampoline, the cottage oozes charm and comfort throughout. It’s simple, tasteful and cosy, and I could quite easily spend the rest of our days here living in utter decadence.

‘Me, too,’ Piers admits. ‘Tired, too.’

‘It’s eight o’clock,’ I laugh.

‘You wore me out earlier,’ Piers protests.

I sling my legs over Piers’, and settle back into the giant navy-blue cushion that’s trimmed with thick boat-like cream “rope”. For once I’m finding this nautical-theme utterly charming – it no longer has the power to hurt me.

‘I’m very happy right now,’ I admit, and I truly am.

‘Let’s stay here forever.’

‘Wouldn’t that be something?’ I ponder. ‘We could feast every day–’

‘Work it off in our private pool.’

‘And just slob out and read when we’re not working out or pigging out,’ I finish off. ‘Sounds like heaven.’

‘It is one solution,’ Piers admits.

‘Huh?’

‘To what I’m going to do next.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I could be a man of leisure.’

I’m about to tell him that he would hate that, but stop myself. After all, I was a kept woman for years.

I’m not going to earn anywhere near what Piers earns, but I could probably support us – let Piers take it easy. He deserves a rest, but there’s only one problem with that...

‘You’d be bored within a week,’ I tease.

‘I’ve done OK since April,’ he remarks.

I shoot him a pointed look thinking back to the hours spent in his make-shift study in our apartment in Gramercy. I had to wrestle his laptop away from him at times, and even when he said he was looking up wedding things, he fibbed and was working.

‘OK, I need to do something then,’ he concedes.

‘No more fund management?’

‘No more fund management.’

‘Can we survive?’

Piers laughs. ‘Arielle, I could have retired years ago. I’m ancient in the office. It’s a young man’s game. Most get out as soon as they can and open a vineyard, or an art gallery, or whatever their childhood dream is.’

‘Well, we already own an art gallery,’ I point out with a cheeky grin.

‘
You
do.’

I flash my left hand at him, and the diamonds on my engagement ring catch the flickering candlelight. I’m still surprised to see my wedding band next to it. Piers laughs every time he catches me checking out my hand – I think I’m worse than when we first got engaged!

‘What’s mine is yours, remember? If you want the art gallery, knock yourself out.’

He makes a non-committal response as he reaches over for the remote control, conversation over. Still, that’s more than I’ve got out of him before on what he’s going to do when we return to London – it’s progress.

‘Shall we watch a film?’ he asks.

I nod. He’ll work out what he wants to do eventually but, for now, we’ve got our honeymoon to enjoy.

‘You’re popular.’ Piers nods disapprovingly at my phone. We’ve just touched down at Heathrow Airport and are standing by the baggage reclaim.

Even though Piers is here with me so I know nothing has happened to him, I felt apprehensive switching on my phone. Now I have, it is binging madly with notifications that are irking Piers, and freaking me out. What if something has happened to my mum or dad whilst we were flying? What if Ob has been in an accident?

Before I have a chance to text my parents to see if they are OK, my phone starts to ring. The carousel fires up and the conveyor belt begins to slowly move with a soft hum as “Etta” flashes up on the screen.

I pull a face at Piers as I answer the phone. ‘Hi, Etta.’

‘Finally.’

I ignore her tone. ‘What’s up?’

‘You can answer your phone then, but not your messages?’

‘I’ve literally just landed from my honeymoon, Etta. I’m at baggage reclaim.’

She ignores this.

‘Can you be at the gallery tomorrow then? It’s near you. I’ll be there at two.’

‘I–’

‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’ She hangs up before I can protest.

Seriously
? Who knows what state I will be in tomorrow with the jet lag, and what does she mean about the gallery? That was the shortest and oddest conversation yet.

Felicity would be proud of Etta being vague; well, she would if it’s kooky-vagueness, not drug-induced. Reading between the lines of the newspaper story I skimmed over yesterday, I fear it is the latter.

I scroll through my messages as the first of the suitcases start to appear. Piers is watching them. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him return from a holiday without spending the entire time in baggage reclaim, and usually the cab journey home, not attached to his phone. How strange that our roles have been reversed like this.

Finding Etta’s messages, I open them.

‘Huh,’ I mutter.

‘What is it?’

Piers’ eyes don’t leave the conveyor belt. He’s been oddly quiet since we left the Hamptons and returned to the city. But, I guess a lot has changed since he left for America on a short work trip. He’s had major surgery, briefly been readmitted to hospital, got married, and had to consider the rest of his life, career-wise. Oh, and deal with all my drama. He probably needs another holiday already.

He wouldn’t talk about it but I know he was apprehensive about our flight today, even though Doctor Teddy cleared him to fly. We had a day back at the apartment before his hospital appointment, and once he got the all clear we booked our flights back to London and started packing.

Mum and Dad took back my wedding dress, so that was one less thing to worry about, but we’ve still got a lot of luggage waiting to come off that carousel. It’s been the weirdest few months living in New York, and it almost felt like we’d been living someone else’s lives until we stepped out of the plane and were greeted by a familiar grey sky and fine drizzly rain. A British summer is vastly inferior to an American summer. I miss our little cottage in the Hamptons already.

‘Etta wants me at the gallery tomorrow,’ I expand.

The man standing next to me hurriedly steps forward to grab his suitcase like someone is going to swoop in and take it from him before he can walk the two metres to the conveyor belt.

‘I thought she didn’t want anything to do with running the business,’ I continue, ‘but she’s pretty much outlined a whole business plan.’

I laugh hollowly.

‘She wants me to run another pop-up. After all that crap she gave me about it, she has suggested, and I quote: “we could sell my records, too”. Not such a stupid idea now, is it?’

I laugh again, but it’s to myself. Piers looks like he couldn’t give a hoot about the gallery. Right now, I know how he feels.

‘She’s... Ooh, there’s one!’

Piers steps forward to grab one of our steel-grey suitcases. He winces slightly as he puts it down next to me.

‘I’ll get the next one,’ I say.

‘I can handle it.’ Looking at him though, he can’t. He’s still wincing, and even though we flew First Class, I know he didn’t have the most comfortable flight.

‘It’s fine! I’ll grab the rest of the luggage. Why don’t you get us a coffee?’

‘I said,’ Piers says through gritted teeth, ‘I can handle it.’

I throw my hands up in the air, and one of the harsh overhead strip lights catches my engagement ring. I’m pretty sure newly-weds returning from their honeymoon usually act a lot happier than this. The people standing nearby, waiting for their bags, are probably making bets on how long our marriage will last.

‘Sure thing,’ I say as brightly as I can, but I turn away so Piers can’t see the hurt in my eyes. ‘Mocha?’

I walk off without waiting for an answer.

*

It’s the weirdest feeling to return home when you’ve been away for so long. The last time I was here was when we buried Felicity; Piers hasn’t been in this house for three months.

‘Shouldn’t you have carried me over the threshold?’ I joke to him, and then immediately feel bad when I see the expression on his face.

He stands back up, though we’ve only just collapsed on the sofa after getting stuck in traffic. We’re both shattered.

‘Piers,’ I call after him, jumping to my feet, though it’s the last thing I want to do. ‘Piers, where are you going?’

He ignores me.

‘I was joking,’ I say. ‘Come on. Sit back down.’

‘No, no. I wouldn’t want to deny my wife her full wedding experience.’

‘Piers, come on,’ I plead. He opens the front door and I hurriedly follow him through it. The sooner he carries me over this stupid threshold, the sooner we can order a takeaway and start relaxing.

‘Right.’

He holds out his arms, which has me wondering if he expects me to jump into them – I am not a high jumper – when the door slams shut behind us.

‘
Fuck
!’ Piers pushes past me as I spin around. Yes, that was definitely our front door slamming shut. Piers tries the handle, but it doesn’t open. Of course it doesn’t.

‘Do you have your keys?’ he demands as rain starts to spit down on us.

I shake my head, though I still pat the pockets of my jeans like they might magically appear.

‘A phone?’

‘No,’ I say slowly, because calling a locksmith was about to be my suggestion to Piers.

‘
Fuck
!’ He punches the wall, which is so ridiculously out-of-character for Piers that I know this is about more than us getting locked out of the house.

‘I didn’t mean anything by it,’ I say as I sink down on to the step. ‘It was a joke.’

I rub my arms. I’m only wearing a thin top. The rain, now heavier, is running down my face, gathering on my exposed arms.

Piers slumps down next to me. ‘I know.’ He puts his arm around me for the briefest of seconds before he pulls away to rub his hand. ‘I’m sorry,’ he mutters.

‘That’s OK.’

We sit there in silence for a moment, getting more and more wet, doing nothing to solve this issue.

‘Are you OK?’ I ask. I shuffle closer to Piers but no warmth is coming off him either. We can’t stay out here all night.

‘I’m tired,’ he admits, ‘and a little scared.’

I don’t think in all the years I’ve known Piers that he’s ever admitted to being scared.

‘I don’t know who I am,’ he continues.

‘Hey,’ I protest, grabbing his hand and squeezing it tightly, which is the wrong thing to do as it’s the hand he hit the wall with. ‘You’re Piers Bramley,’ I tell him as he pulls his hand away with a grimace. ‘You’re my husband, but you’re not defined by that or your job.’

‘I guess we’ll figure that out later down the line,’ he says with a sigh, ‘but we’ve got a bigger problem right now.’

‘Oh?’

‘How we’re going to get back inside,’ Piers says with a laugh, wiping the rain across his forehead. He’s as poorly dressed as I am.

‘Oh, yeah!’ I laugh, too. ‘Crap. Do you think one of the neighbours will let us call a locksmith, or do you think they’ll call the police instead thinking we’re cheeky burglars?’

I suspect the police. We live in a really nice neighbourhood, and whilst I did know one of our next-door neighbours well enough, by London standards, they moved at the beginning of the year. Our new Russian neighbours ignored me when I offered them a friendly wave.

Piers shrugs, but then he starts laughing and I join in. What a situation to be in! Mum and Dad have a key, but they’re over a hundred miles away, and I can’t remember the number of the cleaning agency we use or...

‘Tabitha!’ I exclaim, and then glance down at my bare feet. OK, her place is only a five-minute walk away, but there’s a vast difference between walking bare-foot on holiday in the Hamptons and walking bare-foot down a London street. Even if it is the King’s Road.

‘She has a key,’ I explain. ‘From when she fed Atlas. I don’t think I ever got it back from her.’

Piers stands up. ‘I’ll be back as quickly as I can.’

As he briskly walks down the street in his socks, which are soaked through before he even makes it across the road, I can’t help but hope that Tabitha is around, but also that my husband sorts himself out.

When you’ve been defined by your career for as long as Piers has though, I know it must be difficult when everything comes crashing down.