Summer at Lavender Bay. Sarah Bennett

and concrete building. ‘That’ll be twenty quid. Do you need a hand with your bags?’ The taxi driver half-turned to complete the transaction with Martin who began to fumble with his wallet.

      From Eliza’s vantage point in the back seat, the contrast between the two men was marked. The driver was an older man, closer to her dad’s age than theirs. His tanned skin crinkled around his eyes, giving her the impression he laughed a lot. He’d been chatty during the journey and seemed genuinely interested to hear about their relocation to Abu Dhabi. She’d left it to Martin to carry the majority of the conversation, although she’d managed a smile and a few words of agreement whenever either of them had aimed a question or remark in her direction.

      Eliza’s stomach started doing that unpleasant swirling thing again—like she was filled with water and someone had yanked out the plug, sending it spinning as the water drained away. It was the same feeling she had every time she thought, heard or saw the name of the country where they’d be living for at least the next three years.

      ‘I’d like a receipt please,’ Martin said as he handed over a crisp note fresh from the cashpoint machine. He looked pale, almost wan, next to the older man. The sallowness of his skin owed more to the hours he spent locked inside staring at his laptop rather than genetics. He’d catch the sun soon enough; he always did whenever they returned to their home town of Lavender Bay to visit their families. Not that she could persuade him to go there much these days. He was always too busy—although it was never clear to Eliza exactly what it was on his computer that took up so much of his spare time.

      With the driver paid, there was no excuse for her to linger in the cab any longer, so she took a deep breath and forced her shaking hand to open the door. It was nerves, nothing more. Anyone taking such a big leap into the unknown was bound to be a little apprehensive, right?

      The hem of the long, flowing skirt she was wearing caught on the low heel of her patent red shoes, and she had to pause to extricate it. She’d chosen muted colours, floaty layers over dark leggings and a thin, long-sleeved T-shirt, with a scarf around her neck which could be pulled up to cover her hair if needs be. Martin’s employer had provided them with suggestions of acceptable attire, and although it had been stressed to her the authorities were entirely reasonable in their approach to Western visitors, it was important to her to be respectful towards the culture of the country. The fact her milk-pale, freckled complexion could burn at the first hint of strong sunlight meant she was used to covering up. Her Dorothyesque red shoes had been the only indulgence when selecting her outfit, a splash of the rich colours she favoured; a touch of courage.

      Feeling a bit useless, Eliza hovered out of the way whilst Martin and the driver wrestled their luggage out of the boot. With a smile, the driver placed a large and small suitcase in front of her then tugged the handles up and locked them in place. ‘Chin up, sweetheart, it might never happen.’

      She laughed at the well-worn phrase and the kindly wink, ignoring the whirlpool inside her. He was sort of right. It had already happened, so she might as well stop sulking about it. ‘Thank you for your help.’

      ‘My pleasure. Have a good flight.’ With a cheery wave, he was gone.

      ‘All set?’ Martin’s question turned her head towards him, and she nodded. His laptop bag dangled precariously from one shoulder, his hands already filled with the handles of his two cases.

      Stepping forward, she lifted the bag up so she could lengthen the strap and hook it over his body cross-wise. ‘It might be easier like this.’ Her own personal items were secured in a small rucksack already strapped to her back.

      ‘Thanks.’ She lifted up on tiptoes to kiss his cheek, but he was already turning away from her. Like he had been for months. Like they both had been—she corrected herself. It wasn’t all Martin’s fault if things between them were flat. They’d been drifting apart for ages, a slow slide of conflicting work schedules and a lack of shared interests. It hadn’t seemed important when they were kids, flush with the excitement of young love and too naïve to understand how the little things they found easy to shrug off would slowly grow into rocks of resentment neither of them seemed willing to clamber over. Instead of addressing those problems, their answer had been to divert themselves from the rocky path of their marriage by veering off in an entirely new direction. A fresh start, a new life in a new country with new opportunities. Not ready to give up on nearly a decade of commitment, Eliza had let herself become swept away with it.

      ‘Come on, Eliza. Stop daydreaming.’ Eliza—short for Elizabeth. A name she’d chosen for herself on the same day her two best friends had chosen their own nicknames. The quirk of fate that saw certain names become popular each year, had seen the three of them all christened Elizabeth within a handful of months of each other. That might not have been a problem in a big city, but in the tiny seaside town of Lavender Bay where there were only enough children to fill one class each year, it had been a problem. Fed up of the confusion, they’d sat on Eliza’s bed one evening during their first year at secondary school and decided to become Beth, Eliza and Libby. And so they’d remained for the next fifteen years.

      Shaking off the old memory, Eliza noted Martin had already trundled away with his share of the luggage, forcing her to grab hers and hurry after him. The cases were mismatched in both size and weight and had seen better days. They’d invested in a new set for Martin because he’d need his suits and shirts to be halfway presentable on arrival as he would be heading to the office the next morning. Eliza only had to stay in the hotel the firm had allocated them for the first few days—the keys to their new apartment not being available until the end of the week—so it didn’t matter much if her things were a bit crumpled. There would be plenty of time to sort and iron everything, it wasn’t as though she’d have anything else to do once they moved into the new place.

      She finally caught up to him at the barriers just before check in, and only because he’d stopped to rummage in the front pocket of his bag for their paperwork. Withdrawing the pre-printed boarding passes and their passports, he split them and handed hers over. ‘There you go. Just join the back of that queue and I’ll wait for you here once you’re finished.’

      ‘Wait for me? What are you talking about. We can just check in together.’

      A dull blush added spots of red to Martin’s pallid skin. ‘I…umm…I’m going business class.’

      All those times he’d brushed off her enquiries about their flight details, insisting he had everything in hand, suddenly made horrible sense. ‘We’re not sitting together? We’re not even in the same section of the bloody plane?’ she hissed, not wanting to make a scene in the crowded hall.

      He adjusted the bag over his shoulder, glancing away, but not quick enough for her to miss seeing him roll his eyes. ‘Why do you always have to get like this?’ he sighed, as though he were the most put-upon husband in the history of the known world. He looked back, but his gaze didn’t meet hers. ‘Look, the company were generous enough to pay for us both, but their policy doesn’t cover business travel for family members. I didn’t think it was worth wasting money from our savings on an upgrade for you. It’s a big day for me tomorrow. I’ll be working for most of the flight so I need to be able to focus on that. Besides, economy on these big planes isn’t exactly a hardship and I thought you’d understand…’ His voice trailed off, the tone a perfect blend of confusion and disappointment.

      He’d thought she’d understand. Which was why he’d deliberately avoided discussing it with her until now. How very like him to put off anything that might involve a difficult conversation. He’d clearly practised his list of excuses and settled on her being a distraction. Like she was some five-year-old child incapable of sitting still for a few hours. It was a bloody night flight, for God’s sake, and she’d intended to spend it catching up on a few movies she hadn’t seen, and sleeping.

      Staring up at him, Eliza wondered, not for the first time, who the hell he was. This was supposed to be a new start for them, the next step in their life together; it wasn’t unreasonable of her to expect they’d be taking it side by side. The twisting tension inside her made her snap at him. ‘And what happens after check in, I suppose you’re