Page 26 of Below the Deck

SAM

‘No – stop!’

Sam’s eyes shot open to a yell from one of the cabins close by.What the fuck was that?He sprang upright in his cabin’s single bed – sleeping in the yacht’s only twin room was a fun reminder that he was the odd one out on this trip, without a partner – and tuned in. It was quiet now – too quiet. A kind of dead silence, like the split second before a crash of thunder erupted.

He heard a door shutting – he couldn’t be sure which one, all the guest and crew cabins were in such close proximity – and then swift footsteps, perhaps two sets, moving along the passageway and up the stairs to the main deck.

All fell silent again. He closed his eyes, tried to replay in his mind the voice he’d just heard, tried to work out who it might have belonged to, but the memory was too blurry, too caked in sleep. He forced his brain to trudge through a mental map of the cabins’ layout, trying to remember which couple was in the room next to his. Then again, he couldn’t be sure the sound had come from the nearest cabin – the corridor separating themwas narrow, and both the shout and the door could easily have drifted from one of the rooms across the hallway.

Or there could have been no shout at all.

Maybe he’d imagined it. Was it just the remnants of his vivid, scattered dreams? That was the most likely explanation. He took a few deep breaths, became aware of the thuds of dull pain repeatedly assaulting his skull. He’d got too much sun yesterday. And he’d been drinking way more than he usually did on this trip – even last night, when the mood had been subdued and everyone had been in bed before midnight.

Another door along the passageway closed; hushed voices reached his ears, then footsteps starting up the spiral staircase. Sam leaned over to the cabin window near his bed and tugged the blackout curtains apart slightly; he caught a glimpse of the bay where they’d been anchored last night, but the sunlight was blinding so he closed them again.

What time is it, anyway?He scratched his neck – something had bitten him in the night, the fucker – then fumbled around for his phone. It wasn’t on the bedside table; he reached a hand under his pillow and his fingers touched its cool surface. He’d been sleeping on it the whole night. He held it in front of his face and tapped the screen.

It was 9.47 a.m.Shit – I hope it’s not too late for breakfast.Then he remembered: they literally had a private chef on board. Sam could just put in a request for anything, any time he wanted. He was pretty sure Leilani had all the ingredients for a Bloody Mary to go with his fry-up. That’d sort him out.

There was an unread text in his message inbox, from Rory. It had arrived an hour ago. He opened it:Sam.I do hope everything is to your satisfaction so far.

He groaned.Fuck Rory and his pompous fucking tone.His careful words that he could always explain away.

Well – apart from the ones he couldn’t. Like what Sarah in marketing had overheard Rory say about her six months ago. His boss hadn’t been able to explainthat.

He remembered when Sarah had told him, that night in the pub. Sam had kept asking her more questions. He was just so shocked. His first reaction was that she’d got it wrong. People got confused or misremembered – or made up weird shit – all the time, didn’t they? People lied;shewas lying. He’d been sure:Rory wouldn’t do that.

Sam had been with Ashworth for more than ten years by then – practically his whole career. He’d been in hundreds of meetings with his CEO, had chatted to him at dozens of parties and after-work drinks. Yes, Rory was politically incorrect; he was baffled by the communication styles andworkplace boundariesof the Millennials and Gen Zs who worked for him. But he was good to work for; he treated people well. And just look at his wife, Sam had thought – an absolute stunner who Rory clearly adored. It’d be madness to risk losing her if shit like this ever got out.

But then, what possible reason would Sarah have to make it all up? She had fuck all to gain from telling Sam about it – and a hell of a lot to lose. He felt ashamed now that he’d wanted to write her off as full of shit – even though she was struggling to get the words out; even though she kept dismissing herself:I might have got it wrong … there’s no point in saying anything, no one would believe me anyway.

He’d been in a daze the morning after when he’d left his flat, replaying the booze-soaked conversation over and over.He’d walked to the wrong platform at Clapham Junction – then by the time he made it to the right one, he’d missed a train. When he finally arrived for his meeting at the Rosenberg office, he’d been so flustered, he’d fumbled the sales presentation. David Rosenberg had walked away from a development opportunity that would have been worth millions. He’d cocked it up – because ofRory. Sam’s boss had been responsible for him losing almost everything good in his life: first, his career progression, and then later, something far worse. The love of his life.

Sam’s head throbbed again; he clamped his eyes closed and tried to breathe through it. He must have some paracetamol somewhere; he’d taken some yesterday for the cut on his foot – which was feeling a bit better today, probably thanks to the cream Johanna had given him last night. He’d have a look when he managed to get out of bed. It was quiet again now – no more noises from the cabins around him. Just a couple more minutes in bed, and he’d get up and go in search of his cooked breakfast.

He lifted his phone in front of his face, moved a finger towards the apps on the home screen and tapped on Instagram, keen to check out how many views his story from yesterday evening had got. That selfie was gold: Sam grinning like a loon, posing near the hot tub on the upper deck, holding up a fat tumbler of whisky, a radiant pink and orange sunset behind him. He hoped Claire had seen it.

The app started to open, then stalled; it was having trouble loading.Come on, come on.He waited a few more seconds for anything except a blank page to appear, then flicked his eyes upwards to the top of the screen –oh right, that’ll be why. There was no Wi-Fi: his phone was using the local 4G to try to connect, clearly without much luck. The satellite wirelessmust have gone down overnight – or maybe the crew had switched it off for some reason.

He sighed –so much for scrolling– and leaned his head further back into his pillow. He felt his eyelids start to droop, when a loud thud at his cabin’s door forced him upright with a jolt.

‘Sam? You alive in there?’ It was Mark in his slow northern drawl.What does he want?

‘Yeah, grand, just sleeping off my hangover – you all right, fella?’ His voice was thick, groggy.

‘I think we need you up in the salon – the captain wants a meeting with everyone.’

Sam groaned. ‘No problem, mate,’ he called. ‘I’ll just jump in the shower and head up. Be there in ten.’

‘Ah, Sam – sorry, but I think it’s pretty urgent,’ Mark replied. ‘She said we’re all needed there straight away – everyone else is waiting for you.’

A knot twisted in Sam’s gut. Had something happened while he’d been asleep? Maybe that would explain the shout he’d heard earlier – perhaps he hadn’t dreamt it after all. And then a thud of panic:What if someone’s had an accident – or been injured?

That thought was enough to make Sam lunge out of bed and drag on some shorts and a T-shirt. He stumbled towards the cabin door and yanked it open to see Mark standing in the doorway, hands shoved in the pockets of a pair of camo-printed shorts.

‘What’s going on?’ he asked, searching Mark’s face.

Mark shrugged. ‘No idea, mate.’