Drowning Mrs Simpson

The gods are easily roused by the coupling of men and women.

tahitian proverb

English to the core my wife is; but she wants to go to the islands again, such being her obsession and temperament you could say. "Why there?" I churlishly ask. "Ah," she replies, and shakes her head. Smallish but strongwilled my Abigail is, more determined to go to her special place with her instinct of empire as I've accused her. "What empire?" she'd asked. "Yes, Abigail"; I quickly came to a compromise, like waking up and being myself again.

A wink, a nod; and indeed, we are in love. But the islands are her place, believe me, I know, more than serendipity, there to meet her "favourite people." Yes, the muscle-bodied men, more like a game we're playing. Teasing, gestures only. Half asleep or half awake, I am. We are. And standoffish she's with them: the men courting her, addressing her as "Dear Mrs Simpson". She calls it wholesome affection with her coquette's air, her inviting smile. Palm trees wave across hot sandy beaches in the Windward and Leeward Islands. Let it be known—places known and unknown, as the islands come closer. Much too close for my liking, I cogitate.

I conjure up more, other than playacting. Demurring, waiting to hear more, indeed. She laughs, my petite Abigail with her new style: her comfort zone, believe me. A thrill really, with cadence and song. She said, "It's the way life ought to be lived, George."

"Really lived?"

And once again to her hotel the lovers came, the reggae- and calypsomen serenading her. I keep imagining, not circumventing; and she wants me to know it all, as in a dream. The other tourists from Germany, Italy, Scandinavia, America looked at her in their bemused way. Abigail whirled among the matronly wives, and she infected their mood. Special music, do you hear? "George, you should see me in action," she crows.

"See you?"

No classical concerto now, only a special rhythm with the sea and waves in the background. Drums pounding, you bet, in ancient Africa, everywhere, but far. D'you call that music? She invited a particular lover, with the promise of more. Drum-beats, ah. A promise only, mind you. "No … stop," she calls out. Then, "George, are you listening to me?"

"I'm wide awake." I pull the bed sheet away. Abigail chaffs me. More words, real words, in our sleep-awakening moments. A rendezvous the more I think about it, with empires crashing down upon us, if only in my mind's eye. "Why stop now?" sang one lover with more waves crashing down. "But …" Abigail murmurs, nibbling my ear.

I remain half-asleep, in a sort of deadness. Real deadness?

Conch shell blowing. Abigail's porcelain-white skin flushed as one particular admirer made arcs about her body in the jasmine-scented air. An ancient rite enacted. "Must I always be like this?" Abigail teases. "What d'you mean, dear?" I ask.

She laughs. I also laugh in our determined play-along, I believe. And one special lover she wanted to be with day and night as he looked into her eyes, and then they swam out into the sea in shimmering moonlight. How long would it last? I heave in. Abigail bent her head into her novel, determined to read everything in one sitting with a towel draped over her midriff. A wide polka-dotted umbrella shades the sun from her slender shoulders. Real tawny she is. Let Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice remain with her, in her ongoing make-believe. Her lithe lover limbered up to her. "Fooled you, did I?" he cooed. She looked at him, forlornly. A real beachcomber!

"Read on, Abigail," I sing to her, as a kingfisher somersaults in the air. Odd, I want her to be interested in me only, as she knows my thoughts after the long years of our marriage. But a tempest is in the making; she wants to remain on the island far more than just in the winter months. Why? She pouts. Why...