CHAPTER ELEVEN
As I finished the last sentence of my email, Delroy appeared with my beer. I thanked him and he grinned back. 'You're welcome, Mr Forbes.' I was a regular at the Ocean Pearl—in the six months that Frida and I had been living in Port Antonio in Jamaica, it had become my favourite hotel. Perched on the side of a mountain, it looked through the lush jungle to a secluded bay.
We’d travelled here straight from Kingston, on the recommendation of a British expat we sat next to on the plane. Just to look around at first, but Frida and I both fell in love with it—the tropical languidness, fertile lushness, the chaotic shabbiness of the streets and shops and houses, the spontaneous and infectious joy of the people. A more dramatic contrast to Melbourne's buttoned up greyness would
