After the Honeymoon (26 page)

‘My surprise, she is sitting in the kitchen,’ continued Greco with a glint in his eye.

She?

‘It was why I had to remove you just now. But we will go back, yes?’

Rosie gasped. Greco was sweeping her off her feet, literally; carrying her through the whooping and clapping, ducking and diving of the Greek dance. Through the beaded curtain into the kitchen with its copper pans hanging from the ceiling.

There at the table sat a small woman with bright, bird-like eyes. Her face was tanned and lined; thanks to the sun, she looked older than she really was. Her arms, as she held them out to Rosie, had sagged with age and she seemed frailer than before.

‘Cara!’ Rosie gasped delightedly. ‘What a lovely surprise!’

Greco stood there; his grin had gone and in its place was a serious expression. ‘I call her,’ he announced. ‘I tell her you are in trouble and that you need her.’

Rosie gave a scared little laugh. ‘What do you mean?’

Cara took both her hands and gripped them with a strength that belied her appearance. ‘It’s all right, my child. I am here now. Greco has told me about this man who has come back into your life. I always told you that the time would come. But do not worry. I will help you to break the news.’

Her hands tightened round Rosie’s even more firmly. ‘To both father and son.’

French:
lune de miel

Spanish:
luna de miel

Portuguese:
lua de mel

Italian:
luna di miele

Welsh:
mis mêl

Polish:
miesiąc miodowy

Russian: mедовый месяц

Arabic: (
shahr el ’assal
)

Greek: μήνας του μέλιτος

Hebrew: (
yerach d’vash
)

Persian:
(
mā-h-e asal
)

Turkish:
balayı

Hungarian:
mézeshetek

EMMA

This time tomorrow, they’d be on their way home! Emma’s tummy was abuzz with excited butterflies. She simply couldn’t
wait
to see the children. But at the same time she’d almost got used to them not being there.

It seemed more normal now to sleep through the night, instead of keeping one ear cocked, in case Gawain or Willow woke. She’d fallen into the habit of meaningful conversation with people she’d only just met, instead of always watching the children while she spoke. And she’d really enjoyed the painting and yoga classes, which had permitted her time to be herself.

Did that make her a bad mother?

There was something else that really worried her, too. Without the children, she and Tom had hardly anything to talk about.

‘Fancy a walk?’ he suggested after breakfast, which they’d had in their room (her idea, as Emma had felt too awkward to face Yannis after the night before). ‘I know I promised yesterday.’

He spoke as though he was doing her a big favour. They started strolling along the beach, but before long, Emma wished she was on her own. He didn’t even hold her hand! Instead he just moaned about the stones that were cutting his feet through his sandals and how hot it was.

Don’t be so boring, she wanted to say. Can’t you see it’s part of the adventure? Why do you want everything to be the same as England?

Then he started asking her questions about the Greek evening the night before, which made her feel so awkward that she bent down to pick up a shell on the beach, ostensibly to add to her take-home-to-the-children collection. But really it was to hide her confusion.

‘What was it like then?’ he said chattily.

‘OK,’ Emma replied, hoping her voice sounded normal.

Tom cast her a sideways look. ‘Did you talk to the famous Winston King?’

She shrugged, wishing now that she hadn’t told him so much. Hadn’t she made a vow not to tell anyone? Still, Tom was her husband.

‘More to his wife. She’s really nice, although a bit soft with the kids. There was a bit of a barney yesterday, apparently, cos her daughter went off with the owner’s son.’

Tom raised his eyebrows. ‘Went off?’

Emma felt bad about gossiping but grateful at the same time for a chance to steer the conversation away from potentially awkward questions. What if he asked who she had danced with? Then again, it wasn’t as though he was there to care.

‘Not like that. At least, I don’t think so. They just disappeared for a bit. I saw them on my walk, actually, although I didn’t say anything to Melissa.’

‘What were they doing?’

‘Nothing.’ She bent down for another shell. A pretty one with a pink edge. ‘I think it’s rather sweet, actually. At least they know how to show affection.’

The anger slipped out in her voice before she knew it.

‘Hey.’ He took her hand. ‘I know this hasn’t been the most romantic of honeymoons but please don’t be mad at me.’

Guilt over Yannis had made her upset. Still, it was better for Tom to think she was cross over that, than the other. Not that anything had happened during the dancing. She’d drunk rather a lot – again! But it still wasn’t enough to crush that undeniable chemistry: the way her body had literally burned when Yannis had held her hand during the dancing.

Nothing happened, she kept telling herself. Only in her head. And that didn’t count, did it?

‘Shall we go back to our room?’ Tom suddenly suggested meaningfully. He took her hand as he spoke, interlacing his fingers with hers.

Now
he wanted it! Emma’s heart sank as they made their way back across the sand. This wasn’t the way she’d imagined it. Not when her head was still so full of the striking Greek, who had showered her with an attention that no one else had given her for a very long time …

Back at the cottage, Tom began to fumble with the zip of her shorts. His naked body against hers was hot and sticky. His movements, never confident at the best of times, made her feel slightly repulsed. He was pumping away, clearly waiting for her to get there. But she couldn’t. Not unless …

Yes.

Oh God. There it was. That pendulum swinging sensation that took her breath away. She was even crying out loud, something she never did at home. Not because it might wake the children but because Tom never made her feel like doing so.

Tom had rolled off her now and was looking down at her with a self-satisfied smirk on his face. ‘So I haven’t lost the old magic then?’

It was all Emma could do not to cry. Easing herself out of bed, she made her way to the bathroom. Vigorously, she began to wash herself. How could you? she asked herself in the mirror, trying to wash away the picture of Yannis in her head, with his piercing eyes and goatee beard that she found so strangely attractive. How could you imagine making out with a man you hardly know, instead of your husband?

It was wrong. Horribly wrong!

Then again, hadn’t there been a survey in
Charisma
the other week about women who visualised making love to someone else during sex? The funny thing was that Winston King (whose picture Bernie had pinned up in the staff room next to a list of his ‘Five exercises-a-Day’) had come out second.

By the time she got back to the room, Tom was sitting up in bed with the air conditioning blaring out noisily. He patted the place next to him expectantly.

‘Sorry – I promised to meet Melissa for the painting class near the pool,’ said Emma, trying to hide her distressed face as she squeezed back into her shorts. ‘Then there’s the fishing trip. Are you coming?’

She held her breath, knowing that Yannis was going to be part of the crowd, helping Rosie with the picnic.

‘Mind if I don’t?’ Tom made a little boy face. ‘I’m just beginning to feel better and I don’t want to get seasick.’

Emma felt a mixture of relief and irritation. ‘That’s fine,’ she said quickly. ‘See you later.’

Head spinning, she made her way to the pool, unable to clear her mind. Hadn’t she always said there was no excuse for infidelity? Of course she’d never do anything like that. Yet Yannis had looked at her in a way that Tom never did. He made her feel beautiful. Her body melted every time his eyes drank her in, even though she knew it was wrong.

Why couldn’t she feel like that with Tom, the father of her children?

Then again, if the price for being a mother was a rather average marriage with pretty boring bedroom routines, surely it was worth it?

Even so, it was impossible to ignore the sexually charged air that hung over the island, what with Melissa and Winston; the French couple; Rosie and the Greek; and now Yannis. She’d just have to ignore it, she decided, and concentrate on what was important. Still, she couldn’t help wondering if there was something she had seriously missed out on …

Melissa seemed in a sombre mood when Emma reached the pool. Her daughter was with her, too, although obviously not willingly. ‘I’m so bored,’ she was whining.

‘Then give the painting class a go, darling. It’s something different.’

Alice scowled. ‘Something to keep me away from Jack, you mean. It won’t work, Mum. This is
my
life. Not yours.’

‘I know,’ said Melissa in a weary voice, ‘but you’re still very young.’

‘I’m nearly fourteen! Unlike you.’ The girl’s eyes narrowed. ‘At least I act my age. I’ve told you before, Mum, just because you wear leopard-print sunglasses, doesn’t mean you’re fashionable.’

Melissa flushed. ‘Shh. We’re about to start.’

The artist, a bohemian-looking young woman with a long cheesecloth skirt and yellow beads in her black hair, had given them all a sheet of paper. There was a large box of watercolour tubes and, in front of them, a vase with flowers.

After the demonstration (it looked so easy!), Emma set to with gusto. How wonderful it was to lose herself; to forget about Tom’s fumblings and that strange attraction to Yannis.

But Melissa seemed keen to talk. ‘Can I confide in you about something?’ she hissed quietly.

Emma flushed. ‘Of course.’

‘Thanks.’ Melissa glanced around to check no one could hear. The two of them were sitting on the edge of the painting group and the others seemed very absorbed in their work. ‘I haven’t known you very long, Emma, but you seem like the kind of person who can keep confidences.’

‘I am.’ Emma thought of all the things Bernie had told her about her marriage to Phil. Things which she wouldn’t tell anyone.

‘The thing is, my husband is
the
Winston King. The one on television.’

Emma nodded importantly. ‘I guessed that.’

Melissa looked alarmed. ‘Winston said you would. I just thought that maybe you might not recognise him with his shades.’

That was daft! Everyone in the UK knew who Winston King was, shades or not. The thought struck Emma that maybe Melissa wasn’t particularly bright.

‘I mean,’ Melissa continued, ‘there are other Winston Kings around. I looked them up on Google once. There are over a hundred.’

‘Yes, but they don’t all look like him, do they?’ Emma couldn’t help commenting.

Melissa looked scared. ‘You haven’t told anyone that you guessed, have you?’

‘Of course not.’ Emma touched her friend’s hand briefly in assurance. ‘I reckoned you needed your privacy like anyone else.’

‘Thanks so much.’ Melissa gave her a brief hug. ‘The thing is, Winston’s a bit upset because the
Globe
’s doing a series of articles on him.’

Emma, who really wanted to go back to her painting – the pink flower she was copying was so beautiful – tried to give her friend her full attention.

‘It doesn’t say very much,’ Melissa continued.

There was the sound of footsteps. Alice was coming up and had caught the tail end of the conversation. ‘It doesn’t say very much because Winston’s boring. Dad says he’s a waste of space.’

‘Alice!’ This time, Melissa did seem annoyed. ‘That’s very rude.’

She waited for Alice to go back to her painting on the other side of the group. Then she turned back to Emma. ‘So far, it’s just the usual stuff about the Marines that’s been said before. Winston says it’s to get people to buy today’s paper. But it’s tomorrow he’s worried about.’

‘Why?’ Emma whispered, flattered that Melissa felt she could trust her.

Then she nudged Melissa to warn her that the art teacher was coming round now, making small exclamations of praise combined with gentle suggestions. The French couple were there too: their ‘flowers’ looked more like a pair of nudes entwined in the shape of a nutcracker.

‘Because,’ said Melissa in such a quiet voice that Emma could hardly hear her, ‘my first husband has apparently given them an interview.’

Emma gasped, glancing at Alice, who had given up on the painting and was furiously texting, doubtless running up an enormous phone bill.

‘What has he said?’ asked Emma.

Melissa shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I’ve tried to Skype Marvyn but he isn’t answering.’

Emma’s heart gave a little jump. So she had Skype! Bernie had that on her computer. ‘My mum always says that there’s no point in worrying about something until it happens.’

Melissa nodded. ‘I know. She’s right. But it’s difficult, isn’t it? Still, it’s nice to have someone to talk to.’ She squeezed Emma’s hand lightly. ‘Thanks.’