The Holiday (18 page)

Max had laughed heartily. ‘A match made in heaven. Oh, thank you, Izzy, you’ve quite cheered me.’

But Laura had pulled a face at them. ‘I think the pair of you are being quite unfair to Theo. He’s nowhere near as bad as you’re making him sound. I bet you any money you like that there’s more to him than meets the eye.’

And now, as Izzy took the tray of scones out of the oven and slipped them on to a wire rack, she recalled that she, too, had thought the same when they were having lunch in Áyios Stéfanos. Well, maybe there were hidden depths to Theo, but one thing she was sure of: if there were any depths to explore it wouldn’t be her who would risk getting the emotional bends from trying to fathom him out.

 

Max was the spitting image of his father, and seeing them together always amused Laura; it gave her a clear view of what her husband would be like in years to come. There were the obvious similarities between them: they were the same height, the same width — which naturally they disputed, each claiming the other had the larger paunch — and had the same hair colouring, with Max’s nearly as white as his father’s. But beyond that there was the same thoughtfulness for others, as well as a shared artless and self-deprecating humour, and neither was afraid to shoot straight from the hip. Corky was doing so now.

They were sitting outside in the shade on the terrace having tea, Francesca and Sally having gone down to the beach to make a start on their tans. ‘You look as if you’ve gained some more weight,’ Corky was saying to Max. ‘Those shorts look a tad tight to me.’ He was gloating with delight, having just boasted for the last ten minutes that he had lost half a stone. He gave his not-obviously depleted waistline a pat. ‘You’ve been living too much of the high life,’ he continued. ‘It’ll be your downfall, mark my words.’

‘In your dreams, Dad,’ said Max, while discreetly sucking in his stomach. ‘Snake-hips Max is what Laura calls me, these days. Isn’t that right, cupcake?’

She smiled back at him. ‘Among other things, darling. More to eat, anyone?’ She offered the last of the chocolate sponge cake Izzy had made that morning, there being nothing else left on the table: Corky and Olivia had all but licked the plates clean — goodness knows where they put it all. Or where they got their energy. They had only been here for a few hours but they had already devoured a hearty lunch, gone for a walk, unpacked their cases and stored them neatly under their beds. Laura felt drained of what little energy she had started out with. It was worse than having a houseful of teenagers. ‘How about you, Olivia? Another slice of cake?’

She shook her head. ‘I’d love another cup of tea, though. Any more in the pot?’ Olivia could drink tea for England. There was nobody to touch her. She had even brought with her a supply of Twinings English Breakfast.

Izzy rose from the table. ‘It won’t be worth drinking now, I’ll make you some fresh.’

‘Oh, thanks, Izzy. Now what about you, Corky? Have you got room for another slice?’

Max’s father looked longingly at the cake.

‘Best to keep it all tidy,’ he said. ‘You can’t keep food lying about in this heat.’

By the time Izzy had returned with a fresh pot of tea, every last crumb had gone and Corky and Olivia wanted to know the itinerary for the days ahead.

‘I thought we could go over to the other side of the island tomorrow and show you Paleokastritsa,’ Laura said, thinking of the long climb up the hill to the monastery, hoping it might tire them out and make them want to have a day off to recover. The suggestion had Corky reaching for his guidebook. ‘Here we are,’ he said, flicking to the appropriate page. ‘“Paleokastrítsa,”’ he read aloud, ‘“sixteen miles from Corfu Town and the island’s most celebrated beauty spot.”’ He turned the book round and held it aloft so that everyone could see where they would be going. He pointed out the monastery perched high on the hill.

‘Looks to me like a first-rate HT2 expedition,’ Olivia said knowledgeably.

‘Yes,’ agreed Corky. ‘Probably NS, as well.’

In response to Izzy’s questioning look, Max explained. ‘Hats, Trainers and two litres of water. It’s how they grade their days out. They do this every holiday they go on.’

‘And what’s NS? No Smoking?’

‘No,’ laughed Corky. ‘No Shorts. I bet the monastery will only let us chaps in if we’re wearing regulation long trousers.’

‘In that case, don’t forget NC,’ added Olivia.

‘No Cameras?’ suggested Izzy.

‘Nice try,’ said Corky, ‘but it’s No Cleavage.’

A sudden peal of laughter had them peering down into the bay towards the raft where Francesca and Sally were both sunbathing topless. Olivia smiled. ‘The girls will have to cover up if they’re going to come with us. Any more tea in that pot?’

Having offered again to make some more tea, Izzy stood at the kitchen window looking out at Max’s parents on the veranda. They were older than her mother, yet seemed a generation younger. Not a word of complaint had passed their lips since they had arrived; not one fault had they found with their flight, their fellow passengers, the heat, or the peculiar Corfiot plumbing that necessitated separate arrangements for toilet paper. ‘How quaint,’ had been Olivia’s remark when this had been explained to her. In comparison, Prudence Jordan would have been snorting her disapproval all the way back to the airport for the next flight home. What a difference there was between her mother and them. Taking life at face value, they threw themselves into it with enthusiasm, determined to enjoy themselves. Her poor mother was incapable of doing the same: she had never allowed herself the pleasure of being happy. And was that, perhaps, what Izzy would end up doing? Was she, like her mother, destined to be a lonely old woman because she was too frightened to let go and have a little fun? Was that why she had turned down Theo’s dinner invitation? Scared that she might have been caught out enjoying herself?

No. That was nonsense. She had said no because she had seen straight through his wily charm. For once she had been sensible.

But wasn’t sensible another word for boring?

She took the freshly made tea outside and saw that, down in the bay, Francesca and Sally were on their feet preparing to dive off the raft. Their happy shrieks as they jostled each other made her smile and think of the day she had learned to dive with Theo.

 

Further along the bay somebody else was watching Francesca and Sally. He had seen them earlier on the plane, then later at the carousel when they had been waiting for their luggage.

‘How old do you reckon?’ Nick Patterson said, over his shoulder to his brother.

Reluctantly, Harry looked up from the book he had started reading during the flight, Lawrence Durrell’s
Prospero’s Cell.
‘What’re you on about now?’

Nick pointed down the hillside, towards the beach. ‘I asked how old you thought they were.’

Harry pushed his glasses up on to his nose, and after a few seconds, said, ‘Same as us, probably. Maybe a bit older. It’s hard to tell at this distance. You know I’m no expert.’

‘Older isn’t good. Older is seriously bad news. The chicks don’t go for younger. Well, not at this age they don’t.’

Calling them chicks wouldn’t help either, thought Harry. ‘Then give it up as a bad job before you waste any more time on them.’

‘No way. If we’re going to be stuck here playing Happy bloody Families while Mum and Dad go through a traveller’s pack version of their mid-life crisis routine, then I might just as well have something to do.’

Harry returned his attention to his book. He didn’t want to think about his parents. And certainly not his father. As a young child he had longed to have a father who was normal, in the sense of having a regular job sitting behind a desk bossing others about and coming home late to eat his supper while watching the television and occasionally complaining that his sons played their music too loud. Instead, he had been lumbered with a pseudo-Bohemian who had been going through an extended state of middle-aged neurosis since, well ... probably since the age of five. Not a day went by when his father wasn’t consumed with some personal or professional disaster. Nobody else was allowed to have problems of their own as he veered from one drama to the next: of losing his hair, what there was of it; of suspecting he had some unmentionable disease of the prostate; of living in fear that he was being talked about, countered by an even greater fear that he wasn’t being talked about.

He worked in the film industry, and when he told people this, he made it sound as though he and Steven Spielberg were best mates and constantly on the phone to each other. He had done it to Nick and Harry’s friends, years ago, trying to impress them with his stories of whom he had recently rubbed shoulders with — a euphemism for standing in the queue in the canteen and watching Michael Parkinson help himself to a plate of steak and kidney pudding. But that was in the days of his career with the BBC, before he had suffered the ignominy of being made redundant. Now he worked for an independent film company that put together small-budget documentaries. His last project had recently gone out on Channel Four and was yet another example of his late-night shock-and-titillate explorations of the human mind and body. As Nick often said, ‘Oh, man, it’s okay to be obsessed with sex when you’re in your prime, but it’s sick to see your ageing hippie father parading his hang-ups on telly.’

Their mother rarely watched his programmes but, then, she was seldom at home — there was always some committee or cause she felt compelled to support. When the first episode of
Sexual Rites of Passage
had been due to go out last month, his father had approached her and asked her if she would watch it because he would appreciate her opinion. She had glared at him and said, ‘You really want my honest view on why, yet again, you’re pedalling pornography, Adrian? Well, in my opinion, you need help. The sooner the better. Was there anything else?’

Between them, Harry’s parents took up far too much space in his life. He was still cross with them, and himself, that he had agreed to come on this holiday. With the end of his third year at college drawing to a close, he and his friends had decided to go backpacking in Turkey - it was to have been their last fling before finals next year. His father had put paid to that by whingeing on at him that this would probably be their last family holiday and Harry had stupidly given in.

‘Fancy a swim?’ asked Nick.

Knowing that he wouldn’t get any peace unless he did, he said, ‘Oh, go on, then.’

 

Francesca and Sally might have given the impression that they hadn’t noticed Nick and Harry at the airport but, like any girls their age, their testosterone antennae had been picking up signals loud and clear. They weren’t entirely impressed with what was coming their way on the beach, but were prepared to reserve judgement for now.

‘How old do you reckon?’ asked Sally, swimming over to Francesca.

‘Too young for you.’

‘I could make an exception.’

‘Oh, yes? Which one of them has caught your eye?’ ‘The tall dark-haired one with glasses. He looks as if butter wouldn’t melt.’

Francesca laughed. ‘Yeah, and you’d like to be the one to prove otherwise. So you’re leaving me the small funky one, are you?’

‘Well, the Jamiroquai look is more your bag, isn’t it? And the hair of the dog might make you feel better.’

‘He looks nothing like Carl. Carl never wore his hair in pigtails.’

‘Oh, who cares? It’s a generic look. Shall we stick around to find out what they’re like?’

‘Nah, there’s plenty of time for that. For now let’s play hard to get. On the count of three we make for the shore and sashay our way back up to the villa.’

Theo returned to Áyios Nikólaos late that evening. Mercifully, there had been no delay to the short flight from Athens, and the drive along the winding coast road from the airport had been a clear run. He felt tired but elated as he approached the rutted track that led to his villa. He had got exactly what he had wanted from his week in Athens, and had outwitted two of his arch business rivals. There was nothing to beat the thrill of a chase that culminated in a successfully clinched deal. He knew that the day when he no longer experienced the same level of excitement would be the day he retired gracefully. But that was a long way off. For now, his hunger was as keen as ever. As was his golden touch. A Midas touch that Mark used to say would be his undoing. But Mark didn’t know the half of his success. Few people did. He kept the extent of his wealth between himself and the handful of lawyers and accountants he had known for many years and whom he trusted implicitly. Mark didn’t know — any more than the financial pundits in Athens who liked to keep abreast of his affairs — about the portfolio of stocks and shares he had steadily accrued, or the many companies he controlled.

But for all Mark liked to criticise him — ‘You’re a flash show-off with more money than sense’ — Theo was a modest man. While it was true that he had always appreciated the good things money could provide, he now favoured a simpler approach to life, which was why he had made his first real home here in Ayios Nikólaos. Much as he enjoyed Athens, with all its thrusting energy, it gave him no real sense of belonging. It was clear to him that Athens was where he worked, and Corfu was where he lived, where he could be himself.

 

After he had showered and changed, he found Mark in the kitchen cooking supper.

‘Don’t go getting the wrong idea about this,’ Mark said, as he slipped a cheese and herb omelette on to a plate and passed it to Theo, ‘I’m only playing at doting housewife just this once. Wine?’

They ate outside. The evening was very still, with only the faintest of breezes to rustle the leaves on the nearby eucalyptus trees and stir up the scent of basil from one of the pots on the terrace. Though it was dark, it was still warm and the balmy night sky flickered with bats as they swooped and circled overhead. Attracted by the candles on the table, a broad-winged moth was risking its short life by fluttering around the flames, and below them in the bay an incoming tide quietly washed the arc of stones. This is undeniably my home, thought Theo, with contentment, as he stared out at the inky water and the moon streaking its shimmering silvery light across the surface.