The Holiday (28 page)

Having arrived early, the girls ordered two vodkas with Coke and sat back to take in the view of passers-by. ‘How’s that for an entry into the Biggest Bum in the Universe competition?’ said Sally, indicating with her eyes a woman in tight white jeans, a low-cut top and shocking pink stilettos. ‘What do you think she’s going for, the Trailer Trash ensemble, or the Rover’s Return look?’

‘You’re so cruel, Sally.’

‘Not a malicious thought in my head, just speaking as I find. But take a look over there, I bet you could fry an egg on that back.’

Francesca winced at the sight of a pair of excruciatingly red shoulders branded by white strap marks where the top half of a bikini had been. ‘Poor woman, she looks as though she should be in intensive care.’

‘She looks completely gross, you mean.’ Then noticing a man at a nearby table, Sally leaned in closer. ‘Clock the guy behind you.’

Francesca twisted round to see who Sally was referring to. He was fair-haired, casually dressed, almost scruffily so, but not bad-looking in a lean, hawkish, lived-in way. He was sitting low down in his seat, his head resting on the back of the chair, one of his legs crossed over the other, a hand picking absently at the laces of his CAT boot as he gazed across the water. She watched him take out a small notebook and pen from his shirt pocket and scribble something down. She thought he looked vaguely familiar. ‘Maybe he’s got one of those faces,’ she said, turning back to Sally and lowering her voice, ‘but I feel as if I’ve seen him before.’

‘Yeah, I know what you mean. He’s kinda fit, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Not bad, if you go for the type who looks old enough to be married with a brood of runny-nosed children.’

‘So where are they? I see no wife. I see no snivelling kids. And I’ll tell you what else I don’t see, a wedding ring.’

‘He could be divorced.’

‘Or widowed.’

‘Perhaps he’s a serial wife murderer. He bumps them off for the life insurance.’

‘Yeah, a wife murderer who goes off on holiday with the spoils once the body’s been cremated and the evidence has gone up in smoke.’

‘And he’s here hoping to pick up his next victim, trawling the streets of Kassiópi for a beautiful woman with a desire to die young. Shall I introduce you?’

Their laughter caused several heads to turn, including, and much to Sally’s delight, the fair-haired man’s. ‘It’s official,’ she said, when he had turned away. She scooped out the slice of lemon from her drink and sucked it. ‘He’s divine and I wish he was mine.’

‘Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but I’ve just recognised who he is. He’s Theo’s friend, the one who’s staying with him. Anyway, I thought you liked Harry. Isn’t that why we’re here tonight?’

‘Oh, come off it, Francesca. You know very well I’m out of the running there. He doesn’t even know I exist. It’s quite clear he’s got the hots for you and you’ve got his number. And don’t give me any of that wide-eyed stuff. No, there’s nothing else for it, I’ll just have to do the honourable thing and get Nick off your back for you.’

‘Sounds like you’ve got it all worked out. Ever thought to check with me and see what I think about it?’

Sally grinned. ‘Go on, tell me I’ve got it wrong.’

Unable to deny what Sally was suggesting, Francesca smiled too. ‘But Harry’s so shy. He’ll never get it together to ask me out.’

‘Well, we’ll just have to give him a shove in the right direction, won’t we?’

‘And what’ll you do with Nick?’

‘Oh, I’ll let him do what he’s best at, I’ll give him the opportunity to shoot his mouth off the whole time.’

‘Two of a kind, then,’ laughed Francesca. ‘A match made in heaven.’

Sally flicked her discarded lemon across the table; it landed in Francesca’s lap. ‘In the absence of anything better I’m not too proud to sweep up the crumbs. It’s a shame about Theo fancying Izzy, isn’t it?’ She sighed. ‘Looks, age and money. I could have been a happy woman.’

‘You’re dreadful, you really are. What is it with you and older men?’

‘I was a deprived child, no father figure in my life.’

‘Depraved, maybe, but your father’s great.’

‘Okay, I’ll admit it. It’s the sex. Older men are miles better at it. They’ve all the experience that idiots like Nick haven’t. There’s none of that awful fumbling around, looking for where things go. They’re also keen to impress, to prove they’re still up for it. It’s a great combination.’

Francesca smirked. ‘And you thought my dad would be good in bed with you. You’re one sick girl.’

Coming as near as she would ever be to embarrassment, Sally flushed faintly and recrossed her legs. ‘How was I to know he was your father? We hadn’t been introduced or anything.’ And changing the subject, she said, ‘You know what really gets me about Izzy is that she doesn’t seem interested in Theo. Or do you suppose she’s just playing it super-cool?’

‘Haven’t a clue. But whatever she’s doing, it seems to be working. Mum says he’s been really persistent. The harder she’s made it for him, the more he’s pursued her. Oh, and about time too. Here’s Nick and Harry.’

‘Top banana to you, girls!’ Nick greeted them. He plonked himself in the chair next to Francesca. ‘So, how’s it going? Sorry we’re late, but the aged ones have trouble feeding themselves these days. It takes for ever. I tell you, when they start dribbling, I’ll be long gone.’

Harry took the seat beside Sally. ‘Excuse my intolerant brother, won’t you? I’m hoping that one day he’ll meet with a terrible accident and we’ll all be put out of our misery.’

‘Hey, who released your comedy valve, mate? You should be grateful that we’re in the company of women and years of good breeding forbids me from taking a swing at you. Now, who’s drinking what?’

They ordered a round of drinks, followed shortly by another. The bar was really busy now, and the warm night air was filled with raised voices and the pounding of a heavy pop-Latin beat. Having developed a headache after her second vodka and Coke, Francesca found that she wasn’t in the mood for Nick’s constant stream of jokes and putdown lines aimed at his brother. She liked him well enough, but he was one of those guys who liked himself better than anybody else did, and had long since lost touch with where the on-off switch was for his mouth. Harry was his brother’s antithesis: was clean-cut and dead straight while Nick went for the funky surf gear and pony-tail look, and could have done with a lesson in opening up. She could see that he felt awkward in this situation. He was probably one of those anti-social students who spent most of the term with his door shut, his nose in a book. He certainly didn’t seem the type to be off his head at some club every night. That was more his brother’s scene. It used to be hers too. Well, not the off-her-head bit, it was the music she and Sally had been into. It was how she had met Carl. But now with the demise of her relationship with Carl she had the feeling she had outgrown it. Across the table, Sally, the perpetual thrill-seeker, was telling Nick all about one of the clubs in Manchester that had been a regular night out for them.

‘You must have heard of the Tiger Lounge,’ Sally was saying. ‘It’s dead famous. I can’t believe you’ve been to Manchester and not heard of it.’

‘So what’s so special about it? What kind of music do they do?’

‘The best in all things kitsch. Sixties, seventies, eighties. They even do classic movie themes. The last time we were there it was nothing but Andy Williams and Shirley Bassey.’

Francesca remembered that night all too well. She and Sally had spent most of the day getting ready for it, dressing in mini-skirts, and false nails and eyelashes. Another friend had done their hair for them, whipping it into outrageous beehives that they sprayed green. It was that night when she realised she had reached the end of the road with Carl. She had caught him chatting to a redhead in a fluffy pink bra top, and overheard him asking for her phone number and when he could see her again. She hadn’t stuck around to hear the answer.

‘Kitsch is great once in a while,’ Nick shouted, above the music that seemed even louder now, ‘but you can’t beat a good rock festival. Ever been to Glastonbury, Sal?’

‘No. Don’t fancy all the mud.’

‘You should give it a go. But I’ll tell you what I’m doing next year. I’m planning a trip to Goa; that’s where the hardcore ravers go. A mate of mine’s been. He said the tropical beach parties are out of this world. Only trouble is, the drug laws are so harsh that if you get caught with so much as a Tic-Tac in your pocket, you’ll end up in prison for the rest of your life. Another drink, anyone? How about you, Frankie? You’re not saying much - losing the power of speech, are you?’

‘No, just the will to live. And please, don’t call me Frankie.’

‘Oo-er, and what medication have you missed today?’

‘You okay?’ asked Sally.

‘I’ve got a headache.’

‘That’s a woman for you.’

‘Give it a rest, Nick, and leave her alone. Would you like a glass of water?’

She looked gratefully across the table to Harry. ‘Thanks,’ she said, ‘but I think I’ll take some time out, go for a walk round the harbour. The music’s too loud here.’

Making room for her to slip by, Harry rose uncertainly to his feet. Even more uncertainly, he said, ‘Do you want some company?’

Avoiding Sally’s eyes, she said, ‘If you like.’

With the sound of Nick calling after them, ‘Harry, behave yourself, don’t go doing anything with Frankie that I’ll regret,’ they moved off.

‘Do you want me to throttle him now or later?’ Harry asked. ‘It would be a pleasure either way.’

‘When I’m feeling better I’ll do it myself.’

They walked slowly round the harbour, dodging the swarms of scooters and the gangs of promenading Greek grandmothers with their pushchairs of sleeping children. ‘There’s a small bar further up the hill owned by a strange old woman in slippers,’ Harry said. ‘Would you like to sit there? It would at least be quiet.’

‘What’s strange about the old lady?’

‘Well ... I hardly like to mention it, but she suffers from an excess of facial hair.’

‘A full set?’

‘No. Only a moustache. It’s possible, though, that she’s working on growing a beard.’

In spite of the thumping pain in her head, Francesca smiled. ‘Well, lead on and let me see for myself.’

The bar was blissfully quiet, just as Harry had said it would be, and almost at once she began to feel better. It was in a slightly elevated position with no more than half a dozen tables overlooking the harbour. They were the only customers and Francesca felt a pang of pity for the owner, who must barely scrape a living from the place. She was as old and strange as Harry had described, and after she had shuffled along in her sheepskin slippers with their drinks - a cup of coffee for Francesca and bottle of Amstel for Harry, who was also the lucky recipient of a beaming smile - she shuffled back to her wooden chair in the doorway of the bar and resumed her lace-making.

‘How often do you come here?’ asked Francesca. ‘I’m getting the impression she knows you.’

‘I sometimes hang out here when Nick’s in one of his party moods.’

‘Which is quite often, I should think. Does he ever stop?’

‘Nope. The dweeb’s been hyperactive since the day he was born.’

‘But you prefer a more leisurely pace?’

‘Is that a polite way of asking if I’m always this boring?’

‘Whoa, the boy has a raw spot.’

‘Doesn’t everyone?’

‘Some more tender and exposed than others. And I’d like it known that I didn’t accuse you of being boring, you did it all yourself. Which is a shame, really, because you’re not.’

‘Patronising me now?’

She ripped open a sachet of white sugar and tipped it into her coffee. ‘What is it with you? Don’t you recognise a compliment when you hear one? Or have you been in your brother’s shadow too long?’

He pushed his glasses back up on to his nose. ‘Something like that, yes.’

‘Then maybe it’s time you did something about it.’

‘Any suggestions?’

‘Well, yes, seeing as you’ve asked. When we’ve finished our drinks you can walk me home. That’s if you don’t think you’ve drawn the short straw.’

As he poured the beer into his glass, Harry couldn’t believe his luck. He had been wondering for days how to steal a march over his brother and get this girl on her own, and now it had happened. ‘No, no, of course I don’t think that,’ he said, suddenly realising that she might take his silence for indifference. ‘But I thought you and Sally would be staying on with Nick for — ’

‘The last thing I’m in the mood for is a long session in a nightclub with your brother strutting his top-banana stuff. I vote we leave them to it.’

‘You’re sure, then?’

‘A rule you need to learn, Harry,’ she said, dipping her finger into the froth of his beer then licking it off, ‘we girls don’t like to be accused of not knowing our minds. Do you think you can grasp that?’

He stared at her as though she had just committed an erotic act. ‘I’ll try,’ he murmured.

 

Erotic acts were on Mark’s mind as he walked home with the aid of a torch that, this time, he had remembered to bring with him. Though the moon was full, its silvery rays did not penetrate the dense foliage of the trees in the olive grove, and the stony path he was carefully negotiating was as black as his mood.

While sitting in the harbour in Kassiópi, he had been trying to get his head round the next chapter of his book, without success. It was the point in the story-line that invariably gave him the most difficulty. It concerned the protagonist’s sex life, or rather the protagonist’s prospective foray into some erotic action betwixt the sheets. If it weren’t for his publisher’s insistence that nearly all crime novels had to have a will-they-won‘t-they element of suspense, he wouldn’t bother. ‘But I’m writing psychological gore-fests not bloody bodice-rippers!’ had been his response when his editor had first raised the question of whether or not he couldn’t include some sexual chemistry between his characters. ‘Just a touch,’ his editor had reasoned bravely. ‘It would engage the reader’s interest further. It would also broaden the appeal of your novels.’ It was back to that old number of him being a marketable commodity.