Wishful Thinking (26 page)

In any case, it was much too hot for sight-seeing. Back on the beach at Plakias, we concentrated on the important issues: the careful build-up of a tan, no pink, no peeling, dipping in the Med to cool off, eying up the talent and hopefully being eyed up in our turn. ‘You've lost weight,' Sinead commented inevitably, early in the proceedings. She didn't sound critical, she sounded envious. My heart warmed. I had forgotten how much I liked her. ‘You look terrific.'

I'd been to Greece before, naturally, but I'd never taken so many clothes off. On the beach, I'd worn a one-piece which wrapped itself around my spare tyres (like Michelin Man, I'd had more than one) like skin round a sausage. Off it, I'd covered up in loose floppy garments which hid both my bulges and my assets. Now, I felt voluptuous. I didn't even have acres of pallor to put on view: Jerry Beauman's roof terrace had given me a base coat. I don't tan very dark, but, I reminded myself, dark tans are out of vogue: they give you wrinkles and skin cancer. I topped up at night with fake and went a beautiful golden colour. And for the first time in my life I was conscious of men looking at me, not because I took up space in the landscape but because they wanted to. It was a heavenly sensation. In London, even though, lately, some guys had looked at me with admiration, the climate of fevered work and frantic socialising left little time for the mating game. Relationships, too, tend to be fevered and frantic: the chat-ups, the let-downs, speed-dating, affairs (like Georgie's) squeezed into the corners between other commitments. But in Greece, it's all about sex. The beach, the booze, the body-pampering. Even if you don't do it, that's still what it's about. You put yourself on show, you lure and allure, you sun yourself in reflected desire. There's no work to get in the way, no frenzied pressures of urban life. In the past, I'd always been an onlooker on the scene, but now I was part of it, I was doing some of the alluring, feeling myself desired, and I blossomed. Who wouldn't?

It was easy – even amusing – telling Sinead about Nigel, including the bad bits. She laughed and laughed over the dénouement with Rachel.

‘Thank God you're rid of him,' she said. ‘It's transformed you. I always knew you'd be beautiful if you gave yourself the chance.'

I'm not beautiful, I know that, but it was nice of her to say it.

It was the second week when my Achilles turned up. He didn't resemble Hugh Jackman or Colin Firth, but still, Nature had done a good job. His jaw fell somewhere between the pocket torch and the lantern, his hair was dark and gelled into uplift, his eyes – actually, I didn't really notice his eyes. He had the sort of tan that, if he made a habit of it, would turn his skin to leather in ten years' time, but who cared? This was now. He looked particularly good in swimming trunks. On introduction, he turned out to be English and resident in Nottingham. (‘That's okay,' Sinead said. ‘Far enough away so you won't be bothered with him when you get back home.') His name was Mike. I asked him about Robin Hood, which was all I knew about Nottingham. He asked me about Dick Whittington, which (he said) was
almost
all he knew about London. It was a promising beginning. We drank long cocktails in assorted colours with even more assorted contents and shared the inevitable speculation as to what the little umbrella was really
for
.

‘To keep the flies out,' Mike suggested brilliantly.

‘It's not doing a very good job,' I said, pointing to something black floating in my drink. On closer inspection, however, it proved to be half a grape.

After an hour or more of this sort of conversation we naturally felt we knew each other frightfully well, though the cocktails may have had something to do with that. We strolled down to the beach, swam under the stars (the sea was decidedly chilly), and then sprawled on the sand at the water's edge, embracing passionately, like Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr in
From Here to Eternity
. Rolling around on the beach is an overrated activity: the sand gets into every crevice in your body, and there are few things more disagreeable than gritty buttocks. I was relieved when we headed back to the bar, and still more relieved when I realised the presence of Sinead meant I couldn't invite him back to our room.

(‘D'you want to invite him back to our room?' Sinead hissed. ‘I could stay out for an hour or two.')

The next evening we went to the local disco, and he grabbed me from behind, his body swaying in rhythm with mine, at least in theory, his hands cupping my breasts. I could feel his barely suppressed erection pushing against my bottom. It should have been wildly exciting, but somehow it wasn't. The thing about fantasy sex was that Russell Crowe, Hugh Jackman et al were familiar, and imaginary; this was real, and unfamiliar, and I wasn't comfortable with it. Even without the sandy bum. I began to wonder if the core problem with my career as a sex goddess was that I simply didn't have the temperament for it. Georgie, I thought, would've been dancing crotch to crotch by now.

‘My mate's shagging that flat-chested blonde in the blue T-shirt, so I've got the room to myself tonight,' Mike murmured in my ear. Not exactly my idea of sweet nothings, but no matter.

‘But what about
her
friend?' I asked.

‘The brunette with the eyebrow stud? She's at it with one of the local boys. He's got his own place.'

I'd forgotten Greece was like that. It's different when you're not part of the chain.

I escaped somehow, clutching at Sinead for succour. She told me I was a fool, and we needed to make the most of life before we hit thirty and creeping eld did whatever it is creeping eld does. (It sounded like a relative of ground elder, but I think it's a Shakespearian term for old age.) I said I would rather be thirty than in bed with Mike, which she couldn't understand. ‘You're looking gorgeous,' she said, ‘and it's all going to waste.'

The night after I saw him chatting up another bosom, evidently also from the big city. ‘All I know about London is Dick Whittington,' I heard him say.

The bosom quivered responsively.

So much for holiday romance, I thought.

While I was in Greece Georgie had finally taken the plunge and flown to Mallorca with Neville. They were staying in the west of the island on the edge of Deia, a location more than a cut above Plucky Arse. The Hotel Es Moli was stacked in layers against the mountainside, with several tiers of garden, restaurant terrace, bar terrace and pool terrace rising one above the other. The bedroom had French windows opening on to a crumbly stone balcony – at least, it looked crumbly, though Georgie hoped that was merely artistic effect – with a view of steep slopes intersecting in a V, enclosing a blue triangle of sea. The village rambled picturesquely down one slope; olive groves plumed the other. It all resembled a rather tasteful postcard. ‘It's beautiful,' Georgie said, with genuine approval. Privately, she was wondering about the sleeping arrangements. The room was twin-bedded, and she had never shared a twin-bedded room with a man before. What was the etiquette? Would he expect to leap from his bed into hers without so much as a by-your-leave? Would he want to push the beds together? (Fatal: he or she was bound to slip down the gap.) Would he want her to do the leaping?

Neville asked her which bed she would like, and she chose the one nearest the window, and then wished she'd picked the bathroom side as it would be easier to get to the loo without being waylaid. But she was here to be waylaid, wasn't she? Or at any rate, laid . . .

They unpacked, and found there was nowhere near enough hanging space in the wardrobe for Georgie's clothes. Neville chivalrously gave up a couple of hangers. (He's chivalrous, thought Georgie. Maybe he won't try to leap at all.)

He went into the shower and emerged with a towel round his hips. His chest was on the thin side, his arms wirily muscular, his legs rather skinny. But then most men look better with their clothes on, Georgie reflected, and whoever came up with the kilt must have been blind to the impact of Scotsmen's knees. Of course Cal, who was slightly more solid, always looked good to her . . . But she mustn't think of Cal. That was history. Neville – despite his legs – was attractive, and available, and rich; she couldn't possibly have a problem with that. When she was at college she had once had three members of the rugger team on successive nights – or perhaps two of them on the same night; she couldn't remember precisely. She had always maintained she liked sex, lots of sex, with lots of men. Now wasn't the moment to become choosy.

(What was that song?
Something about you've got a nice face but not the right face
 . . . )

She went into the shower in her turn, and came out in a bathrobe, covered from neck to calf.

Neville was dressed, a state of affairs which showed him at his best. ‘If you like, I'll wait for you in the bar,' he said. ‘Give you a bit of privacy. I want to catch up with some friends. We all know each other here. We come back year after year: it's like a club.'

‘Who did you bring last year?' Georgie asked with a smile.

‘All you need to know,' he said, ‘is that she wasn't as attractive as you.'

The smile faded. Neville gave her directions to the bar, which she immediately forgot, and left her alone.

I'm here for a week, she thought. Seven nights. I'm going to have fun. I
always
have fun: it's what I'm good at.

She dressed in cropped trousers, a skimpy top, and an embroidered cardigan which wasn't really necessary, but she didn't intend to expose her legs and arms in the evening until they were considerably browner. Outside the room, the corridor stretched unhelpfully to right and left. She couldn't even recall where the lift was. She turned right at random, and presently found some stairs. Down a flight there was another, almost identical corridor, and a door leading on to a terrace with tables and chairs and panoramic view. It was early for drinks but several people were already there, sipping tall glasses of this and that. Congratulating herself on her unerring instinct Georgie looked round for Neville, and found another door opening on to a panelled room: the bar itself. It was empty except for a young man mixing drinks who glanced up and gave her a Puckish grin. He was, she guessed, about thirty, with eyes all sparkle and mischief and black hair that appeared to have been recently rumpled. Georgie cheered up immediately.

‘Can I help you?' the young man said. ‘I am Juan.'

You would be, Georgie thought. She perched on a bar stool. ‘I'm looking for a friend,' she said, ‘but he doesn't seem to be around.'

‘You stay here,' Juan said. ‘I find him for you. But first, I make you a drink.'

A waitress came in, and removed the tray he had just loaded. Georgie accepted a lavish gin-and-tonic and fished for her purse.

‘Is on me.' Juan waved payment aside. ‘Who is your friend?'

‘Neville Fancot. Do you know him?'

‘Señor Fancot? Of course. He is a nice man. Every year, he brings a pretty girl.' He leaned forward, lowering his voice. ‘But you are prettiest.'

‘I bet you said that to the girl last year,' Georgie teased.

The grin again. ‘Maybe.'

By the time Neville arrived, unsought by Juan, Georgie was two G & Ts to the good and feeling much happier. They went to dinner with another couple and she was at her most animated, assisted by a quantity of wine and a large digestif. Going up to bed she swayed a little on the stairs and complained of tiredness, and once in the room she slipped into the ensuite and changed into unusually demure pyjamas bought especially for the trip. Then she climbed into bed and fell instantly into something resembling sleep.

It wasn't that Georgie made a decision; instead, she put off the moment of decision-making, pushing it away from her, telling herself, in the native lingo:
mañana
. The problem could wait, the choice could wait, Neville could wait.
Mañana
. During the day they went to the beach, or lay by the pool, and Georgie hid herself in a book. Fortunately, since she had only brought a couple, the hotel had a good library. She allowed Neville to oil her back but declined his services for any other part of her anatomy. He went out for walks with fellow guests but Georgie didn't accompany them; it was, she said, far too hot. He also played tennis, but Georgie had never been sporty. She worked out regularly at a gym, and was in consequence fairly fit, but as far as she was concerned tennis was something that happened to other people, preferably on the Centre Court at Wimbledon while she consumed champagne and strawberries. (She had once been skiing, but had sprained her thumb on the first day, apparently by holding the strap of the pole incorrectly, and the doctor had told her that further activity would be inadvisable.) I hardly know him, she thought, with regard to Neville. Of course, she
would
have sex with him, that was why she had come on holiday, but not immediately. She needed a little time, that was all.

On the first afternoon, she retrieved her emergency Lil-lets from her suitcase, began to carry them about with her, and explained to Neville that she had her period. During the course of the evening he grew friendly, putting his arm around her and drawing her attention to the stars, telling her,
sotto voce
, that he really didn't mind a little blood. ‘I do,' Georgie said, accepting the arm and duly admiring the heavens.

‘You're still taking your pills,' Neville said. He must have noticed her keeping the packet in her bag. ‘You shouldn't be bleeding now.'

He would be a sodding doctor, Georgie cursed silently. ‘I'm changing to a new one,' she said. ‘My monthly cycle seems to have got scrambled.' She was wondering how long she could stretch the phantom menstruation out. Maybe three nights . . .