‘It’s a great view, isn’t it?’
Becky, wearing a pair of sea shoes she had found in the utility room that were at least a whole size too big, crunched the soles down into the stones. It was another beautiful beach. White stones and small patches of sand in between, leading down to a shore where the waves seemed to be increasing in intensity the more she eyed them up. The sky was still a perfect blue, but it was windy. Petra had claimed it perfect sailing weather and she had bounced around the patio earlier, holding up miniscule swimwear in an effort to get Becky to help her choose an outfit for the expedition. No hangover was evident in the demeanour of the twenty-year-old. Becky, on the other hand, had already downed five super-strong Greek coffees and didn’t feel vaguely normal at all. But the scenery was helping. This beautiful aquamarine bay with the rise and fall of the mountain behind it and again, with the peaks across the water in Albania.
‘The waves are starting to look fierce,’ Becky commented. She was wearing a life-vest and that had worried her from the very outset.
‘I didn’t mean that view!’ Petra remarked. ‘I meant Atlantis and Troy.’ She made some strange feral-cat-style noise. ‘I like a bit of a wetsuit look.’
Except the men weren’t wearing wetsuits. They were wearing nothing on their torsos and some sort of tight-fitting bottoms that stopped mid-thigh. It was all a little bit Aquaman.
‘You have to admit they’re both fit,’ Petra said, continuing to admire the men who were now in the water and taking ownership of two rather flimsy-looking craft. The sail was tall like a yacht and billowing with the force of the wind, but the hull of it was small. It barely looked able to contain a whole person, a bit like the chairs in Eleni’s cafeneon.
‘Becks! Are you listening to me?’
‘No,’ Becky answered. ‘I’m concentrating on looking at those boats that are bumping up and down on the waves like they’re made of paper.’ And not a nice, plush thick kind you might make a glossy leaflet out of. No, the really thin printer paper that usually got stuck in the roller.
‘Come on,’ Petra said, swinging an arm around her shoulders and pulling her forward. ‘Once you’re on the water you’ll love it. And you can stop worrying about someone nicking the Aston Martin because you’ll be at sea and not able to do anything about it.’
‘Petra!’ Becky hissed. ‘I’m worrying about it again!’
‘We parked it behind a bush!’ Petra reminded. ‘With the cover over it. Which I think makes it look well-dodgier but…’
‘At least it doesn’t quite shout “Hello, I’m worth seven million pounds”.’
‘The latest estimate is nine million,’ Petra told her, walking to the sea’s edge. ‘The value seems to be going up every time I look. Oh,’ she said turning to look at Becky. ‘I found something else out this morning too.’
‘The flamingo isn’t back, is it?’ Becky asked. ‘Because I thought I saw it this morning in the garden.’ But it could have easily been a mirage due to her hangover. She’d been seeing two coffee machines for the first hour…
‘No, but I know that Elias isn’t an estate agent,’ Petra told her with a knowing nod. ‘You were spot on there.’
‘He’s not,’ Becky said. She didn’t know whether to feel pleased that her suspicions about him had been correct or to be disappointed that he had been lying to her since they first met.
‘I Googled him this morning. The right spelling of his name this time.’ Petra waved at the men and urged Becky forward again. She was glad she was wearing the sea shoes. She couldn’t imagine how Petra was gliding over the pebbles so at ease with being barefoot.
‘Well,’ Becky said. ‘What does he do for a living? Who is he?’
‘He’s—’
‘The boats are ready! Come on!’
It was Troy calling. Atlantis, Becky had discovered over the one coffee they had shared at the taverna before they came on down to the beach, didn’t smoke but didn’t seem to talk much either. It had been hard work trying to build on pleasantries when someone didn’t appear willing to get on board with the conversation concept. At first Becky thought it might be because he was Greek and didn’t know much English, but he’d managed to say quite fluently that he hated tea and he hated rain and he hated the colour white because it wasn’t really a colour at all. White was, according to Atlantis, an ‘irrelevant body’. Becky had wanted to say that made no sense at all, but frankly she couldn’t be bothered. Who hated a colour so passionately that they had made up a stupid little phrase to accompany the hatred?
‘Are they getting on the boats with us?’ Becky asked, sea shoes meeting the foaming water breaking on the shore. As much as she was apprehensive about the whole sailing thing, she also didn’t want to be too up close and personal with the man named after a fictional island.
‘No, don’t be silly,’ Petra answered. ‘They’re one-person boats.’
‘I’m going to sail it on my own?’ Perhaps sidling up to Atlantis mightn’t be so bad.
‘Yes. But you’ll be fine. We’ll get a little instruction before we sail off and the four of us are heading out together so you won’t really be on your own. And it’s only around the bay. It’s not like we’re going to end up in Albania.’
‘But, Petra, I’ve seriously never done anything like this before,’ Becky told her. She realised she was shivering and in the intense heat of the day, the water around her shins not even tepid, that couldn’t be a good thing.
‘I know,’ Petra said, grinning. ‘And that’s why this is so great. Think of it…’ She looped her arm around Becky’s shoulder again. ‘After this holiday you can add so much more to your CV. Cave-explorer, Greek dancer, sailor, cat-wrangler…’
‘Petra, what does Elias do for a job?’ Becky asked.
‘What do you think he does for a job?’
Not this again. This man had definitely had far too much time spent with people trying to guess his occupation.
‘Just tell me,’ Becky demanded.
Petra smiled. ‘The first thought I had when I found out was “wow, how boring is that” but then I visited his website, and then I read this four-page article in All Life magazine and my tongue seriously hung out of my mouth for the photos and I thought “wow, maybe I should have kissed him harder even though he’s twenty-nine”. I worked out his age from the article.’
‘Petra! What does he do?!’ Becky’s heart was racing. She had no idea what her housemate was going to say. Perhaps he was a model or an international playboy or an heir to a cobalt mine…
‘He’s a big-shot lawyer,’ Petra announced, confidently wading into the sea like she was half-mermaid. ‘Has his own company. Making shitloads of money and having to turn down clients because of his popularity among the elite. The article called him “Mr Divorce”. He only deals in matrimonial cases… oh, and the article also accused him of hating women because he allegedly only takes on men as clients.’ Petra had made quote marks in the air when she had said the word ‘allegedly’.
Elias was a divorce lawyer? He only took on men because he hated women… Becky shook her head. It didn’t sound like the person she thought she had been getting to know a little. This news proved all the things that Hazel and Shelley had warned her about. And she had heeded their warnings, but she had also thought she knew better, had let herself feel an attraction…
‘Come on, Becks!’ Petra called, beckoning her.
Shaking her head to dismiss this new news, Becky stepped into the sea. She had a date with a dinghy to conquer before she did anything else.