Enemies to Lovers

Chapter 4

4

‘To family,’ Alex says, raising his glass so that the rest of us follow. ‘You all do my absolute nut in, but I love you, and I’m glad we’re all here together.’

The seven of us are having a quick aperitivo before we head out, all of us various shades of pink except Jamie, whose tan, impossibly, seems to have darkened even more, despite the fact we’ve only been at the villa for twenty-four hours. He’s wearing cut-off denim shorts and a white vest with huge armholes, so that half his torso is on show. Should nipples be allowed at dinner? I can’t believe nobody seems to mind. There’d be uproar if I wore something even a degree as revealing. Where is his self-respect?

‘To family,’ we all echo, smiling. I can’t speak for anyone else, but it’s touched me that Alex would be so uncharacteristically sweet, even if he does let out a massive fart as he lifts his glass.

‘Pardon me,’ he says, not meaning it at all.

‘Oh my god , Alex!’ Jamie coughs, his eyes watering at the smell.

‘Mate, don’t,’ Laurie warns him. ‘If we don’t collectively ignore him, it only serves as encouragement. Alex doesn’t register the “negative” part of “negative attention”, if you catch my drift.’

Alex farts again.

‘Told you,’ Laurie says. Alex grins.

As we marvel at the sunset and quaff down our beers, nibbling on crisps and some olives, I sidle up to him and ask, ‘You okay, bro?’

He furrows his brow like the question offends him and replies, ‘Yeah, little sister. Are you?’

‘Do you know what?’ I reply. I’ve sunk my beer already and the sunset is all pink and gorgeous and it makes my shoulders sit lower, my jaw loosen. I am determined to enjoy this holiday. Determined! ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘I am. Like you say, everyone does my nut in, but I’m glad we’re all here together.’

Despite Jamie being here , I think to myself – but I don’t say it. He doesn’t deserve the oxygen.

‘You sound soft.’ He winks after he speaks, letting me know he’s ‘soft’, too.

‘It’s in my DNA,’ I retort. ‘Which I hear can run in the family.’

Alex scrunches up his nose at me playfully, and I mirror it. He’s done it to me since we were kids – always him first, as a gesture of brotherly love, and I always copy, an acknowledgement that I have received said love. Feelings without words. Alex and I have our own language that way. He’s always been nicer to me than Laurie. Laurie tormented me as a kid – he still does – but Alex always found a way to distract him. He didn’t outright stick up for me or tell Laurie to back off (Laurie wouldn’t have responded to that), but he’s always made room for me, let me be a tiny bit more of myself. Laurie has all these ideas about how I should behave and it’s like I always let him down. Alex lets me be myself.

‘It’s a proper nice place me and Dad booked for tonight,’ Alex says, rubbing his hands together. ‘Those night-lights are strung up in the courtyard, good view, proper mom-and-pop owners and we saw a sign for live music in the square, too. Oh, actually—’ He looks at his watch. ‘Drink up, gang! It’s about a fifteen-minute walk and the table’s booked for half past.’

‘Look at you,’ I comment, ‘being all organised.’

‘I know,’ Alex shrugs. ‘I surprise myself sometimes.’

‘We’ll make a man of you yet?’ I ask.

He laughs. ‘Something like that, yeah. Come on. You can sit next to me if you like. Seat of honour.’

We assemble, grabbing handbags and locking doors and making sure we’ve all got phones for the way back – it will be dark and it’s not very well lit, so we’ll need the torches.

‘You can hold my hand if you get scared,’ Laurie says to Jamie with a wink.

‘I’ll assume the position of the thorn between roses, with Mike and Vee on either side of me, I think,’ Jamie bats back.

‘Isn’t the expression “rose between two thorns”?’ Dad asks.

‘You could never be the thorn, mate,’ Jamie tells Dad. ‘You’re not only the flower – you’re the whole damned garden.’

Dad chuckles. ‘I can see why you do as well as you do,’ he says. ‘Smooth bastard.’

Alex and Dad lead the way, since they know where we’re going, with Mum chatting amiably alongside them. Laurie and Kate fall into step behind, holding hands and being in love and happy. So that leaves Jamie and me at the back of the group, the air between us thick with the sound of crickets and hostility, one foot in front of the other in unfriendly but rhythmic steps. I turn my face away from him and list what is good in my head – another trick from my therapist. There’s the sweet smell of lavender in the air, a cool breeze dancing through the trees. I feel pretty in my maxi-dress, in that way that’s very specific to being on holiday. I didn’t wash my hair because the sea salt in the ocean made it dry with waves more luscious than I could style myself, and even with a smidge of sunburn, at least my freckles are out already, splattered across my cheeks. My family is here. I am safe. I have a wonderful best friend and am lucky to be able to have therapy. And Greece is beautiful.

I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay.

The feeling I had at drinks earlier on intensifies: something close to happiness. My breath deepens. We’ll have a great dinner tonight. My family is at its best around a table. Always has been. As long as Jamie is seated at the other end, it could even be a wonderful night. I think about what Kate said about having a Greek fling. Maybe I should keep my eyes peeled … it’s about time my libido came out of hibernation. All of Hope’s stories are making me think I deserve a little fun, too. Getting flung would feel like an achievement, in so much as letting myself actually have fun would be a first. Maybe it’s my bare shoulders and wavy hair and this dress … I’m kinda feeling myself. It’s been a while.

Crunch, crunch, crunch. The gravel underfoot makes a satisfying noise as Jamie and I walk, left-right, left-right. It’s annoying that I become aware of the nearness of him, the light notes of that cedary scent I caught a whiff of yesterday on his T-shirt. I’m surprised I’ve not been more ribbed about that today, but then fair play if nobody wants to think about their sister’s boobs. If the topic of the day has moved on, I’m in luck.

The path narrows, so everyone has to meander single-file, and Jamie steps back, holding out an arm to signal I should go ahead. I should just keep walking, go in front and let him fall behind. But for some reason his display of gallant gentlemanly manners irritates me. I don’t want his empty gestures.

Let’s not speak of this again …

I wish the words weren’t so branded on my brain.

‘I’m fine,’ I tell the ground, my voice tight. ‘After you.’

I sweep my arm out in front of me, and when Jamie doesn’t move, I glance up to be greeted with that look . The muscles in my face harden, my brow lowers and we stay like that: staring each other out. His eyes are cool, and his pecs – all too clearly visible because of that poor excuse for a ‘T-shirt’ – rise and fall with his breath. I think he’s putting it on. But also there’s a tiny bead of sweat up near his hairline, and it’s oddly satisfying to see it grow in my peripheral vision until it falls down his cheek. He lifts a hand to wipe it away: slowly, purposefully, his eyes alight with something I’m not so familiar with. He looks … sad? Well, if he is: good. Maybe he’s learned a valuable lesson about how to treat people. This ice between us is his doing, after all. This is the path he chose.

I hold his eye. I haven’t played at a staring contest since I was about ten, when Laurie would stare at me in the car on long trips and, when I’d move to look at him, he’d shift his gaze an inch so that he was actually looking past me. I’d stare at him until he moved to try and ‘catch me’, and we’d go back and forth like that until he complained to Mum and Dad that I was bugging him, when he was the one who’d started it.

‘Are you two coming or what?’ Dad yells, from halfway down the path.

I don’t take my eyes off Jamie as I answer.

‘Yeah!’ I say. ‘Jamie’s going to follow first.’

He looks away. I’ve scored my point. In what overall game, I am unsure, but it’s definitely 1–0 to me as Jamie exhales deeply and moves up in front, his head down.

‘Whatever,’ he mutters. ‘I don’t know why I bother.’

‘You don’t,’ I shoot back, but I don’t think he hears me.

At the restaurant, our hosts are delighted by Jamie’s ability to make small talk in rudimentary Greek and so we immediately become the most favoured table in the house.

‘Welcome, new friends,’ a portly chap with sweeping grey hair says as he dishes out menus and bread baskets. We order drinks and they’re delivered with a few picky bits to whet our appetites, and I have to say, the smells coming from the kitchen are outrageous . I can’t tell if I want calamari or catch of the day or moussaka … I feel ravenous. Not only for the food, but for feeling this contented. If I’d known Jamie was coming and had somehow turned this down, I’d have been an idiot. There’s no substitute for travel, and travel with family is next-level. There are no airs and graces. That’s the thing I always struggled with when I had communal living at university: to truly let somebody see you – and I mean the most unpalatable, Gruffalo-like version of you – really takes some intimacy. I’ve never had that level of intimacy with people outside my bloodline. It’s just not the same.

We quieten as we study the menus, and I take a moment to marvel at the exact shade of pink in the sky, and how the condensation feels on the glass of my chilled wine. I must be smiling, because I accidentally lock eyes with Jamie and the right side of his mouth curves upwards, before dropping suddenly when I frown, challenging him to another staring contest. He doesn’t take me up on it, but instead looks back down at his menu, although his eyes don’t move, so I’m not sure he’s actually reading it. If I’ve unnerved him in any way, I’m pleased, because he should feel a fraction of what I do whenever he’s around.

I know I’m supposed to be paying no mind, but it’s frustratingly hard.

‘Well,’ Mum says brightly, once we’ve placed our order, ‘what a great find, guys.’

‘Told you,’ Alex boasts. ‘It’s mine and Dad’s superpower, figuring out the best places to eat. Isn’t it, Dad?’

Dad chuckles. ‘To be honest, son, I’m just your wingman. You find these places all by yourself.’

‘Batman is nothing without Robin,’ Laurie points out, which sounds dangerously like backing up Alex’s point. He must be feeling as happy to be here as I am.

‘True,’ says Dad. ‘And I have always suited red.’

‘Is that why you’ve gone for the sunburnt look?’ Laurie teases, and Alex hoots out a ‘Whoa-ah!’ We all laugh.

‘Laurie,’ Dad says, pretending to be disinterested in the insult he’s about to issue. ‘At least when I commit to the sunburnt look, I go all-in. Those white bits around your eyes? Not Vogue .’

‘Not Vogue ’ is Dad’s way of saying ‘unfashionable’. Why? Who can say.

‘I wore sunglasses on our walk!’ Laurie says, defending himself.

‘Might I also suggest a hat?’ Dad asks, and we all laugh again. Nobody means it. Not much, anyway.

We order, and talk about Laurie and Kate’s new flat (expensive), Alex’s work (exhausting) and Mum’s retirement plans (undefined). It’s like everybody gets equal airtime, and so I know I have to have a turn, too. I can’t stand it, though. I get it: I’m the family screw-up, the one not quite able to be a proper adult. Nobody needs to point it out. In fact it would be great if we could rewrite that narrative, somehow. It’s just that every time I try, I get tongue-tied and my cheeks flush. When that happens, it’s like I prove Laurie’s theory that, emotionally, I’m a teenager.

‘How are you feeling about your PhD being finished, Flo?’ Alex asks. ‘I’d be overwhelmed, in need of a massive break, if I got a third degree …’

‘So says the doctor,’ I counter, trying to keep things light, and he waves a hand to bat me away.

‘I don’t think she likes talking about it,’ says Laurie, glancing at me as if daring me to disagree. Is he being protective or combative? With Laurie, it can be so hard to tell.

‘Don’t you?’ Alex asks.

I pause in my response, because the answer is No! I do not want to talk about myself. But the words stick in my throat because stupidly, annoyingly, irritatingly, I’ve got tears pricking at my eyes. Why am I like this? I don’t know what it is – why I’m on the cusp of crying. I’m having a nice time. I’m fine! Now everyone is going to think I’m not fine, and that’s so galling. I suppose it’s like pushing a bruise, talking about myself, about my life. It’s tender. That’s why I avoid it at all costs. These tears are coming from nowhere, but they’re definitely coming – and now everyone is looking at me.

There’s an awkward pause and I cast a glance up to find an ally, and see that even Kate looks a bit sympathetic, a bit poor Flo . And that’s it; an errant tear escapes and runs down my face, and I push it away but another comes, so I look down at the napkin on my lap and focus on making sure there are no more.

‘Oh, darling,’ Mum says, as Alex whispers, ‘Sorry.’

I shake my head, but thank god the waiter arrives with our main courses then, right in time. It’s so much food that we have to move glasses and shift the vase of flowers in the middle of the table. We busy ourselves rearranging the tablescape and, by the time we’re sorted, there’s a lull in the conversation, nobody sure what to talk about next.

‘I have to say,’ announces Jamie, as we all quietly chew our food, ‘I’m envious of the lot of you: accomplished, handsome tarts, you all are. Two lawyers, a medical doctor, a PhD … Although I must add,’ he says, leaning over for the salt, ‘obviously all control is merely an illusion.’ He meets my eye as he says that, and I find I can’t look away. ‘Who has any idea of what our futures might hold?’

And he’s done it. He’s picked up the chat, steered it into neutral territory and, before I know it, we’re back to being the version of my family I love most, talking shit about what we’d do if we could control the future, all the funny things we would do. He’s … rescued me? I’d be furious at the suggestion I need rescuing, if only I wasn’t, on this one occasion, so very grateful.

Hours later and the air is cool and my cheeks are warm. After Jamie expertly navigated the conversation away from me as the headline, everyone seemed to realise that I really have had enough of being picked over – even if they mean well – and made the effort to have a really good night. Mum and Dad even got up for a dance at one point, in the square where the band was playing. It must be so comforting, knowing you’re with your person, that you’ve created this whole branch of the family tree together, that you’ve got a legacy, and each other. Anyway. That’s my family in a nutshell: they push me to the brink and then pull me back in for warm and fuzzies. It would send a lesser woman mad. I watch my parents sway cheek-to-cheek; Laurie and Kate whisper sweet nothings, while Alex and Jamie are listing things they admire about each other …

Oh my god, they’re drunk. In fact I’m drunk. If I’m on the verge of throwing my arms around one of them to tell them how much I love them, too, then I have definitely had one too many. Ooooops .

The second piece of evidence that the booze has rushed to my head? As we’re tipsily traipsing back up the hill with our iPhone torches lighting the way, I’m feeling called to say thanks to Jamie. He didn’t have to help me out back there. But, curiously, he did.

We automatically walk in the same configuration as on the way down, with me and Jamie bringing up the rear. As we get to where the path narrows, Jamie falls back and then catches himself, seeming to remember how aggressive I was the first time and so dropping to his foot to tie an errant shoelace, letting me go ahead. It’s only when he’s down there that he seems to remember he’s in flip-flops.

‘Hey,’ I say, lingering as he stands. ‘Cheers. For before.’

I’m hoping he’s catching my drift. I don’t have the capacity to fully break it down.

‘I didn’t do anything,’ he shrugs dismissively. He issues a wave, as if I’m a gnat that is bothering him and should just buzz off. It’s giving me ‘only speak when spoken to’ vibes, and I am not into it.

‘What?’ I say, taken aback by his attitude.

‘I said, I didn’t do anything,’ he repeats. And because I am stunned into standing still, he takes the opportunity to overtake me after all, rising to his feet to take the hill in huge strides that mean I have to take three of my tiny steps to his one. He’s practically running away from me. My anger flares like a dragon’s roar.

I break into a jog to close in on Jamie, right as the path widens again. Now I can overtake, so I do. And as I pass I utter one word, because why can’t he simply be nice? I was giving him a compliment! Showing him my gratitude. Can’t we even be civil in that way? ‘Farthead,’ I say, under my breath … but loud enough for him to hear clearly. God, now I know I’m pissed. Farthead? Who, after the age of six, says that ?

‘Excuse me?’ Jamie asks, marching purposefully up behind me. I don’t slow down. I am apoplectic. I know what it is: it’s the dismissiveness. Well, I won’t stand for it. Nobody can treat me that way, not least within my own family. I wouldn’t take it from my parents, or my brothers – and if he’s going to be on this trip with us, I won’t take it from Jamie, either. I think that’s where ‘farthead’ came from. I should have said something much stronger, but he’s annoying me like the boys did when we were young, so our go-to insult from when we were little slipped out. Anyway, if the shoes fits, etc.

‘You heard me,’ I say, and it’s like we’re competitors in a ‘fast walkers’ competition, arms at right-angles, feet moving deftly. ‘You’re a … farthead.’

I say it plainly, as facts should be spoken clearly. I can see the house up ahead, lit up from lights strategically placed throughout the gardens. I want to get inside, head on up to my room and take a shower to wash this … this feeling off me.

‘You’re a dismissive, rude … farthead,’ I finish, as my parting shot.

I must have yelled louder than I realised – I blame the drink – because my whole family turns round then, to see what’s going on. Jamie clocks this as I do, so if he’s got anything to say to my pronouncement, he doesn’t, saving face in front of anyone but me – his main objective in this life. I take this as another win.

‘Don’t mind us!’ I sing-song.

‘No,’ Jamie says, sounding wounded, switching tack from the strong and silent-to-me type, to ham it up now he’s got an audience. ‘Come on, Flo, that’s not fair.’

Mum nudges Dad, her way of telling him to pay attention to what’s happening, and he says, ‘Ow, Vee. That hurt!’

‘Oh, for god’s sake, Michael,’ she tuts, but I see her catch Kate’s eye, and Kate pulls a face. She purses her lips, and Mum sets her mouth in a straight line in reply. What the hell is that supposed to mean?

‘Who’s got the key?’ I ask, and Alex remembers he does and lets us all in.

Jamie is right behind me as we file through to the kitchen. He’s close. Too close. Closer than he has any right to be. He hisses, ‘How can you go from thanking me to calling me names, in just two sentences? And farthead at that?’

Right as I’m about to say easily , Dad cries out, ‘What the hell?’

I bang into Kate in front of me, who has banged into Laurie in front of her.

‘Bollocks!’ Dad cries. ‘The pipe has blown.’

There are a couple of inches of water across half of the kitchen floor, but more than that: a burst pipe from somewhere near the sink is spraying water, like we’re in a Beyoncé video. I have no clue what to do.

‘Mike, we need to find the stopcock,’ Jamie says, his voice calm and smooth, like he sees this all the time. He pulls off the scrap of fabric that allegedly passes as his top as he pushes past me, wading through the water towards the leak, ready to put the vest over the cause of the spray. It happens in slow motion: he’s the month of May in a filthy calendar of ‘World’s Sexiest Deckhands’ (World’s Sexiest Dickheads?), the spray arching up to the ceiling and down over his head to wet his hair, which he flicks back off his forehead. Very you’re worth it. The vest goes over the tap, but not before his torso is hosed down, so that when Jamie turns to ask Laurie to come and hold it, his body glistens with moisture.

All I can think is: Oh, for god’s sake.

‘Grab this, mate!’ he says, beckoning with his free hand to Laurie.

It’s like the scene from Mad Men where Don Draper fixes the leak at his neighbour’s dinner party, all the women swooning over the sight of a strapping bloke saving the day. Kate reaches out a hand and clasps the top of my thigh in delight. Mum turns to us with a raised eyebrow of appreciation. Aren’t they embarrassed to gawp so openly? The way Kate exhales makes me think obviously not.

Jamie flings back the door to the cupboard under the sink, dropping to his knees in the small lake that is growing by the second. He pauses to run a hand through his sodden hair, pushing it back from his face. I swear to god that he closes his eyes as he does so, for extra effect, like this is another big performance for him.

‘Oh shit, look,’ I hear Alex say; he has hung back to keep dry with us girls. He’s pointing to the room off the kitchen and down a couple of stone steps: Jamie’s bedroom. It’s even worse than the kitchen.

‘Oh god,’ Mum says. ‘I’ll go and search out some linens. Jamie will have to sleep on the sofa tonight … I’ll call the landlady in the morning to get a plumber.’

Whatever Jamie does under the sink works, because the fountain of water stops with a whimper. All I can see of him are his waist and legs: he’s lying on his back fiddling with pipes and bolts, head hidden, with Dad handing him things from a toolbox he’s found. Jamie’s shorts are low, below his belly button, with a soft tuft of hair trailing down to … well, underneath his shorts. His legs are bent to support him, every move of his arms rippling down to his torso, shimmering as it is with water, and sweat.

I don’t mean to, and it repulses me, but … I gasp.

‘I second that,’ whispers Kate.

I scowl at her.

‘Hey, we’ve both got eyes, babe. I see what you see.’

Okay, fine. Sometimes – very occasionally – Jamie can be in the ballpark of ‘attractive’.

Rarely.

But yes.

Every now and then. If you forget his actual personality.

Mum comes back with as many towels as she can carry and points to the cleaning cupboard under the stairs. ‘Get the mop, would you, love?’ she says.

In the more shallow areas they sop up all the excess with the towels. I go back and forth between them, pushing water into puddles, so it’s easier to get up. It’s hard work, to be fair, so we’re all quiet, the jovial atmosphere of earlier ebbing away. It’s only when we’re about done, and we all pause for breath, that I remember how furious I am at Jamie’s attitude from before. Everyone is shaking his hand and slapping his back, to say good job on leaping into action – if anyone else remembers Jamie and me shouting gangbusters at one another, they’ve forgotten it fast. I’m going to call it a night, before I bring it back up again. I just can’t be bothered to deal with all this. I am calm and serene. Thoughts of Jamie roll off me. I am untouchable. Unbotherable.

‘Before you go up, Flo,’ Mum says, as I give her a goodnight kiss on the cheek, ‘Jamie’s going to have to bunk up with you tonight. His room is totally trashed.’

‘What?’ says Laurie, with about as much shock as I feel.

‘His room is flooded, and the sofas are all two-seater things. They’re not big enough for anybody to sleep on comfortably,’ Mum explains. ‘I saw there are two beds in Flo’s room when I was looking for the linen cupboard.’

She looks between me, Laurie and Jamie, and all of us have approximations of the same outrage painted across our faces.

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, you’re all such prudes! Laurie, first of all I’m not asking anybody to do anything I wouldn’t ask of any of you. Also,’ she adds, her features darkening with mischief, ‘butt out.’

Laurie gasps, practically clutching his pearls.

Mum turns to me and Jamie. ‘I know you like your own space, Flo, but in times of need we all have to compromise. Jamie darling, it’s only a single bed you’ll have, but at least that’s better than the floor. Alex’s room is basically a cupboard with a tiny bed in it, plus he snores like a dinosaur. Flo doesn’t.’ She winks at me. ‘Well. As much.’

‘I’m sure Jamie doesn’t want to—’ I start, right as Jamie says, ‘That will be more than fine, Veronica. Thank you.’

He shrugs at me, as if he’s helpless. Surely Alex will swap, so that I can have the one-bed room and he can share with Jamie in the twin? I wait for him to offer. He doesn’t.

I look away from all of them and stare at the ceiling. I cannot believe I have to share a bloody room with Jamie now. Why does he even have to be here?

This is not the holiday I signed up for. I storm off and grab my phone. I pull up my texts with Hope. You won’t BELIEVE what’s happened now! I type, flames practically coming out of my fingertips, I hit the phone screen so hard.

‘Try looking up from that thing,’ Jamie says, when he spots me. ‘There’s a whole world beyond it, you know.’

Urgh .