Chapter 1 #2
And while helicopters may seem like a fancy-schmancy way to get about, they make me queasy.
That day, the ride to Aetheria was particularly bumpy – crosswinds, apparently – so I was struggling to hold on to my lunch.
And BA does a particularly nice lunch at the pointy end of the aeroplane.
However, the journey to Aetheria also served up a visual feast that lifted my spirits and kept my mind off my innards erupting.
Below us, the Aegean sparkled with thousands of pinpoints of sunshine, the water an array of colours, shifting and surging as if in a dance – sapphire, midnight, teal… Every shade of blue all at once.
The pilot named the islands of the Cyclades as we passed by, his commentary in my headset another distraction from the nausea. There was Kea to the left, Kythnos right below us, Syros just ahead…
He flew us lower over Syros, giving me a proper look at its enormous port and brightly coloured buildings, the eggshell blue of a church dome capturing my eye. It was a stunning island. Note to self: book a holiday to Syros.
The helicopter climbed again and a few minutes later, the pilot’s voice came over the headset. ‘You’ll see Mykonos to our left and Naxos to our right.’
I looked in both directions over the expanse of water towards their ragged coasts.
Naxos was vastly larger and greener than Mykonos, but both were rather unremarkable from that high up, evidence of those iconic white boxy structures invisible to the naked eye.
I wondered if Julian’s island would have them.
‘About five minutes out, Ms Novak,’ said the pilot.
‘Thank you.’
I craned my neck to see out the front window of the helicopter, hoping to get a glimpse of Aetheria. The pilot looked over his shoulder and broke into a smile beneath his aviators. ‘Just over there,’ he said, his arm extending to the southeast.
I leaned further forward and there it was – tiny compared to other islands we’d passed.
But beautiful, the features of its varied topography sharpening as we drew nearer, then followed the coastline south.
A jagged, curved cliff, a sliver of snow-white sand at its base, the water in the cove turquoise.
Gently sloping land, strewn with stands of Cyprus trees.
Jagged, reddish rock formations. And on one of the gentler slopes, an erratic grove of gnarly, thick-trunked olive trees, likely growing there for centuries.
The helicopter banked and my stomach lurched, but before I could start fantasising about returning to Athens by boat, the resort appeared, hugging the southeast coast. It was the only structure on the island and whoever Julian’s architect was, they’d absolutely smashed it.
Whitewashed villas dotted the wide terraces, their flat roofs gleaming under the Aegean sun and each one cocooned in lush greenery.
Stone pathways meandered through manicured gardens, where bursts of bougainvillea and oleander painted the landscape in pinks and reds, visible even from the air.
Closer to the shore, sleek cabanas lined the crescent-shaped beach, positioned to gaze out over a single pier that reached into the aquamarine sea.
And midway down the hillside, a long, whitewashed building commanded attention, its flagstone patio stretching beside an impossibly long infinity pool.
It was breathtaking – a sanctuary carved into the rugged beauty of the island, clearly designed for those who expected luxury.
After sweeping over the resort, we hovered above the helipad, downwash bending the tops of nearby Cyprus trees, and slowly lowered to the ground. A man was standing off to the side awaiting our arrival and it took me a sec to realise it was Julian.
He looked handsome, as always – his dark-blond hair greying at the temples, his skin bronzed save for the laugh lines around his eyes – but the Julian I knew would never wear head-to-toe white linen or sandals.
Oh, the horror! But there he was, the picture of ashram chic, his hands resting in his trouser pockets and one hip slightly cocked.
This was a less buttoned-up, less affected version of Julian.
The pilot got out and opened the door for me, and I gratefully stepped onto terra firma. Julian came forward, smiling, and grasped both my hands in his.
‘Welcome to Aetheria,’ he said, leaning down to kiss one cheek then the other.
‘Thanks, Jules.’
He smelled great – Julian always does – but this scent was a stark contrast to his signature spicy cologne. It was citrusy with a hint of sea salt. Or that could have been the light breeze that was catching the loose tendrils around my face.
‘You look absolutely beautiful,’ he said, taking a step back to look me up and down. It was impossible to ignore the flirtatious glint in his eyes, which gave me pause.
Typically, Julian respected the invisible border I’d erected when we divorced.
But there was nothing typical about this (literally) unbuttoned version of Julian – Julian 2.
0. My eyes dropped to his chest, most of which was on display, and when I lifted my gaze, he was grinning cheekily.
Oh god, he must have thought I was flirting back. Only I wasn’t.
‘You cad,’ I said with a laugh, adding a half-serious finger wag that would’ve made Claude proud. ‘I’m here for work and that’s all.’
‘Well, you can’t blame a man for hoping,’ he said with a droll smile. His words hung in the air for several seconds, then he broke eye contact and threw his arms out wide. ‘So, what do you think?’
Glad to move on to the reason I was there, I beamed at him. ‘Oh, Jules. It’s just magical. And it clearly agrees with you – you seem almost… relaxed,’ I teased.
He sniggered, clearly chuffed.
‘It is magical,’ he agreed, ‘and this is just the helipad. Come on, let me show you around.’ He offered his arm, and I slipped my hand into the crook of his elbow.