Chapter 4
AMBER
I shield my eyes from the sun as Pelagia draws near. The island is a speck in the sapphire-blue Ionian Sea, like the floating meringue in a sea of custard – sorry, crème anglaise – I had in the Michelin-starred French restaurant Dom took me to for our six-month anniversary.
‘The French call it oeufs à la neige, or snow eggs, though we know it as ?le flottante, which means floating island,’ Dominic said, peering at me over the gilt-edged menu.
‘How d’you know all this random stuff?’
‘I did a couple of seasons as a chalet host in Chamonix.’
‘While I was a Saturday girl at Superdrug,’ I joked, and he’d chuckled and held out a spoonful for me to try.
The boat cuts through the water towards the tiny island.
Its diesel motor is noisy and I’m relieved to have an excuse not to have to make small talk with Victoria and Barney.
They’re both on their phones. Barney is tapping his foot on the bottom of the boat, a frown on his face, the picture of irritation.
Victoria stares at her screen blankly as the wind whips her strawberry-blonde hair across her face.
Briefly, she closes her eyes, then slips her phone back into her bag.
When I glance back at her, she is rubbing her thumb against the pad of her index finger, round and round, like she’s self-soothing.
Gradually, Pelagia grows bigger until I can make out a small cove fringed with trees and a sweep of sandstone cliffs atop which stands a lighthouse.
I’d been bewitched by the handful of photos of the island I’d found online.
Shaped like a teardrop, it juts out of a sea as blue as the Caribbean.
Just four kilometres long and three kilometres across at its widest point, Pelagia’s main income comes from wine and olive oil.
There are two tavernas but no shops, so groceries are delivered by water taxi.
On the west coast are a number of small sandy bays, each as curved as a crescent moon, linked by a looping, dusty track. The east coast is more dramatic and rugged, boasting views across to the Greek mainland. Between them lie olive groves and vineyards and a scattering of white-painted houses.
Dominic taps my shoulder and points to a lone figure standing on a small wooden jetty at the far side of the cove.
Simone’s husband, Felix, probably. He’s a property developer who, according to Dom, has made millions converting derelict industrial buildings on the banks of the Thames into lavish apartments that stand empty for fifty weeks of the year because their owners have so many other homes. I wave, but he doesn’t wave back.
The skipper cuts the engine and steers alongside the jetty, then jumps out and ties the boat firmly. Now we are here I can see that the man waiting for us clearly isn’t Felix. Not unless Felix is Greek and in his early twenties.
‘Yannis!’ Dom cries, leaping onto the jetty with the grace of a jaguar.
The young man holds out a hand but Dominic is one step ahead of him, wrapping him in a bear hug and clapping him on the back.
‘Good to see you, mate. You keeping well? How is your pappou?’
‘As stubborn as ever. But, otherwise, well, thank you.’
‘You remember Victoria and Barney, don’t you? And this is my girlfriend, Amber Miller.’
Yannis’s eyes widen a fraction, then he remembers himself and bobs his head. ‘Nice to meet you, Miss Miller.’
‘Please, call me Amber.’ I step forwards and shake his hand. His grip is strong and surprisingly assured for someone his age.
‘I’ve brought the buggy to take your luggage to the villa.’
‘Never mind the luggage. What about us? I’m not slogging up that bloody track in these.
’ Victoria looks down at her bejewelled Dolce and Gabbana thong sandals.
I saw a similar pair in the latest edition of Vogue when I was getting a trim at the hairdresser’s last week. They cost over five hundred pounds.
Yannis’s brow wrinkles. ‘I only have room for two on the cart.’
‘No problem. We’ll walk.’ Dom takes my hand, and I could kiss him. Being squished up next to Victoria on a golf buggy holds little appeal. Besides, it’ll be a chance to see a bit of the island I’ve been dreaming about for the last few weeks.
Dominic tips the skipper and we watch the boat slowly disappear.
‘Thalassia looks a long way away,’ I say.
‘Seven miles,’ Dom says. ‘Not far.’
He’s wrong, I think, as I gaze at the sheer expanse of sapphire-blue ocean between us and Pelagia’s nearest neighbour. It might be seven miles, but right now we could be on another planet.
If anything went wrong out here, we’d be on our own.