Chapter 41
AMBER
The dream is always the same.
I’m standing by my mother’s grave, a handful of gritty soil in my fist. A man in a white robe, holding a staff – the vicar? – intones, ‘We commit her body to the ground. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.’
A hand in the small of my back, firm but insistent, pushes me forwards until I have no choice but to peer into the pit. My mother lies on her back, her jeans round her ankles, staring up at me with vacant eyes. A man is on top of her, grunting and thrusting.
He must sense me watching because he stops and looks up. It is Rob Harvey, grinning like a monster in a horror film. He curls a long, crooked finger, beckoning me closer.
I try to step back, to run away, but the hand on my back just pushes me closer. Rob’s face blurs, a momentary relief. But when it comes back into focus it isn’t Rob staring up at me from the grave below.
It’s Felix.
I know I’m asleep and that this is just a dream, but that doesn’t stop me breaking out in a sweat, my pulse rocketing.
I force myself to wake, desperate to escape from this horrible new take on the nightmare that’s plagued my dreams since Rob assaulted me in the photocopying room.
I reach out for Dom’s reassuring bulk, finding stones instead.
My eyes flutter open and immediately I’m almost blinded by a searingly bright sun.
What the hell?
My head is pounding. My tongue feels furry, my throat like sandpaper.
For a second, I have no idea where I am.
Stones press into me. Sand clings to my face.
I try to move but everything is too stiff, my brain too foggy.
All I’m aware of is the heat of the sun on my skin and waves slapping against the shore.
Waves!
I force myself onto my elbows and look around groggily.
I’m on a beach, the pebbles bleached white by the sun, a scattering of driftwood and tangled seaweed marking the high tideline.
To my left is the jetty where Yannis met us when we first arrived in Pelagia.
To my right, the craggy promontory that Villa Paradiso overlooks.
I’m still wearing last night’s clothes, I realise with a jolt.
The pretty little sundress I found online is rucked up around my waist and my feet are bare.
Filthy. My phone, in the pocket of my denim jacket, is flat.
With a creeping sense of dread, I haul myself to a sitting position and order my thoughts.
Slowly, memories of last night chase away remnants of the nightmare.
Simone’s birthday. The taverna. The sticky sweetness of my first Kir Royale. Felix’s hand on my knee, his fingertips brushing against my bare shoulder.
More alcohol. Simone’s eyes lighting up when Dominic gave her a copy of The Great Gatsby. The look of scorn on her face as she tossed my beautiful leather bag aside as if it was a piece of worthless tat. Barney and Felix rowing about a property deal before Barney stormed out.
Realising I was drunk. Felix following me to the toilet. Forcing himself on me. Dominic’s roar of anger. The dull thud of fist slamming into bone.
Dominic had grabbed my arm. ‘I’m taking you home,’ he growled. ‘Now!’
As he pulled me out of the taverna I’d taken one last look back. Felix was lying prone on the ground. Willow, her face as white as a sheet, was bent over him.
‘He’ll be fine,’ Dominic snapped at me, finally letting go of my arm. ‘Felix is a fucking cockroach. He’d survive a nuclear attack.’
I stumbled after Dom, my ankles turning in my flimsy sandals as I struggled to keep up. The beam of light cast by his phone jerked from side to side as he marched ahead, his back rigid.
‘Wait!’ I cried. Reluctantly he stopped until I caught him up, then he set off again at a furious pace, forcing me to break into a jog every few seconds to keep up.
We walked in silence for a while. My head was spinning – those bloody Kir Royales – and I needed every ounce of concentration not to stumble and fall.
I refused to think about Felix. If I did, I knew I would spiral, and the prospect terrified me. Instead, I said the first thing that came into my head, even though it was like picking a scab I should’ve left to heal. But that’s booze for you. It laughs in the face of common sense.
‘You still love Simone, don’t you?’
Dominic stopped so suddenly I almost collided with him. ‘What?’
‘That’s why you asked me out, isn’t it? Because I look a bit like her.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘It’s OK,’ I sniffed. ‘I get it. She was your first love. No one can compete with that.’
The moon chose that moment to come out from behind a cloud, casting Dom’s face in a silvery light. His expression was haunted.
‘It’s… it’s… complicated, OK?’ He plunged his hands into the pockets of his chinos. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed. ‘Simone, she… she’s not who you think.’
‘What d’you mean?’ I squeaked, my mind immediately going into overdrive. Is he trying to tell me she isn’t a corporate lawyer, but is in fact the boss of an international drug cartel or an undercover MI5 agent?
‘It doesn’t matter. Forget I said anything.’
‘Please, Dom, I want to know.’
He sighed, then, after an age, said, ‘She gives this appearance of being strong and resilient, but it’s all a front.
A defence mechanism. She’s fragile, you know?
Insecure. It’s why she’s so ambitious. She’s desperate for validation.
This partnership means everything to her.
And Felix is worse than bloody useless. To him she’s nothing more than a trophy wife.
That’s why I’ll always have her back. I kind of promised her. At university.’
I thought of the psychological thrillers Nessa loved. If this were fiction, Dominic would now ’fess up to running over a student when he was drunk, and tell me that Simone demanded his utter devotion in return for keeping schtum.
I reached out and touched his arm. ‘Does she… does she have something on you?’
He frowned. ‘What? No! Of course not. But she was my first serious girlfriend. I’ll always be there for her. So don’t ask me to choose.’
I recoiled as his words sank in. There it was. Proof I’d always be second best. Dominic might claim to love me, but he would always love Simone more. I took a deep breath, turned ninety degrees and started walking.
‘Where are you going?’ Dominic cried as I plunged into the thyme-scented scrub, following the sounds of the sea. I had no idea. I just knew I had to get away.
‘I need some space,’ I yelled over my shoulder.
‘Amber! Please! Don’t go like this!’
I quickened my pace. Thorny shrubs tore at my jacket and thistles scored my feet.
I held a hand in front of my face, a pathetic attempt to protect myself from the whippy branches.
Even then part of me hoped Dom would follow, full of apologies, assuring me that it was the drink talking and of course he loved me best.
When I finally stopped to catch my breath, my hands on my knees as I fought to draw air into my burning lungs, he was nowhere to be seen.
Now, as I inspect the angry scratches on my shins and feet, I’m surprised to find the inevitability of it all is almost a comfort.
I always knew I wasn’t good enough for Dominic and his friends.
I was just a girl from an inner-city estate who couldn’t even hold down a job in a call centre.
I didn’t inhabit their world of privilege and class, of public schools and high-flying careers, and I was fooling myself if I thought I could join them.
I scramble to my feet and scour the beach for my sandals, finding them near the high tideline.
I pull them on and begin the long walk up to the villa, draping my denim jacket over my head to protect me from the glaring sun.
I need to chalk the whole relationship up to experience and move on.
I’ll pack my things and ask Yannis to drive me down to the harbour in the golf buggy, where I’ll catch the first sea taxi off the island.
Once I’m in Thalassia, I’ll book a flight home.
I can’t wait to swap this relentless heat for London’s rainy streets, to dissect my holiday from hell over a pizza and a Coke with Nessa. I can’t wait to go home.
As it’s a Saturday, work on Villa Olympus has ground to a halt, though the gates are swinging open and a concrete-splattered wheelbarrow has been abandoned in the middle of the driveway.
Villa Paradiso’s gates are open too, and I trudge past the buggy and up the path, desperate for a drink and a shower.
The front door is locked, so I head round the side, expecting to find the others enjoying breakfast on the terrace, but it’s empty. So too is the kitchen, the living room, the downstairs bathroom and Felix’s cavernous study.
‘Hello?’ I call, feeling a little silly. My voice bounces off the whitewashed walls. No one replies.
I check upstairs, feeling like a cat burglar as I wander through other people’s bedrooms and bathrooms. But there’s no sign of anyone, not even Maria.
In our room, Dominic’s suitcase lies open on the bed, clothes strewn across it, as if he was in the middle of packing when he was interrupted, which makes no sense, because we’re not due to leave for another three days.
With a growing sense of foreboding, I trail back downstairs. On my way through the lounge to the huge bifold doors, something catches my eye. I trot over to get a better look. It’s a crumpled tea towel, smeared with a dark red stain.
A stain that looks a lot like blood.