Chapter 35
There’s a bit of to-and-fro-ing when we get to the car because Mark thinks his genitals entitle him to drive.
‘You’re not insured on this car.’
‘It’ll be fine.’
‘It’s my cousin’s car, and I’m not going to break the law.’
He makes a big show of huffing and accepting his fate in the passenger seat, sliding it as far back as it will go, but it’s still not enough to fully stretch his legs.
‘Are you in a bad mood because you’re hungry?’ I ask as I navigate out of the car park. ‘I can stop somewhere for food.’
When I flick my eyes to him, he looks sheepish. ‘I’m fucking starving.’
He directs me to a sandwich truck that’s usually parked on the road to the airport.
‘Panayiota’s chargrilled pork is the stuff of legends,’ he says.
When we stop at some traffic lights, a pink-faced man in the next car leans out of the window.
‘You are lush, darling.’ He waves a can of Heineken. ‘Bet your tits are—’
Mark leans forward and pins him with an incredulous stare.
The change in the catcaller’s demeanour is almost comical. ‘Sorry, mate, didn’t see you there.’
The lights change, and the beered-up lads zoom off.
‘Fucking dickheads,’ he mutters.
‘Well, the important thing is they apologised to you.’
He looks at me like he hadn’t noticed the omission. ‘Sorry,’ he says sheepishly, ‘on behalf of all men who turn into sleazy arseholes whenever we see a beautiful woman.’
Before I can unpack what he’s said – he thinks he’s as bad as the yobbish tourists, and that I’m beautiful? – he points up ahead. ‘That’s our turning.’
I hadn’t been hungry when I’d suggested a pit-stop, but once we park and start walking to the food truck, the smell of charcoal whets my appetite. I’m not sure I can manage the pork souvlaki with all the trimmings that Mark orders, so I settle for a chargrilled chicken salad.
He stops me when I reach for my purse. ‘For fuck’s sake,’ he says in quiet exasperation. ‘Let me buy you a damn salad.’
His hand stays on my bare arm for a couple of moments, and even though I try, I can’t think of anything to say.
‘Want to eat by the sea?’ he asks. ‘We’re only five minutes from Mackenzie Beach.’
We follow the line of palm trees and manage to snag the last pair of sunbeds under the shade of a seagrass parasol. We’re closer to the pavement than the water, but the sound of the waves lapping the shore is pleasantly zen-inducing, even above the squeals of happy children.
Mark straddles his sun lounger and attacks his pitta, while I prop myself upright, my legs stretched out in front of me, and take small mouthfuls of salad with a wooden fork.
I let him eat. At the rate he’s going, he’ll have finished the whole thing in five bites.
Eventually, I ask the question that’s been weighing on me. ‘What’s going on, Mark?’
‘We’re sitting on a beach in Cyprus named after a Scot who opened a restaurant here in the nineteen forties.’
‘That’s not what I meant, and you know it, but annoyingly, I have to ask, is that true?’
‘Yep,’ he says. ‘Check Wikipedia.’ He takes another monster bite of his food.
He probably thinks I’m going to whip out my phone and look it up, but I’m not going to let his little history lesson distract me. ‘Your behaviour last night felt very …’ I search for the right word. ‘Self-destructive.’
He swallows and wipes his mouth with a napkin, the shiny paper rasping against two days’ worth of beard-growth.
‘I was drunk and tired and clumsy. That’s all there was to it.’
‘Where were you yesterday?’
‘Why all the questions?’
‘Of all people, I think I’m entitled to ask.’
He bounces a knee up and down. His restlessness makes me sure he wants to talk about it, but not quite yet.
I don’t want to push him, so I resort to that clichéd conversational lubricant: the weather.
‘God, it’s hot.’ I fan myself uselessly with a hand. ‘It’s driving me crazy to be at the beach and not get into the water.’
His eyes flick to the thin straps of my dress. ‘You wearing anything underneath that you could swim in?’
That he might be imagining what’s under my dress makes my mouth dry.
I manage a small shake of the head. ‘Not if I don’t want to get arrested.’
‘What if I promise to bail you out?’
The tone of his voice is doing little to cool me down.
Something is different about him today, something physical, and it’s giving me goosebumps. And then I realise it’s because he hasn’t shaved.
The addition of stubble is like fairy-dust over his glorious face. It makes his lips darker and fuller; it adds sparkle to those single-malt eyes, the flash of an ice cube in the crystal glass.
He should look ragged, sleep-deprived and dishevelled, but instead, he looks like a rock star who just rolled out of bed after a night of orgiastic sex and is ready to play Wembley.
I feel horrible for the direction of my thoughts. He almost died, and I’m acting like a frisky teenager.
‘Let’s walk,’ I suggest brightly. ‘I want to feel the sand and sea under my feet. I’ll miss it when we’re back in London.’
I pull the bows on the laces of my wedges, then slip my feet free. Mark’s feet are already bare – he discarded his hideous flip-flops as soon as he sat down.
I’ve maybe taken three steps before the soles of my feet start burning. I hop back to the shade of the sunbed.
Mark follows me. ‘I guess we need to wear our shoes,’ he says. He slides his flip-flops back on. ‘These monstrosities can handle getting wet.’ He nods at my fabric wedges. ‘Not sure yours can.’
‘If I run fast, maybe I’ll make it to the water before a layer of skin burns off?’
He shakes his head. ‘I’ve got a better idea.’
‘If you’re about to offer me your ganja sandals, I’d rather risk third-degree burns.’
‘Nope.’ He comes to stand in front of me, turns sideways and points at his back. ‘Jump on.’
‘You want me to ride you like a pony?’
He tosses a glance over his shoulder. ‘That will get us both arrested.’
My cheeks heat up. I’ve muddled up pony ride and piggyback because his stubble is turning me into a walking Freudian slip.
Before I can second guess myself, I stand on the sunbed and climb onto him, wrapping my arms loosely around his neck and shoulders.
My dress isn’t quite long enough to cover my knees, so when he hooks his hands under them, he’s touching bare skin. The grip of his fingers feels shockingly intimate, and for a moment I imagine being alone with him in the dark, those hands parting my thighs with single-minded intensity.
Trembling, I make as little body contact as possible, and when we’re at the lapping waves and he lets go, I try to ignore the friction as I slide off him and focus instead on my feet sinking into the wet sand.
It’s breezier at the water’s edge, and we instinctively stroll towards the airport end of the beach where there are fewer people. In the relative quiet, I’m hoping he’ll open up.
‘I found your crucifix,’ I begin. ‘At least, I assumed it was yours. There’s nothing more Catholic than a crucifix, but I didn’t think you were much of a believer.’
‘I’m not. I was given it as a kid.’
‘By who?’
‘My Italian grandmother.’
The image of the cigarette packet in the bin floats into my head. The foreign writing suddenly making sense.
Was it Italian?
Everything slows down as I make the final connection.