Chapter Six
Miranda
Leaving her suite with a towel, book and sun cream late Sunday morning, Miranda acknowledges that her role as Happy Single Holidaymaker will have to take a back seat today, after she vomited in the loo twice last night, then woke up dry-mouthed and hungover to shit. Even actors have their limits. She’s never drinking again, and that is a stone-cold fact.
As she heads down the steps to the pool, her billowing white kaftan brushes against the abundantly planted lavender bushes and she’s immediately transported back to Le Manoir aux Quat’Saisons, early summer, and the night that has since haunted her. It was Imogen’s birthday, the whole family were gathered there for a celebratory dinner, and Miranda had nipped out for a quick vape in the garden after the main course. Amidst the mingled dusk scents of lavender and rosemary, she’d exhaled vapour into the gauzy evening air, feeling stylish in a midnight-blue column dress, with her hair pinned and sprayed in an up-do. (She’s really going to miss calling in favours from the Amberley Emergency hair and make-up team if she ends up being chucked off the show for good.) She was also feeling pleasantly squiffy on all the champagne when Felix had appeared behind her, stealthy as a lynx. ‘Look at you, Sexy Miranda, star of the fucking show, as ever,’ he’d said, husky-voiced, into her ear. ‘Ican’t take my eyes off you.’
Her stomach turns now and she stumbles on the last step, her foot landing heavily on the terrace. She shouldn’t think about Felix; she refuses to give him any more time in her head. Nonetheless, she’s flustered, as always, by the memory. Damn him.
‘Morning,’ comes a voice, and it takes a second for Miranda to reorient herself and realise that the greeting was intended for her. There’s an elderly woman swimming a slow breaststroke in the pool, her short white hair gleaming in the sunlight.
‘Good morning,’ says Miranda in clipped tones. Possibly with an edge of don’t-talk-to-me hungover sourness. She’s here for herself, after all, and if she doesn’t want to be bored to tears by an old grandma’s witterings, then that’s absolutely her prerogative.
The pool is a decent size, at least twenty metres square, she reckons, with a fenced-off corner for little ones. A striped beachball drifts along the surface in a breeze, with an inflatable dolphin and a couple of floats elsewhere. Having draped her towel over a lounger, Miranda lies down on it, the canvas tightening beneath her. She’s already plastered herself in sun cream back in her room– an actress must protect her face– so now there’s nothing to do but settle her limbs, feel the warm sun on her body, close her eyes and breathe. Mind empty. Problems far away. Don’t think about the way she started chatting up the handsome bartender last night when she returned from the taverna, three sheets to the wind. Don’t dwell on her dreadful flirting attempts, all that cleavage-hoisting and doe eyes (cross-eyes, more likely, given how pissed she was). Definitely don’t think about how politely he turned down her advances, how he probably went back to his girlfriend or wife, complaining about what a bunch of cougars the hotel clientele are.
Ugh. Stop it, Miranda. You’re meant to be emptying your mind, not torturing yourself . She breathes deeply, doing her best to banish his chiselled face from her thoughts. Let there be blankness. Nothingness. Let everything just. . . drift away. Maybe if she can immerse herself in this kind of mindfulness, she’ll stop caring so much about her chaotic life. Just inhale. . . and exhale. Inhale. . . and—
‘Gorgeous here, isn’t it? Aren’t we lucky?’ comes the white-haired woman’s voice again, ruining Miranda’s moment of spiritual enlightenment. There’s a sound of swooshing water, and Miranda gives a small yelp and opens her eyes as a few tiny droplets splash her. The woman is hauling herself out of the pool nearby and the sun is momentarily blotted out as she stands before Miranda, beaming.
‘Mmm,’ says Miranda, then reaches down, rather pointedly, to brush the water from her leg. She ends up making something of a meal of it, wiping off imaginary splashes as well as the three or four minuscule droplets, but she is an actress, she can’t help herself. Also because an apology– or even some self-awareness, some acknowledgement!– would be nice. But no. Annoyingly, the elderly woman doesn’t seem to have noticed Miranda’s performance, because she’s already lowering herself into the neighbouring sun lounger. Damn it.
‘I’m Evelyn, by the way,’ she says, still smiling. ‘You’ve just arrived like me, haven’t you? How are you finding the place? Do you know Kefalonia at all?’
For crying out loud. Take a hint, Evelyn! What part of Miranda’s body language and facial expression is not saying ‘Do Not Disturb’? ‘Miranda,’ she replies, jaw clenched. ‘No, never been before.’
There– the bare minimum. But apparently that’s not enough to deter Evelyn. ‘Wonderful, isn’t it? We came a few times over the years, although we never stayed anywhere quite so luxurious as this, Ihave to say!’ Her laugh is rich and throaty, and she’s well-spoken, a voice that conjures up National Trust tea rooms and garden fetes. Maybe she’s a vicar’s wife, Miranda thinks, despite her self-avowed non-interest. She’s always prided herself on her ability to get into a character’s backstory; it’s something that’s hard to switch off. Evelyn would be a minor character in a detective series, she imagines: classic granny, the sort who wears a pinny and always has a Victoria sponge on hand, a proper one with jam and cream, in case visitors drop round. She knits baby clothes for the local hospital, and all the kids in the street knock at her house when it’s Halloween, because she never forgets to stock up with treats.
‘My other half was an archaeology professor, so we often stayed on digs in various parts of Greece,’ she goes on though, dispelling Miranda’s vicar theory. ‘And of course, the work was absolutely fascinating if you were into that sort of thing, but staying in tents with scant facilities. . . you know, you considered yourself lucky if you had a bucket to pee into, sometimes! Ican’t say that was my idea of a relaxing holiday.’
Miranda gives a polite laugh, more an amused ‘Hm’ than anything resembling genuine humour. Why does this woman think she– or anyone– wants to hear her peeing-in-a-bucket stories? Now her mindful serenity has been shattered by images of Evelyn squatting over a— No. Stop. Just ignore her, she orders herself. If only people came with an off switch.
‘ This place, on the other hand. . . my word. Idon’t remember the last time Islept in such a comfortable bed. Delicious food, too. Astonishing views! And everyone seems so friendly, don’t they?’
Miranda opens one eye suspiciously. Is Evelyn having a go at her? She remembers seeing the older woman chatting away to the waitress at breakfast earlier. Perhaps she regaled her with her bucket stories too.
‘SO friendly!’ Evelyn repeats. ‘Idon’t know about you but Ifind travelling alone to be rather fraught with stress at times– all those decisions to make oneself, having to be constantly vigilant through airports and stations, nobody to hold your bag while you go to the loo. . . I’m glad Ibothered, though. Especially as. . . well, for me, this will almost certainly be the last time I’m on Greek soil. You get to my age, unfortunately, and realise how short life is. And how we all need to get over ourselves and make the most of what we’ve got! Don’t you agree?’
Ahh– has she ditched the boring professor husband, then? Maybe she’s rocked up here on the back of some steamy Shirley Valentine fantasies. That good-looking bartender had better watch out, if so. ‘Absolutely,’ Miranda replies. ‘Good for you.’
Evelyn squirts sun cream into the palm of her hand, the tube making an accompanying fart noise. ‘Oops!’ she says, laughing. ‘Ipromise that wasn’t me.’ Then Miranda can hear her rubbing the cream into her legs and arms with horrible squelching sounds.
Gross, thinks Miranda, who finds bodies in general rather revolting. She has reached a grudging stand-off with her own one after years of hatred followed by some intensive therapy, but still feels a faint repulsion around the smells, noises and clamminess of others. Which can be a problem when you play the character of a doctor on a fictional A Felix’s hand on her waist, turning her towards him amidst the smell of lavender (‘Here she is, star of the fucking show’); Grant yelling at her in front of the crew, a vein bulging in his neck (‘What is wrong with you , Miranda?’); Imogen slamming the door on her (‘Ican’t believe you’ve done this to me!’).
Her throat feels thick with the effort of holding back all the things she could say but won’t. ‘Um. . .’ she says. ‘Ijust. . .’ She swallows hard. ‘Ijust needed to get away. You know?’
‘Oh, Ido,’ says Evelyn, her sun-cream applications mercifully over. She settles herself back on the lounger, hands folded across her belly. ‘Ido indeed, Miranda.’
You don’t , Miranda feels like telling her. Take it from me, Evelyn: you have absolutely no fucking idea.