Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
TIME DRIFTS IN SILENCE AS YOU FLOAT ABOVE THE WORLD . . .
At lunchtime the following day as the hot Egyptian sun shone down on the top deck of the SS Nefertari, Peter sat at a table in a shady corner and sipped an ice-cold beer.
The balloon flight at dawn, as the sun rose over Luxor, had been exhilarating, and he still felt on a high as he recalled the experience.
Suspended in the balloon’s basket, they’d soared into the sky, and Peter’s imagination plunged into overdrive.
He was no longer a tourist, camera in hand, enjoying one of the holiday’s highlights.
Luxor, spread out below, had become a classified map, the fields below were his agent cover and the temples his listening posts.
A roar of flame shot upwards as the pilot of the flight fired the burner and, raising his hand to an imaginary earpiece, Peter half-listened for instructions, mentally filing away fictitious details of rendezvous points should there be enemy fire during the voyage, and when Peter leaned on the edge of the basket, he shaped his hand as though holding a gun.
‘Do you think you could move over and not hog the best position?’ A woman nudged against Peter, the tail of her scarf whipping across his face as she jostled him aside.
Turning, he noticed that she held her phone, clipped to a selfie stick, and – framing her image against the view – clicked several times. Peter recognised Anouska and, deciding not to squabble, meekly moved to one side. Anouska, he thought, was not a woman to be argued with.
‘What happened to your husband?’ Peter asked when she lowered her phone and rearranged her scarf.
‘He got cold feet,’ she said.
Peter remembered watching Gerald as guests prepared for take-off.
He knew perfectly well that Gerald’s feet had probably turned to ice when an Egyptian the size of a bull had attempted to pick him up and hurl him into the basket of the balloon, as it began to inflate.
Unlike the others on the trip, Gerald had been unable to master the art of hoisting himself in.
Mumbling his thanks, he’d declined to go any further and hurried back to the transport they’d arrived in, to sit and wait for everyone to return.
‘It’s a shame that he’s missed all this.
’ Peter swept his hand, drawing attention to the pale ribbon of the Nile in the distance, twinkling in the first light of morning, as they floated over temples and tombs in the Valley of the Kings below.
Anouska ignored him and, pouting her lips, pointed the camera lens and began clicking away.
Now, draining his beer, Peter thought of his walk around Luxor the previous evening.
With his imagination in overdrive, a man sipping hibiscus tea outside a café became a Russian spy, and a boy on a bicycle was clearly running messages for him.
Luxor transformed into a web of intrigue and entering the souk, he’d darted among crowded stalls, between sacks of spices piled high, like a man on a mission.
Vendors shouting out to passing tourists and locals became informants and threats.
‘Another beer, sir?’ A steward hovered and removed Peter’s empty glass.
‘Yes, why not?’ Peter replied, pulled back to the present. ‘I don’t normally drink, but I am on holiday.’
The sun was baking, and as he looked around the boat, he saw Anouska standing beside a lounger.
She wore a white bikini and was applying lotion to her limbs.
Men, relaxing with partners nearby, surreptitiously peered over impulse-buy airport paperbacks or lowered their sunglasses to focus on Anouska’s perfect body as she stretched with ease, fully aware of the effect she was having.
Peter wasn’t a man who usually noticed women, but his gaze was drawn to Anouska.
Mary’s body had become comfortingly familiar over the years, and it had never occurred to Peter to look elsewhere.
Even in a harmless window-shopping sense.
During Tenerife holidays, Mary, in a skirted swimsuit and cover-up sarong, remained in the shade, applying factor fifty to her ample white flesh, before settling to read or scribble in her journal for most of the day.
It suited Peter perfectly, leaving him free to close his eyes and drift into his private world of espionage and intrigue, where he enjoyed the thrill of his imaginary world.
While he waited for his beer, he watched Anouska slowly lift her hair and secure it with a clip.
She smoothed gloss over her perfect, plump lips, then licked them deliberately.
An intimate gesture that Mary would never have made and, remembering his wife, he wondered where she was now and what she might be doing.
In all this time, she’d never once made contact, and he didn’t even know if she was alive or dead. Apart from him, Mary’s only family was an older sister, living out her final years in a home for dementia sufferers, her confusion mercifully erasing the absence of her younger sibling.
Did he miss his wife?
In all honesty, Peter thought, the answer was yes.
He missed having a home-cooked meal on the table at regular hours and another presence in the house; it was something he’d got used to.
But at Bully’s Butchers, they rarely spoke.
Mary immersed herself in work in the shop, serving customers, and Peter was busy making sausages in the kitchens at the back.
At home, when she wasn’t cleaning or cooking, Mary spent her time, as she did on holiday, with her head buried in cosy mysteries or jotting in a journal.
Peter hadn’t a clue what she’d been writing, because her notebooks had vanished too when she left.
As a couple, they’d grown apart, but Peter hadn’t realised just how far that had been.
Mary’s disappearance was still a mystery to him.
A nagging puzzle that a secret agent might solve, and although Peter would like to solve it too, in reality he didn’t know where to begin.
‘Your beer, sir.’ The steward twirled his tray and placed the drink on the table.
Peter took a sip and noticed, once again, Anouska posturing and preening, then bending low to reveal eye-watering angles. Peter hadn’t fantasised about a woman in as long as he could remember, but now his fantasies were drifting in a direction he’d not strayed towards in years.
Unexpectedly, he realised that she was staring at him, their eyes locking, and Anouska slowly smiled.
She’d been quite rude to him during the balloon trip, but now the signals she gave out carried a charge, and startled, he felt his stomach churn.
It had caught him off guard, and the electrified stirring Peter felt was like an old appliance springing back to life.
Acutely conscious that his body was misbehaving, Peter sipped the cold drink, closed his eyes and concentrated on the process of manufacturing sausages, which was normally a reliable sedative to send him off to sleep.
Unfortunately, the image of Anouska’s beautiful body refused to go away and combined with thoughts of handling thick juicy bangers in slippery cases, it had the opposite effect, and an embarrassing bulge strained against the fabric of his trousers.
Pushing his drink away, Peter stood. Then, after taking the stairs to his cabin two at a time, he burst into the room and closed the door behind him.
Had he imagined Anouska’s intent?
Was it something he’d invented, like the fantasies that constantly played out in his head? Peter felt confused, unsure where reality ended and imagination began. Bob would tell him to take a cold shower and settle himself down, but Peter’s mind was racing.
Deciding to do what he always did in times of stress, he picked up a pen and notepaper.
Minutes ticked by, and a little while later, two new recipes poured onto the page.
Setting the pen down, Peter slowly breathed out, his anxiety and desire gone.
Normal service had been resumed, and reaching for his phone, he sent a text to Bob.
Holiday going well. Feeling inspired. New recipes to follow re best-selling bangers!
Peter smiled and pressed send. Love at First Bite, and Plump Pork Promises would soon be flying off the counter at Bully’s Butchers!
Gerald felt refreshed after a nap and, as he climbed the stairs to the top deck, he stood back to let a man in a hurry pass. Recognising Peter, Gerald called out a greeting, but Peter seemed preoccupied.
Surfacing into the bright sunshine, Gerald tilted his Panama and looked around to find Anouska.
His wife had been sunbathing since they’d returned from the balloon ride, and he had no doubt that her skin was already turning golden brown.
That would enhance the new Instagram images, he thought, recalling the pretty white bikini that Anouska had laid out in their dressing room alongside a cut-away red one-piece and matching sarong.
Approaching the bar, he studied the ingredients of the cocktail of the day and decided that a Tomb Whisper was just the ticket.
Gerald watched as the steward theatrically mixed dark rum with pomegranate liqueur, date syrup, and a dash of Angostura bitters, pouring the liquid into a tall glass over ice, before finishing it with a twist of orange peel and a straw.
He thanked the steward, turned, and scanned the deck. But Anouska was nowhere to be seen, and Gerald decided to have a few quiet moments to himself.
Thank God he hadn’t gone on the balloon flight, he thought, as he found a comfy seat under a canopy.
The giant of a man who’d attempted to pick him up had been terrifying, and if he’d allowed himself to be hurled into the basket, Gerald knew that he’d be dealing with far more than grazed knees. Quite possibly a broken hip.
But he’d enjoyed being in the minibus that followed the balloon to meet the flight wherever it landed. Sitting alongside the driver, who offered Gerald a cigarette, they studied the sky and the slow drift of colour above them.