After the Ferry

by C. A. Larmer

  Harry added, “She’s probably curled up in her mum’s lap now, sobbing about her boring, miserable life.”

  “Shut up, mate.”

  But Harry wasn’t being entirely unfair. It had been an open wound that seemed to fester between the couple with every passing year. Amy had had a career once, she liked to remind everyone, had worked for a flashy woman’s magazine, but it always felt to him like she was admitting to some sleazy affair and left her looking grubby.

  “I’m sure she’ll be back in a day or so,” he’d told his brother, and his brother had stared at him oddly, as though worried about him, not his missing wife.

  “I’m starved,” Phil said, breaking through Tom’s thoughts. He looked around at the young boy with the old man’s worry on his face.

  “Come on then, matey, let’s head to the Boot & Tucker.”

  SARISI

  “Yassou!” Kostas called out to a tall Greek woman as he pulled up at the kerb in front of the Casa Delfino.

  It was your typical Greek hotel, pretty as a postcard with glacial white walls, impossibly blue trim, and neat planter boxes made chaotic with bursts of pink bougainvillea. There was a small taverna at the front boasting Fresh sea bass & BBQ calamari! and several tables and chairs straddled the footpath, their tablecloths billowing uneasily with each wind gust. Set on the other side of a pretty blue bay, there was nothing but a narrow, cobbled road and a bit of pebbled beach to separate the two, and today there was little passing traffic and certainly no bathers. It was not yet summer holiday season, and so only locals were going about their business, preparing for the onslaught.

  The village of Sarisi had developed haphazardly over several centuries around the horseshoe-shaped bay with a fishing wharf at one end and the old stone convent-cum-hostel on a rocky cliff top at the other. Gleaming cubed houses were clustered across the escarpment and surrounding hills, like white Lego pieces scattered in various directions, walls colliding with rooftops colliding with sundrenched patios. And at various intervals, the steep, narrow road with its large cemented pebbles and smudged donkey poo, winding its way down to the main town. At the bottom, the cobbled esplanade stretched from one end of town to the other, providing a border between the shops, cafés, and hotels and the main beach not yet decorated with summer’s umbrellas and chairs. There were Lego pieces there too; houses and hotels perched right on the waterfront, some leaning out, defying gravity, one with an enormous squid dangling from a veranda, as though it was trying to escape. There was another beach on the other side of the castle, its isolation and black volcanic sand luring fewer tourists, with only one hotel and café to accommodate them.

  “Hey, Effie,” Kostas said again as he strode through the restaurant’s courtyard, admiring the woman’s long, tanned limbs and curly black hair. She wasn’t bad for thirty, he thought. Pity she was such a shrew. “Nico inside?”

  “Nai!” she replied using the Greek word for yes. “Where else?” she then snapped, and continued preparing the street-side tables, slapping forks atop serviettes as though they had misbehaved, while red-and-white-checked tablecloths slapped back at her, threatening to pick a fight.

  Kostas stepped inside, past the small reception desk and staircase leading to the accommodation upstairs, and across the parquet floor, first glancing at the neon-lit bar, then to the kitchen at the back. He located Nicholas in the cold room, his nose hidden in a crate of tomatoes.

  “Oi, Nico! Where’s my morning coffee?” he demanded, one hand on hip, and Nicholas looked up and smiled.

  “Where it always is, mate, help yourself.”

  “Come join me.”

  “Hey, you know my cousin. She’s got me working like a dog, no time.”

  “Come on, man, I have some… how you say? Juicy gossip.”

  “You know I hate gossip, Kos. How many times I have to tell you that?”

  “You like this gossip. I promise. Is about pretty lady. Strange lady. Just your type.”

  Nicholas plucked two tomatoes from the box and then closed the cold room door, groaning as if Kostas was holding his arm behind his back. “Fine.”

  He pushed past him and out into the restaurant where he took up position at the bar’s espresso machine, measuring out the coffee, screwing the contraption into place, pushing two cups under the spout, and stabbing at a button. As the machine worked its magic, Kostas grabbed a discarded newspaper from a side table.

  “Hey, Effie!” he yelled outside in Greek. “Did your numbers come up last night?”

  “As if!” she screeched back. “But they will!” And then in English, she added, “One day, Kostas, I escape! You see! I go to Melbourne with Nico!”

  Kostas shot his friend a wary glance. For some reason Nico hated all mention of his hometown; it was the only subject that turned him into his cousin, slapping him into a bad mood faster than a snakebite. Kostas had learned that the hard way, but the Melbournian wasn’t taking the bait today. Perhaps he was in too good a mood. Perhaps he was just distracted.

  “So what’s up?” Nicholas said when the milk had been frothed and heated and poured into one cup, which he now dumped in front of his friend.

  “Huh?” Kos looked up from his paper. “Oh! Okay, so this lady, yes? She come to castle today. Is funny lady, little bit strange in her head.”

  “And?”

  “Not just strange, she Australian!” He let the last word linger in the air for effect, and Nicholas narrowed his eyes.

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really! Aussie. Like you, hey?”

  Okay, he thought. He hadn’t picked up on that, but then he’d only seen her from a distance. He’d been thinking Italian or Spanish perhaps. It wasn’t so much the thick, dark hair as the light coat and flash of bare leg above her boots. Most Aussies who arrived this time of year wore everything they could find in their backpacks, always surprised that the Mediterranean could dip below boiling point.

  Did none of them have a weather app?

  “I didn’t think you were open yet.”

  “Exactly!” Kostas pulled his cup towards him. “I tell her, why you want stay here? Go see Effie! Is better for you. She no care! Funny lady, but sexy!”

  “And?”

  “And nothing. Is still there.”

  “On her own?”

  “On her own! I tell you, crazy lady. Aussies are crazy people!” And he cackled, witchlike. “She say she looking for nuns, can you believe this?”

  “What nuns?” Nico asked as a crash could be heard from the front of the hotel. He frowned and called out to Effie, “You all right out there?”

  There was a moment of silence before she screeched back to him. “Bloody wind! I’m okay!”

  She must have forgotten to staple the tablecloths down he thought as he shared a snigger with Kos. They were both fond of the hotelier, but she was renowned for her temper. Nico found it amusing once. Now, not so much. He turned back to Kostas. “You were saying something about nuns.”

  “Yes, from old convent. Before it become hostel.”

  He nodded. “Right, yeah, forgot about that. What did you tell her?”

  “No nuns here! Don’t you worry about nuns!” He cackled again.

  Nicholas gulped his espresso in one and glanced at his watch.

  “Well, that was riveting.” He sang out again, this time up a set of stairs: “Theo! Running late, mate. Let’s move it or you’ll miss the ferry!”

  A few minutes later a teenage boy came crashing into the room like there was a zombie on the loose and he was next on the menu. He was wearing a blue-and-grey uniform and had a bulky backpack in one hand. Somehow he managed to pull up just short of Nicholas, offering him a grin and flicking his fringe from his eyes.

  “D’ya bring my boots and shin pads?”

  Nicholas frowned. “What do I look like? Your butler?”

  “Just asking.”

  “Well don’t just ask. You’re old enough to worry about your own bloody soccer boots.”

  “Foot
ball! It’s called football.” Theo shared an eye roll with Kostas, and Nicholas pretended not to see. He couldn’t seem to get anything right these days.

  “We’ll have to nip back and grab them on the way. Come on, your mum’ll kill me if we miss the ferry again.”

  “Hang on!”

  Theo bolted into the kitchen and as he went Nico couldn’t help the lump that was forming in his throat. He loved that kid, would miss him acutely when he left for Athens, but he knew it was for the best. A classic oddball, a bit of a loner, Theo had few friends on Sarisi and, if it wasn’t for his killer left kick, he’d have even fewer, Nico knew that. There was nothing like football to help build bridges. On the mainland he didn’t have to do any building; there were more likeminded mates to choose from. He could be himself there.

  Still it didn’t mean Nicholas didn’t miss him, didn’t mean he didn’t wish he was here each and every hour.

  After a few minutes, Theo reappeared with an orange in one hand and what looked like a filo pastry hanging from his mouth. He called a garbled goodbye, first to Kostas, then once outside, to Effie, who pulled him into a bear hug.

  “You know I love you,” she said. “You know this, yeah?”

  “Yeahhhh!” He wriggled out of her arms with a groan but was grinning as he headed for Nico’s dusty hatchback.

  As they pulled out of the hotel driveway and onto the esplanade towards the wharf, neither of them noticed Effie still watching them, a grim look on her face, a piece of cracked crockery in each hand.

  EVE

  Beryl Malone’s voice was high-pitched, but there wasn’t any panic. Not yet.

  “No, Monty, of course my daughter’s not here. Why would she be here? On a weekday? That’s absurd.”

  Now that she’d said it, the idea did seem ludicrous.

  Before Monty could respond, Beryl added, “You don’t know where she is then?”

  “Um, not at the moment, no. You see, I’ve been out of the office for a few days, so…”

  She pictured Beryl in her neat little kitchen, her perfect doily tablecloth, a pot of tea stewing on the stove no doubt. She was like the proverbial ’50s housewife, with her tidy aprons and home baking and scotch and dry ready for Ron when he returned from the office. Except it wasn’t the 1950s and Ron was retired now, unless you counted worrying about Amelia as an occupation.

  Amelia used to mock her mum for her dowdiness and lack of ambition, but Monty had been charmed by it. She first met Amelia’s folks at their Year Ten speech night—Amelia was clutching a handful of books, lousy prizes for being top of English, History and Commerce (Monty was holding just one book for Art)—and found them delightfully old-fashioned. Even a little quaint, with their frumpy clothes and the way they clung to their daughter, pride oozing from their eyes. (Monty’s own parents were so utterly un-parent-like. They dressed, drank and smoked like grad students and, when they weren’t at each other’s throats, were so entrenched in their careers—Monty’s dad was in banking, her mum managed a clothing store in a swanky Sydney suburb—they barely had time to look up and certainly had no time to attend their children’s awards night.)

  When Monty’s parents finally split at the end of her schooling, her two brothers just fifteen and twelve, the only thing left to squabble about was who was going to get lumped with the boys.

  Monty had envied Amelia back then and wondered what it was like to grow up with sitcom-perfect parents, but then the incident happened, and she saw the downside of all that—the terror, the accusations, the overprotection, the guilt.

  And she knew that if she didn’t find Amelia in a hurry, it was about to rain down all over again.

  “Didn’t she have a meeting or something?” Beryl was saying, her voice still upbeat. “I’m sure she had a meeting, dear. Melbourne wasn’t it?”

  “That’s next week. She usually goes down to the printers to check the cover. She’s supposed to be here this week. In the office. We haven’t even designed the cover yet. That’s why I’m a little… Well, that’s why I’m calling.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  Beryl’s voice was still calm, which surprised Monty and buoyed her a little. If the mother’s not panicking, she thought, but then she heard a distant voice and a fumble, and her heart sank.

  “Hang on, dear. Ron would like a word.”

  Monty braced herself.

  “What’s this about my baby going missing?” Ron’s voice was gruff but jovial.

  He was waiting for the punch line, and she wished more than anything she could deliver one. For now she went into damage control.

  “Oh, Ron, it’s not that she’s missing as such. She hasn’t been in for a few days, and you know what Gerry’s like. I’m pretty sure I know where she is.” Liar, liar. “I thought I’d check with you first to see if you know—”

  “Of course we don’t know! How are we supposed to know?” No more jovial tone then. “You’re the one who’s supposed to know where she is, Monty. Why are you asking us this?”

  “I just needed to check, that’s all. We have a few more avenues. There’s a spa she’s been keen to try out. I bet she took herself there for a bit.” Monty smacked a hand against her forehead as she said it.

  “But surely she’d tell you! How could you not know?”

  “She probably did and it slipped my mind. I’ve been away myself, see, and then my phone had no charge and I lost a bunch of messages.” Lies, more lies. “I’m expecting to hear from her any minute.”

  “But I don’t understand. Should… should we be calling the police? Should we—”

  There was another fumble, and Beryl was back.

  “For goodness’ sake, he does carry on. Sorry about that, Monty. I’m sure everything’s fine. Please don’t get yourself into a lather. We’ve got the keys to Amelia’s house. I’ll get Ron to swing by there in the morning and see what’s what. Maybe she’s tucked up in bed, feeling out of sorts. In the meantime, you just focus on that magazine. I know she’d want you to get on with it.”

  “Thanks, Beryl.” Thank God the mother wasn’t overreacting. Yet.

  Monty hung up and dropped her head onto the table. If only Amelia’s parents were as crappy as hers.

  As day turned to evening and the staff gradually slunk away—many earlier than normal because the cat, after all, hadn’t been seen for days—Monty tried to return to her burgeoning workload but kept sneaking glances at her mobile phone, which mocked her with its silence.

  Where the bloody hell was Amelia?

  And what would possess her to be out of the office during this crucial period?

  She shoved the phone under a stack of proofs and turned back to her computer screen, trying not to frown. She had earlier read that you could reverse the signs of aging by simply not exhibiting any expression. None at all. Like a character from a soap. At least that’s what their beauty editor, Beatrice, had espoused, selecting an image to go with that priceless piece of advice—the unblemished face of a model who was sixteen if she was a day.

  It wasn’t lack of expression that ensured her unmarked features, thought Monty, grumpily, it was a lack of life. Just wait till you get to thirty-three, sweetie, that’ll wipe the smug glint from your unlined eyes.

  “Monty?”

  She snapped her head around, frowning despite the beauty editor’s advice. Her senior designer was standing there, hands wedged into the pockets of his jeans. She dropped the frown and smiled back at him.

  He was the only testosterone in the entire office, as good-looking as he was good-natured. Monty remembered when Amelia first hired Hank about two years back. He’d come straight from some music magazine but looked more suited to Esquire or GQ—clipped beard, black Ray-ban eyeglasses, Ralph Lauren jackets. Amelia had joked he’d be good eye candy for the girls—“give us all some relief”—and she was right. But he was also a sweetheart, and Monty had entertained the idea of asking him out several times before common sense prevailed. She was his boss; it would be inappropriate. Besid
es, who had time for dating? How optimistic an idea was that?

  But Hank was more than a pretty face, he was a skilled designer. Too skilled for this job, Monty thought now. He should be doing her job; she should be elsewhere.

  She shook the thought away. “What’s up?”

  “I’ve got a stack of layouts to be checked. Should I whip them past Alex first or…?”

  Monty frowned harder. Amelia would die if she knew Alex was checking the designs. The deputy might be a whiz with words, but she wouldn’t know a good layout if it smacked her between the eyes.

  But what choice did they have? Deadline was fast approaching, and the phone hidden on her desk had offered no solace. She glanced at the darkening sky outside and said, “Just hold off until the morning. I’m sure Amelia will be back first thing.”

  He looked relieved as he turned away, but she hadn’t convinced herself.

  What if Amelia wasn’t back? They didn’t have any more time to waste. The issue was due at the printers next week, and they were already way behind.

  Was Alex capable of getting them to the finish line?

  Monty didn’t think so. Amelia certainly never had.

  She remembered the editor’s hesitance before hiring the deputy. How unconvinced she’d seemed. Amelia had spent hours trawling through job applications, reading and rereading, desperately trying to find a better match for her deputy. Yet she kept coming back to Alex.

  “She is a very good writer,” she had told Monty. “Her CV’s impeccable. I just don’t know…”

  “Don’t know what?”

  Amelia could never explain, but time had proven her instincts correct. There was just something off about Alex. She never quite fit in, never fully belonged. She was like a fish out of water who’d learned to breathe but still flapped about awkwardly making everyone awkward around her.

  Monty’s computer suddenly pinged. There was a fresh email, and she felt her heart leap. But it was a message from Alex, wondering where all the designs were.