You Then, Me Now

by Nick Alexander

  The island, if you’ve never seen it, is in the shape of a backwards C with a few tiny islands nestling in the bay, protected by the curve, and around them the open, endless blue of the sea and sky. It’s truly breathtaking.

  The rocky faces of the cliffs were a deep grey, almost black in places, and the houses, without exception, were spotless white with deep-blue doors and window frames. A few, which I guessed were churches, were topped with blue domes like the photo I’d had in my bedroom all those years.

  ‘Wow,’ I said to myself.

  When Conor returned to stand beside me, I said it again. ‘Wow! Just wow.’

  ‘It’s pretty, all right,’ Conor agreed. ‘But feck knows where the beach is.’ We were a few hundred yards above sea level.

  ‘Closest beach is Baxedes,’ the porter informed him. ‘It’s ten minutes.’

  ‘By car or on foot?’ Conor asked.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Is it ten minutes in a car?’ Conor repeated, speaking pedantically and mimicking driving. ‘Or by foot . . .’ His fingers made a little walking motion.

  ‘By bus,’ the porter said in perfect English. ‘You can buy tickets in the lobby.’

  As soon as he had left, Conor headed off to rent a car. He didn’t, he explained in no uncertain terms, ‘do’ buses.

  He was gone for over two hours but I didn’t mind at all. I folded out one of the deckchairs the hotel had provided and opened up the parasol, then reclined and stared at the view. I watched the tiny ferries as they came and went far below. I watched fishing boats and spotted a man on a jet ski criss-crossing the sea with little white lines as if it were a vast blue canvas. I tracked the sun as it moved across the cloudless sky and thought, Wow! A week here!

  I was already in love with Santorini, just as I had always known I would be. Conor’s ups and downs were perhaps, I decided, just the price to be paid to experience it all.

  It was almost four o’clock when he returned and, though I’d eaten a sandwich on the boat, I was feeling hungry. But Conor had already eaten.

  ‘The feckers were closed until three,’ he told me. ‘But we’re mobile now, so let’s go before we miss the sun.’

  He drove erratically across the peninsula and I wondered if he was struggling with the car – a dusty little red Fiat – or if he had been drinking again. But I didn’t dare ask. I think that slowly, subconsciously, I was starting to feel afraid of him. Better late, I suppose, than never.

  The beach was a vast swathe of deep-grey, gravelly sand. It was so hot that when your flip-flops sank into it, it burned the edges of your feet.

  There was a small, private section, a simple one-deep row of crisp white parasols flapping in the breeze, and a friendly young guy who couldn’t have been older than fourteen selling beer, Coke and peanuts.

  ‘Is there anywhere to get food?’ I asked him.

  ‘Peanuts?’ he repeated, pointing to his basket of goodies with a shrug.

  So while Conor downed endless Greek beers, I made do with Coke and peanuts.

  A couple of hours slipped by in a contented blur of dips in the sea (it was so warm, you didn’t even sigh as you slipped beneath the waves) and sips of Coke, and tiny siestas where I’d fall asleep on my back and then wake myself up by snoring.

  Eventually, Conor declared, out of nowhere, that he was bored. He sprang to his feet.

  I tried for the first time to pay the bill, but Conor wouldn’t hear of it.

  As we set off across the beach, he said, ‘It’s bullshit here. We should have gone to Spain.’

  ‘Really?’ I asked, shocked that we could be experiencing such different things and wondering if he was being facetious. ‘I think it’s stunning.’

  ‘Stunning but boring.’

  ‘What else would you have done in Spain?’ I asked him, trotting to keep up. ‘Other than lie on a beach and swim in the sea?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Conor replied. ‘All I know is that lying on that beach bored me silly.’

  ‘I’ll lend you one of my books,’ I suggested. I had brought three of Mum’s novels with me to read on the beach.

  ‘Yeah,’ Conor laughed. ‘Yeah, that’ll do the trick!’ Again, I didn’t know if he was being sarcastic or not.

  Back in Oia, we parked up in a dusty car park and descended a hundred steps to our beautiful, hobbit-like abode.

  Again, we showered, but this time when I came out of the shower Conor was there, waiting for me, his pride and joy clearly ready for another round.

  ‘I’ve got a little problem here, so do you think you could see your way clear to coming and sitting on this for me?’ Conor asked.

  And because he was laughing and because I was loving Santorini, and indirectly Conor for bringing me here, and because after an afternoon on the beach I was feeling relaxed and yes, sexy, that’s exactly what I did.

  Afterwards, Conor said he was going to snooze for twenty minutes, and because I was too excited about our view, I showered again and crept outside to my deckchair.

  I worried for a while about Conor and wondered again if it was all going pear-shaped and whether I was going to have to try to change my ticket. But I decided that if things carried on as they had been, it was probably going to be fine, and it was almost certainly easier to just put up with Conor’s moods until we got home, whereupon I could take an informed decision based upon a sort of averaging-out of his erratic behaviour.

  That might sound like a bad choice to some, and looking back that’s almost certainly what it was. But as I said, I was incredibly inexperienced. I had no idea how sex, or even relationships, for that matter, were supposed to happen. I had no point of reference at all, and was about as naive as they come. I was also severely lacking confidence about things like trying to change air tickets in foreign countries . . . I had never travelled overseas before, after all.

  I worried for a bit about the whole contraception business, too. But again, the idea of trying to get something from a Greek chemist scared me. Who knew what their attitudes to contraception were? My own mother had shouted and raged quite terrifyingly anytime anyone had even mentioned contraception on the television, so I knew people could react badly. Plus, it all seemed a bit of a moot point anyway. We’d already had unprotected sex twice, so I could hardly start asking Conor to use condoms now, could I? I decided to just deal with it once I got home.

  I thought of Mum, of course, who believed I was in Cornwall camping with Abby, and wondered what she’d say if she knew what her daughter was up to, and felt a flash of pride at my recklessness, followed by a sharp rolling wave of Catholic guilt for my sinning, and then actual fear at the thought of what might happen if she did find out. But the view eventually calmed me. It stilled my thoughts and doused my worries and my fears.

  The sun was heading inevitably towards the horizon and the sky was turning a deeper shade of blue. I sat and watched it change in what I suppose one might call a meditational state and observed my thoughts as they stilled. I surveyed my worries and imagined them drifting away, like clouds.

  Along one side of our terrace was a little, irregular staircase, moulded from concrete and winding down the mountainside. Each step had been painstakingly bordered with white paint, presumably so you could see your footing better in the dark.

  Occasionally people would pass by and at one point a tall, blond man of about my age, a sporty young hiker type in trousers with lots of pockets, wearing a backpack, passed by, and as he did so, he nodded and smiled. So I smiled back and asked him what was down there. I had been wondering about that for a while.

  ‘A very small port,’ he said in perfect English but with a strange accent I couldn’t place. ‘And a tiny beach.’ He paused and dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief from his pocket. ‘It’s just rocks, really,’ he continued. ‘But you can swim quite easy if you want to. And there is some small fish restaurants in addition. But they fish the fish – is that what you say? Yes? They fish the fish themselves.’

  ‘T
hat sounds lovely,’ I told him. ‘Maybe we’ll go there tonight.’

  ‘It is lovely,’ he informed me, ‘but about one million steps, so . . . Good day.’ He tipped his blue baseball cap at me, in what seemed a strangely formal gesture in someone my age, and headed on, climbing the steps until he vanished behind our unit.

  By the time Conor surfaced it was seven thirty and the sun was setting. The sky looked like a paint chart, with distinct bands of colour: a deep orange at the horizon, then yellow, then pink, and finally a stunning gradient of blue that went from turquoise at the base to a deep, star-studded inky black above our heads.

  ‘Hello, sleepy head,’ I said, without tearing my eyes from the mesmerising sunset.

  ‘Will you look at that!’ Conor exclaimed.

  ‘I know,’ I agreed. Then, only thinking it as I said it, I added, ‘This is the first place I’ve ever been that makes you realise you’re on a big lump of rock hurtling through outer space. Do you know what I mean?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Conor said vaguely, as he stepped to the edge of the terrace and looked out. ‘It is pretty though.’

  ‘Apparently there’s a restaurant at the bottom of those steps,’ I told him, pointing. ‘It’s supposed to be lovely. They do freshly caught fish from their own boat.’

  ‘Says who?’ Conor asked.

  ‘Oh, just some guy who was walking past.’

  ‘Some guy, huh?’ Conor commented. ‘So that’s what you get up to when my back’s turned!’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Chatting up strangers, are we?’

  As often, I couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. I sometimes wondered if he knew himself.

  ‘He was just a guy who was walking past, that’s all. He said there are, like, a million steps to get down there though.’

  ‘And a million steps back up again,’ Conor said. ‘Bollocks to that.’

  ‘He said it was really lovely. He said it was worth it,’ I added hopefully.

  ‘Will you shut the feck up about your man?’ Conor said. ‘And get your arse into gear, will you? I’m starving.’

  The hotel restaurant was lovely and in many ways similar to the one in Mykonos.

  It had the same starched tablecloths, the same candles on the tables, and even similar minimalist music playing through the loudspeaker system. The only real difference was that here the folding windows opened not onto a beach but onto the incredible vista that is Santorini by night. For Santorini is just as beautiful once the sun goes down as it is by day. The moonlight shimmers across the deep, dark waters of the bay and the lights of a thousand dwellings, scattered across the rock face, twinkle at you, almost as beautiful as the stars above.

  The menu was almost the same as in Mykonos, too, though Conor assured me the prices were considerably lower.

  We ordered another vat of Mythos beer for Conor and a pretty little carafe of fruity white wine for me, and then Conor ordered a seafood platter while I plumped for moussaka. I was determined to order something different at every meal. I’d waited that long to be in Greece.

  Conor seemed subdued so while we waited for our meals I asked if he was OK.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘You just let me sleep too long, so I’m a bit groggy.’

  ‘OK,’ I said, then as an afterthought, because I didn’t really accept it was my fault, I added, ‘Sorry, I didn’t know . . .’

  Conor shrugged. ‘You’re all right.’

  ‘Isn’t this the most beautiful place you’ve ever seen, though?’

  Conor shrugged again. ‘It’s nice,’ he said. ‘The view’s pretty good, it’s true. But I think I prefer it when there’s a beach and bars and shite. You know?’

  ‘There’s lots to see in Fira, in the middle of the island,’ I said, pointing. ‘Over there. I read it in the guide they left in the room. Perhaps we could go there after dinner. As long as you don’t drink too much to drive.’

  Conor laughed and took another swig of his beer. He was already half a litre into his first drink. ‘I take it you can’t drive?’ he asked.

  I shook my head. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘As usual, it’s all down to Conor.’

  ‘We could get a bus,’ I suggested. ‘They said they’re every . . .’

  ‘I told you,’ Conor interrupted, sounding annoyed. ‘I don’t do buses.’

  ‘Or a taxi,’ I offered, thinking, Or you could just not get drunk for once.

  ‘Jeez! I’m not made of money!’ Conor said.

  ‘I could pay,’ I offered. ‘I haven’t paid for anything yet.’

  ‘Are you trying to make me feel inadequate?’ Conor asked. ‘Are you doing it on purpose?’

  ‘No . . .’ I said, feeling suddenly tearful. ‘No, I . . .’

  Luckily, we were saved by the arrival of our food.

  My moussaka was delicious, which was just as well because when I offered – thinking it was romantic – to swap a bit of my moussaka for a chunk of Conor’s calamari, his response was a simple, ‘Nope.’

  ‘Nope?’ I repeated, laughing, surprised.

  ‘If you wanted calamari then you should have ordered bleedin’ calamari,’ Conor replied.

  We finished our meal in silence.

  I had already sensed the capacity for the evening to spin out of control. And I was also starting to realise, I think, that once it did so, there might be no turning back. So, thinking in terms of merely maintaining the peace as long as possible, I tried to bow out of the trip to Fira.

  ‘I’m a bit tired,’ I told Conor, as we walked towards the car. ‘I think I might get an early night. But you go on and enjoy yourself.’

  ‘Oh, just get yourself in the car, will you?’ he said, taking my wrist and pulling me across the car park.

  I sat silently beside him as he drove. I was scared now. I was scared of his driving, though in all fairness, he drove surprisingly well that evening, especially considering the fact that he had ingurgitated two litres of beer in the space of an hour. I was scared of him as well – scared in some undefined way about whatever was to come.

  Once we got to Fira, things calmed down for a bit.

  It was – still is – an incredibly beautiful town, comprising a maze of white, organic-looking buildings, clustered along the ridge and straggling randomly down the cliff face towards the sea.

  Already, in 1994, it had a sophisticated St Tropez feel to it, and for an hour or so we wandered happily though the tiny streets, squeezing past other couples, pausing to look in a shop here or have another drink there. Under pressure from me, Conor switched to halves and, as during the drive, seemed surprisingly sober despite them. In one shop, he bought a funny T-shirt featuring a fluorescent cat with headphones on and in another, after some good-natured arguing, I let him buy me a cheap bracelet. ‘Such beautiful hands require jewellery,’ Conor insisted, and with my chrome and turquoise charms jingling on my wrist, I even let him take my hand again. It seemed mean, initially, to refuse, but after a few minutes I’d slipped back into enjoying the experience of actually having a boyfriend who wanted to hold my hand. I saw a young woman glance approvingly at Conor as she passed by, and felt proud, momentarily, that he was mine. I think, back then, I was pretty good at convincing myself that this was as good as things got.

  As we headed towards the car, which we’d parked on the edge of town, the evening, it seemed, had against all odds been a success. I was feeling positively pleased with myself and actually quite besotted with Conor all over again.

  But as we passed a taverna – one of those typical Greek places with vines overhead and blue-painted tables with plastic checkered tablecloths – a ripple of laughter reached our ears.

  ‘Let’s have one for the road,’ Conor suggested, tugging on my hand in the same way I imagine the idea of a drink was tugging at him.

  ‘One for the road is never a good idea,’ I said, forcing myself to sound light-hearted. ‘Especially on these roads. Have one back at the hotel, if you really want one.’

  A vo
ice rang out above the laughter – an English voice with an East End accent. ‘I don’t bleedin’ know!’ someone laughed. ‘Ask Stavros over there!’

  ‘Your countrymen,’ Conor said, pulling harder, dragging me sideways. ‘It’ll be fun.’

  Groaning internally, I followed him around the side of the building to where the voices were coming from. Bouzouki music was playing inside the restaurant and a group of a dozen or so Brits, both men and women, had pushed four tables together on the otherwise deserted terrace.

  ‘Hello!’ Conor said, once we reached the table. ‘Do you mind if we join you? You look like you’re having fun!’

  A red-faced man in his fifties beckoned us in. ‘Please!’ he said, mocking Conor’s Irish accent. ‘Do get your good selves over here, will you not?’

  Conor ordered the waiter – who was lingering – to bring fresh drinks for everyone, and once we had all introduced ourselves he squeezed in beside red-faced Mike, leaving me standing alone at the head of the table.

  Sheila, a woman in the centre of a group at the far end, gestured to me and winked.

  ‘Hello,’ I said shyly, once I had pulled up a chair.

  ‘Is that your bloke?’ she asked. ‘He seems quite a character.’

  ‘He is,’ I said. ‘It’s quite new, though . . . You know.’

  ‘Holiday romance, is it?’

  ‘Something like that. Are you here with someone?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she replied. ‘Mike over there. Your Conor seems to be his new best friend.’

  I looked over and saw Mike had his arm around Conor’s shoulders. ‘Yes,’ I said dubiously.

  ‘I hope your Conor knows what he’s getting himself into,’ Sheila said. This made both Mads, to her left, and Terri, to her right, snigger.

  ‘I hope your Mike knows what he’s letting himself in for,’ I retorted, and everyone laughed.

  We women chatted amongst ourselves for almost two hours. They were a friendly bunch and they’d had a few drinks too many as well, so the conversation flowed easily. Sheila and Mike lived in Southend and Mads was a Londoner, like me. This was the fourth island on their trip and their third visit to Santorini so they traded tips for the best restaurants, told me which brand of sun cream to buy if I didn’t want to get ‘burnt to a crisp’, and, being amongst girls, laughingly informed me which beaches had the sexiest men.