Truly, Madly, Deeply

by Romantic Novelist's Association

  ‘You’re going out on your own?’ He emerged then, one white towel around his waist, rubbing briskly at his hair with another. She noted his thickened torso and his fleshy, reddened shoulders. ‘I’ve got books with me you could read.’

  ‘Oh yes? Much as I like Professor Brian Cox,’ she said, injecting into her tone everything she felt about that suggestion, ‘I don’t want to be educated, I want escapism. I’m dressed and ready so I thought I’d walk down to the front. I won’t be long. Don’t forget to use the after-sun lotion,’ she added, picking up her bag. ‘You lay in the sun too long this afternoon.’

  ‘I hate slapping on all that greasy stuff.’ The silvery grizzle of whiskers made his flushed face look even redder. He covered it with the towel he’d been drying his hair on; from behind it his muffled grumble continued. ‘It’s the big drawback to this kind of holiday: suntan lotion, insect repellent, after-sun lotion, sunburn lotion! It’s never-ending! And sand everywhere, stuck to everything!’

  She knew a beach holiday wasn’t his top choice. In recent years it hadn’t been hers either. She’d needed to play her trump card to gain his agreement: ‘It’s my big birthday, and I want to celebrate the fact I’ve kept the weight off for nearly a year. It’s only fair that I choose!’

  Dropping the towel away from his face, he said, ‘I don’t think there is any kind of a bookshop, is there? I’m sure I’d have noticed.’ His tone was reasonable now, as if he’d made no complaint.

  ‘There must be.’

  ‘But can’t you wait? I’ve only got to shave. I can be ready in ten minutes.’

  ‘Have you a problem with me going alone? I won’t be long.’

  ‘Of course not, but…OK.’ Again the huffy, irritated tone invaded his voice. ‘If you don’t want my company go, if you must!’

  ‘You usually nap after your shower,’ she said mildly, sidestepping the temptation to bicker. ‘Why not have a snooze for half an hour?’

  Softly closing the door on their apartment she heard a grudging, ‘Take care.’

  For years now she and her husband had only gone on city-based holidays, trawling around museums, archaeological sites, historic architecture and art galleries. She’d enjoyed these trips –of course she had –who wouldn’t enjoy visiting Istanbul, Venice, Paris, Florence, Barcelona, Prague? But these were the years when she’d been unwilling to expose her body. Now she had her body back, it wasn’t just the ability to wear shorts and skinny tops, to lie on a beach or swim in a pool that she’d recaptured. There was something else, something she couldn’t even admit openly to herself, which filled her with this giddy, almost queasy feeling.

  Walking along the quayside, she breathed in deeply to steady herself. That smell again! It revived the intense and poignant nostalgia for her younger self when, still a naive and gauche teenager, she’d holidayed with girlfriends. Perhaps the pine trees and herbs that grew wild on the sun-scorched slopes only released their scents in the evening, she wondered, saturating the balmy air and mingling with the spices from the market and the smoke from those pungent cigarettes the men all smoked.

  There were plenty of little shops and market stalls still trading, but although there were places that, among the other tourist ephemera, sold travel books and phrase books, there was nowhere that sold English novels. The market was still thronged with people who seemed to be en-route back from the beach, probably via the bars, to their hotels or apartments.

  A barrage of voices bellowed at her as she walked through the market: ‘Hello, madam,’ ‘You want nice carpet? Look at my nice carpets,’ ‘Silver jewellery. Solid! You must look, here. Here, madam, look! You need bracelet, earrings, a chain for your beautiful neck,’ ‘Have you seen? These lovely scarves for you, pretty lady,’ ‘You want bag? Fine soft leather, for you madam,’ ‘ Come, lovely Miss. Please? Drink coffee with me.’

  She smiled and shook her head. She wasn’t so deluded as to think that any of these men –their ages ranging from teenage to sixty or more –had anything in mind other than a sale. Even the invitation to drink coffee with the proprietor, was just a ruse to lull her, to make her feel beholden to her host. Her only attraction to them was that she was on holiday, with more money than sense.

  But there was one young man who stood out from the rest, as he chatted to another shopkeeper. She estimated his age at around thirty and his thick dark hair was well cut and styled. But it was also what he wore that set him apart. Dressed in a lightweight caramel suit, he was a great deal smarter than his countrymen, in their jeans and casual shirts. As she neared him she registered his handsome smiling face looking in her direction.

  ‘Hello,’ he said.

  ‘Hello.’ She faltered, but didn’t pause.

  ‘Please stop.’

  She stopped and looked at him. His dark, toffee-coloured eyes engaged directly with hers. Her cheeks grew warm. What was he going to say?

  ‘You are looking for carpet? Or cushions?’ The momentary spell was broken.

  She laughed and shook her head. ‘No. I am not looking for a carpet or cushions!’

  ‘Then what are you looking for?’

  Shaking her head with a laugh, she waved her hand dismissively and turned away to continue her progress along the row of shops and stalls. But his words, and the stress he’d injected into them, chimed in her head: ‘What are you looking for?’ I’m looking for a book, she told herself, with an impatient shake of her head. Grow up woman. Ignore him. They’re all the same. To them a mature woman, even an attractive mature woman with a good figure, is just a tourist –a walking euro sign. But if I’d been young…?

  That holiday, when she was nearly nineteen, had been the first she’d taken independently of her family. Still shy and self-conscious, she was in awe of her more experienced and worldly friends. Equipped with contraceptives, they saw no reason not to take full advantage of the offers they received in the bars or discos, from hotel waiters and from the lads ranging along the scalding sand of the beach.

  The hotel’s own ‘disco’ was really just an open-air terrace, jutting out over the rocky sea edge. Tables were arranged around a central area left clear for dancing, and a local band played covers of current pop music.

  The night was still young when the attractive man she’d noticed standing at the bar, casually approached their table. And when it became clear that she was the one he was interested in, she thought her heart had shuddered to a stop. When he held out his hand to her she wordlessly took it and stood. Almost unable to believe this was happening, she allowed herself to be led to where people had begun to dance.

  Her friends were less impressed. Sam was just as tanned and tall as any of their inamoratos, and, in her eyes, more handsome. But there appeared to be some unwritten code which decreed that holiday romances should only be conducted with men who could barely speak your language. Why? Did her friends want forgettable encounters? Physical transactions they could disclaim and brush under the carpet once they were home? The fact that Sam was English, that they could communicate, that he lived just the other side of London, had to be an advantage, didn’t it?

  The remaining ten days of the holiday had been intense and heady. There had been no sex, not then, anyway and, inexperienced as she was, this was a relief, adding the extra sweet and sharp dimension of delayed gratification to each encounter. Sam put no pressure on her, almost as if, for him too, it would spoil the magic.

  It was their nighttime strolls, she recalled most vividly. Walking away from the lights and the blare of the disco, they descended the path that meandered down through the scented gardens of the hotel and on to the paved viewing point, above the sea. Here they leant against the railings and looked out at the stars. Between him pointing out the constellations and telling her their names, they had kissed and kissed and kissed, drunk on nothing more than their shared bliss. Only the susurration of the sea below, gently tumbling the pebbles on the shoreline, the constant chirrup of the cicadas and the faint music from the hotel a lulling chorus
to their embraces. And always that sweet aromatic scent enveloping them, entrancing them.

  She reached the end of the street where there were no more shops or stalls to examine. It was rapidly darkening now and she turned, wondering whether to take another route, or brave the walk back along ‘snipers alley’, as she and her husband called it. She straightened her shoulders, unwilling to allow herself to be intimidated. Lit up now, this was the quickest route to the apartment.

  There were fewer beach-clad tourists around, but more who’d scrubbed up for the night ahead. The same calls were made to her as she and the other tourists walked by, but interspersed now with blandishments emanating from the little eateries and bars that were gearing up for the evening trade: ‘Nice fish. Come look,’ ‘You like sardines? We have fresh sardines,’ ‘Red Mullet,’ ‘Squid.’

  Ahead the unusually smart young man in his caramel coloured suit still stood in the middle of the street, talking and laughing with another man. Dismayed by the electric pulse that zipped through her, she told herself to brace up. What was the matter with her? They’d exchanged no more than a few words. He would have written it off and forgotten the encounter already. It was probable he wouldn’t even recognise her.

  ‘Hello again,’ he said.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘I think you still do not want to look at my carpets and cushions?’ Clearly he’d not forgotten. He spoke with a regretful shake of his head but his eyes had a mischievous knowing gleam, anticipating her collusion. He had to do it, well aware all of this was just a game, and he knew she knew it too. Impossible to resist answering his extraordinary film star smile with her own.

  ‘No. I do not want to look at your carpets or cushions!’

  ‘So, madam, you are alone in our market? You must be looking for something. Please tell me?’ The man he had been talking to as she approached them was also grinning broadly now.

  ‘No.’ She vigorously shook her head as if she needed to convince him. ‘No, really. It’s all right.’

  ‘You do not want anything?’ He was frowning now and looked perplexed. ‘I will help you find?’

  This was stupid, she thought. Why pretend? He was a local. What harm could it do to admit what she’d come out to look for?

  ‘In fact, I wanted to buy a book,’ she blurted. ‘But there doesn’t seem to be –’

  ‘A book?’ He sounded surprised but already his hand was on her arm and he was drawing her towards the shop where dictionaries and phrase books were offered for sale, among the flip-flops, air-beds and shell bracelets.’

  ‘No, I’ve looked in there. I want a novel…fiction…in English.’ He stopped and looked at her, head tipped to one side. Acutely aware of his touch on her arm, she felt the heat return to her cheeks. ‘I’ve nothing to read,’ she added in a failing voice.

  He frowned, appeared to think. ‘I know a place,’ he said, after a moment. ‘Come with me.’ His hand dropped to hers. Her heart began to hammer in her chest as he led her away from the market.

  ‘Where are you…?’

  Her hand still held in his, he stopped and looked at her, with lifted eyebrows. ‘I know where there are many books,’ he said. ‘I show you?’

  She intended to resist, intended to pull her hand away from his and decline his offer, but she did want to find a novel. And if he said he knew where a selection could be found why come on all English and offended and brush him off? Anyway, a seed of exhilarated excitement was unfurling within her.

  ‘You are very pretty lady,’ he said, as they walked along. ‘You are here in my country alone? With family? With boyfriend?’

  ‘No, I…’

  ‘You don’t have boyfriend? I am surprised.’

  Convinced his warm hand had tightened around hers she needed to put him straight, to tell him she was on holiday with her husband. ‘I’m…I’m…’

  ‘This way.’ He led her up a steep side street, no wider than an alleyway, the buildings on either side at least three storeys high. In the daytime she’d noticed washing strung across it from window to window like bunting. ‘This is the place.’ He opened a door, which led directly onto a dark flight of stairs.

  The excitement, which had thrilled through her, transmuted into a quake of fear. But wasn’t this what she’d wanted really, her own adventure? An adventure which proved she was still an independent, vibrant, sexual creature?

  He released her hand and turned to mount the steep, narrow staircase, confident she would follow him. She could make her escape now, no need for explanations or apologies. Trembling she followed him, their footfalls echoing hollowly on the uncarpeted treads.

  At the top, the stairs opened out into a large, dimly lit room. She thought joss sticks must have been burned up here, the ones that smelt sickly and musty. Around the walls, rolls and rolls of carpet were propped. Rugs were stacked in tall piles on the floor. But what surprised and almost disappointed her, was the trestle table set up among these rug islands. On it was a vast tumble of second-hand novels, covers stained with suntan lotion, pages splayed and gritty with sand.

  ‘There,’ said her companion with a flourish. ‘Many books for the lovely lady who likes to read English novels. Choose, choose.’

  There was another man up here, with a heavy moustache, who was heaving rugs from one pile to another, checking labels and writing in a notebook. He hardly glanced in her direction but the two men began to converse rapidly in their own language. She was left to herself, wondering what they were saying.

  The atmosphere was weird and somehow oppressive. The smell was turning her stomach. There was no way she could take her time to browse through this intimidating and slightly unappetising pile. Embarrassed and awkward, she needed to make a selection, pay the money and get out of this shadowed, musty room quickly. She stared at the books, hardly able to martial her thoughts. This was impossible. What did she want? In the end, choosing by author alone –writers whose names she recognised but whose books she’d never read –she randomly picked out a couple of paperbacks.

  Holding her purchases tightly against her, she descended the stairs, her new friend behind her.

  He seemed delighted. ‘You are happy, pretty lady,’ he said. ‘I helped you, yes? You have something now to read when you lie on the beach?’

  ‘Yes. Thank you so much.’ They stood face to face in the dark alleyway. ‘You’re very kind. It was sweet of you.’

  His wide smile became a laugh. ‘I am sweet. I like this. And you think I am handsome man?’

  ‘Um, yes,’ she said truthfully, but now just wanting to get away.

  ‘Please? When you go home tell of the kind, sweet, handsome man you met on holiday. Do you have a daughter? Is she pretty like you? Please tell your daughter about me.’

  Her sandals slapped against the stone as she ran up the open steps to the first floor and along the walkway at the back of the block, to their door.

  The apartment was cool and dark. Less than an hour had passed. Had he gone out already, leaving the door unlocked, not bothering to wait for her return? Earlier she’d wanted to be alone, but now…? Disappointment settled as she walked into the shadowed living room, dropping her bag and her purchases on the bed. The French windows stood open and from outside she saw a faint glow. Her spirits lifted.

  ‘Hi.’ She stepped out onto the balcony. ‘I thought for a moment you’d gone out.’ The storm light flickered, the candle flame sending ruby lights through the opened bottle of wine.

  ‘I wouldn’t have gone without you.’ It was true. Of the two of them it was she who most valued time alone. ‘So, you didn’t see me sitting out here? I saw you. I watched you walk up the path. I thought how lovely you looked.’

  ‘Since I’ve lost weight?’

  ‘I’ve always thought you were lovely. You were holding something. Did you find what you were looking for?’

  ‘I did…yes…I did,’ she said, abashed. What to say, if anything, about her adventure? He was unlikely to understand the impulse that had ma
de her follow the young man with the film star smile. He’d consider her behaviour inexplicable, reckless, if not worse.

  ‘Well done.’ He held up his glass of wine. ‘I couldn’t wait, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Don’t blame you.’ She shifted her eyes away from his quiet regard. Since she’d left the apartment, day had turned to night. The lights from the harbour front deepened the dark blue beyond. Only the faint metallic sheen on the water delineated sea from sky. ‘It’s amazing how quickly the light fades here,’ she heard herself saying. ‘At this time of year in England we’d have another few hours of gloaming yet.’

  ‘It’s because we’re that much further south –’

  ‘I understand why,’ she said, cutting off the astronomical explanation she guessed was coming. ‘It just always takes me by surprise, that’s all.’

  He poured wine into the second glass. She noticed with a pang, the small bowl of olives he’d put on the table, next to his mobile phone. He didn’t like olives. She sat down opposite, popped one in her mouth and smiled her appreciation.

  ‘Cheers.’

  ‘Cheers,’ she echoed, clinking her glass against his. The candlelight was quite enough to illuminate his still handsome face, his dark hair silvering at the temples. ‘Did you have a nap, after all?’

  ‘I read my book for a bit. Then lay on the bed for a while with my eyes closed, but…’

  ‘You couldn’t sleep? Brian Cox would have sent me off in a heartbeat.’

  He smiled. ‘So I got up and got dressed.’ He’d put on the chambray shirt she liked him in, with his sand coloured chinos. She could just detect the smoky, citrus fragrance of his after-shave. ‘I’m sorry, by the way.’

  What was he sorry about? She threw her olive stone over the balcony out into the night.

  ‘After you’d gone I felt a bit guilty for being churlish,’ he went on. ‘I felt as if I was putting a damper on things. But you know me, never one to hold back on expressing every random irritation that floats through my head! In fact, I’m enjoying this holiday very much. I really am. It’s just….’