‘Give them time,’ she whispered softly.
He nodded, but inside, Winston was seething. This was their honeymoon! He was entitled to show some affection, wasn’t he? Anyone would think that he was the one who shouldn’t be here, not the children.
Uncomfortably, he recalled a statistic he’d happened to spot in the paper on the plane out here. Something about one in two second marriages failing, because of existing children. Well, that wasn’t going to happen to them. He wouldn’t let it.
As he looked down at the bay he thought he saw a light. Just a flicker, as though someone was taking a photograph.
Every nerve in his body tightened. It was like being in the field all over again.
‘What is it?’ asked Melissa.
Winston didn’t answer for a second. Each one of his senses was focussed on the spot where he’d seen the light, close to the second holiday cottage. The one with the drawn curtains that he’d glimpsed this morning, next to the place where the plump blonde and her husband were staying.
Had he imagined it? Was it just the sunlight glinting through the trees?
Maybe.
Maybe not.
‘I was just looking at the sea,’ he replied evenly. ‘By the way, Jack, who’s staying in that second holiday cottage?’
The boy, who’d been walking shyly alongside Alice and Freddie, shrugged. ‘Some French couple. They’re on honeymoon too.’
So that was the end of his photographer-in-hiding theory. Winston shook himself. He was getting too bloody paranoid. ‘Shall we go and find some lunch?’ he said, changing the subject. ‘I noticed a place on the beach that might be worth checking out.’
‘Great, Mum,’ said Freddie, swinging from his mother’s arm as though she had made the suggestion and not him. ‘I’m starving!’
Bloody hell, thought Winston crossly as he watched his wife run along the sand with the kids in some giggly, silly game of Catch.
He might as well not be here at all …
FOR BETTER OR WORSE
One in five couples have doubts about their other half during their honeymoon.
Charisma bridal special survey
Chapter Nine
ROSIE
She’d break it off, Rosie told herself firmly, after negotiating a rather satisfactory deal with a shrewd crockery manufacturer. It was all very well letting your hair down away from home, but, as Cara had warned her years ago, you couldn’t have a love affair with someone on this little island unless it was serious. And she wasn’t ready for that.
Not with Greco.
But then she’d found him waiting for her back at the Athens hotel, standing at his bedroom door with that look on his face. He’d gently pulled her towards him and she’d been lost all over again.
Now, as she lay in his arms in the wide, comfortable bed overlooking the square outside, with the gentle trickling sound from the fountain, they seemed so right together that she wondered why she’d resisted his advances for so long.
‘I knew you’d be beautiful,’ murmured Greco as they lay on their sides facing each other, with the late-afternoon sun streaming through the shutters. ‘But I hadn’t realised just how gorgeous.’
He bent down and took her right nipple in his mouth, twisting it with his teeth. Rosie let out a little yelp, partly because it actually hurt and partly because the movement was so unexpected.
‘I never understood why you didn’t take a lover long ago,’ continued Greco, moving to her other breast. Rosie braced herself but then realised he was gently licking her with small, darting actions. Practised actions.
‘I wasn’t ready,’ she began but then stopped as Greco moved further down her body. Oh God.
She could feel bits of herself twitching that had nothing to do with the parts that Greco was … well, investigating. Heavens! She was jerking like a puppet. Part of her felt rather silly – none of it felt very real. But another part, that she hadn’t known she even possessed, didn’t want him to stop.
Oh God.
He had stopped.
‘Why?’ she asked, confused, as he rolled away. Had she done something wrong? It wouldn’t be surprising if she had. Sex wasn’t like riding a bike. It was easy to forget the script. Especially if you’d never had much experience in the first place.
He ran a finger teasingly down the side of her face. ‘Because it’s even better when we start again. That’s why.’ He leaped out of bed and Rosie had a flash of that sleek brown body slipping into a pair of pale blue jeans. ‘Until yesterday,’ he said, tossing over her white shorts, ‘I always thought you were a bit of an ice maiden.’ His eyes glinted. ‘I used to wonder if Jack was an immaculate conception.’
Rosie wasn’t Catholic but she knew that Greco went to mass every Sunday, and his flippancy shocked her. ‘Of course he wasn’t.’
‘So what’s the story there, then?’
His question, so swift on the heels of her disappointment (was she really so useless in bed that he simply couldn’t be bothered to continue?), took her by surprise. Usually, she had her answer carefully crafted, as protection against those guests who were forward enough to ask about Jack’s father. The locals were already well aware of the tale she’d put about via Cara. Whether they believed her was another matter.
Greco clearly didn’t.
‘You know what happened,’ she said curtly, ignoring the shorts and heading for the shower. All the earlier intimacy had now disappeared, replaced by anger at his question about Jack.
Why had she been so stupid as to fall for the local lothario, who would probably now go home and tell everyone that Rosie was a lousy lay? Was it just because of being away from the island? If so, she had been daft – really daft – to let down her guard.
‘I told you before. Jack’s father is dead. I’m a widow.’
‘Yeah. Right.’ Greco was coming towards her now, his eyes serious. ‘So why don’t you have any pictures of him?’
When Jack had asked that, she’d brushed him off with something about leaving everything in England, but Greco wasn’t so easily fooled.
‘You were only eighteen when you got here. Only just old enough to be a bride, let alone a widow. Come on, Rosie. We were man and wife just now. You can tell me the truth.’
Man and wife? The phrase had a peculiar – but not unattractive – ring to it. Nevertheless, still cross and embarrassed, Rosie turned away, shutting the shower door behind her. Immediately she was aware of it opening. He was behind her, naked again. Cradling her body as though he had never left it, cupping her breasts with both hands and pushing himself into her from behind.
For a minute she could hardly breathe. ‘It is the truth,’ she moaned. ‘He is dead.’
So was she. Greco was pinning her now against the shower wall, so that she had to grab the pipe in order to stay upright. Every part of her was exploding into tiny pieces; including any remnant of common sense.
He’d been right, Rosie thought as everything washed over her. It was better when you started again. Indeed, Greco’s own moans indicated that perhaps she wasn’t as hopeless as she’d thought.
The realisation gave her a sense of empowerment. A little bit like the last time. Sixteen years ago.
She’d been known as Rosemary then. Not Rosie.
‘Coming to the youth club disco on Saturday?’ her best friend Gemma had asked hopefully as they’d ambled back from school together, hoisting their heavy book bags from one shoulder to the other. It had been the year before A-levels and the pressure was on. ‘If you carry on like this,’ the English teacher had told Rosemary with an excited edge to her voice, ‘you can apply to Oxbridge.’
Mum would have liked that. So too would Dad, although he rarely let his emotions surface. Even when Mum had died, he’d muttered something about ‘getting on with it’ and that’s just what they had done. As she got older, Rosie learned to keep house for her father and have dinner ready for him when he got back from work.
‘I’d like to,’ Rosemary had s
aid wistfully, ‘but I need to finish that essay on the Romantic poets.’
Gemma, who was normally as conscientious as herself, gave her a little nudge. ‘Treat it as romantic research! Apparently, that new girl is bringing her cousin and some of his friends from the Marine training base. Could be fun.’
‘Fun’ was a word Rosemary’s father viewed with deep suspicion, although she was pretty sure that her mother had had a different approach to life. She might only have been nine when she’d died, but Rosemary had a distinct memory of her mother – who’d been blonde, just like her – whistling tunefully to the radio.
Then again, maybe that was just her mind playing tricks on her.
‘You need to lighten up, Rosemary,’ her friend had insisted. ‘Remember what they say about all work and no play.’ They’d stopped now, outside Gemma’s house. Inside she knew that Sally, Gemma’s mother, who used to be a good friend of Mum’s, would be waiting, keen to find out about her daughter’s day. There’d be a cup of tea and a slice of warm raspberry sponge cake, a treat which Rosemary was often invited inside to share.
‘Want to come in for a bit?’ asked Gemma. She was so nice, thought Rosie. Such a good friend. But there were times when it hurt too much to have a glimpse of a proper family home when you knew that afterwards you had to go back to a cold, silent house with a resentful dad and photographs of a mother you could barely remember.
Maybe that was why she, Rosemary, was always smiling; something else that infuriated her father. Her mother used to smile, according to Sally. And anything that her mother had done, she wanted to do too.
‘Not tonight, thanks.’ Rosemary patted her school bag. ‘Not if I’m going to finish this essay early so I can go to the disco.’
A delighted beam spread across Gemma’s face. ‘That’s great. Tell you what! You can wear my new skirt if you want. The one that Mum got me from town.’
That was so typical of Gemma, to offer an outfit which she had hardly worn herself. Of course, it was because she knew Rosemary’s dad rarely gave her anything for new clothes. Until recently, both girls had had a Saturday job – she’d worked at the local stables where she was allowed to ride – but at the English teacher’s suggestion, Rosemary had given up to concentrate on her work.
‘It’s all right, thanks.’ She gave her friend a quick hug. ‘I’ll find something to wear.’
When she got back to her own house, a little voice inside told her to go to Mum’s wardrobe – breaking another of Dad’s rules – and leaf through the curious array of jumpers, blouses, trousers and dresses which her mother had left behind so suddenly when that vicious cancer had torn through her body, giving little notice.
It was surprising really that Dad hadn’t just bundled them all up and sent them to a charity shop. Maybe he was more sentimental than she’d given him credit for.
Instinctively, Rosie buried her nose in a lavender-coloured dress at the back. A mixture of talcum powder and roses drew her back through time, recalling a dim memory she didn’t even know she possessed. ‘Mum,’ she murmured, drawing the dress out of the wardrobe and holding it up against her as she stood uncertainly in front of her mother’s old barley twist mirror on the wall.
Mmm. It might look quite good if she took the sides in and maybe shortened the hem. One skill that Rosemary had inherited from her mother was the ability to sew and make something out of nothing. Even her father, who was so fussy, always handed her his shirts when they needed mending.
She’d just have to see what she could do with this dress, thought Rosemary, shutting the wardrobe door behind her and going back into her bedroom to tackle the Romantic poets essay. It might just work.
When Rosemary came downstairs the following Saturday, ready to meet Gemma, her father was sitting as usual in front of the telly. She’d already cooked his supper (pork chops and mash) which he was eating now on a tray in front of a quiz programme that he loved to revile. Usually, they ate at the dining-room table, but Saturday nights were an exception. It was the one evening off when Rosie was allowed out, and that was only because the youth club was run by the local church. The same one where her mother had been christened, married and buried.
Unfortunately, there were far more girls than boys where they lived, which meant that so far neither Rosemary nor Gemma had managed to get a boyfriend. If they didn’t hurry up, they often told each other, they’d be left on the shelf.
‘I won’t be late, Dad,’ she’d said lightly, dropping a kiss on the top of his head and hoping that he wouldn’t look up from the telly.
Just her luck. ‘What’s that?’ His eyes took in the lavender dress which now had more of a waist. It was set off too by the matching tights that she’d found in a drawer and by the little mauve ribbons, twisted in her hair as a last-minute thought. The shiny black shoes looked good, too, even though they were a bit high. It hadn’t surprised Rosemary to discover that she was the same size as her mother.
‘It’s a dress,’ she faltered in answer to her father’s question.
His eyebrows met in a frown. ‘I can see that. It was your mother’s, wasn’t it?’
Rosemary nodded, waiting for the cutting criticism that would follow. How dare she go through her mother’s wardrobe? What right did she have to mess about with something as sacred as her clothes? Didn’t she have any respect for the dead?
Then the frown seemed to melt away. ‘You look …’
Rosemary waited, holding her breath.
‘You look very pretty,’ continued her father. Then he actually reached into his pocket and handed her a note. ‘Buy yourself a fizzy drink with that. And have a good time.’
His eyes were wet. Overcome with emotion, she bent down and gave him a cuddle. There was no response. At the same time, the doorbell went.
‘You’d better go,’ her father had said gruffly. Then he added something as Rosemary went out of the room to get her coat from the hall. It sounded something like ‘Your mother would have been proud of you.’
Rosemary could hardly contain her excitement as she and Gemma made their way through town to the youth club building, a rather boring looking red-brick hall during the day which took on a far more exciting air at night when there was music inside and boys(!), sauntering casually past the wide-open doors.
When you went to an all-girls school, it seemed weird to have people of the opposite sex around, thought Rosemary, shyly making her way towards the cloakroom. Usually, there weren’t that many: only a couple of boring ones from her old confirmation class and a gaggle of youths who hadn’t stayed on for A-levels, with whom she had little in common.
Still, as Gemma often said rather wistfully, they would hopefully find someone when they finally got to university.
Tonight, however, was different. Gemma had been right! There were lots of new boys here: clean-cut, tall ones who looked more like men. ‘Just look at those muscles,’ nudged Gemma.
Rosemary began to feel nervous. She and Gemma might snigger in private at the confirmation lot who hogged the ping-pong table, but there was something comforting and non-threatening about them. This new lot were more like men. They were looking at her and Gemma in a way that made her feel a bit shivery inside, a peculiar mixture of nerves and also excitement.
Rosemary felt an elbow in her ribs. ‘I like the look of him, don’t you?’ Gemma was eyeing up a very tall boy who was talking to his friends on the other side of the room. He was what Dad would have called ‘coffee-coloured’ and – amazingly – quite bald. It was difficult not to stare. Rosemary had never met anyone, apart from an old man at church, who had a head that was shiny all over. Yet, perhaps because it was brown, it seemed inexplicably attractive, as did his bold, handsome, striking face which reminded her of a picture of a Greek god in her Classics textbook.
Briefly, as the music stopped, Rosemary heard a deep laugh, an infectious sound which made her automatically laugh out loud herself.
As she did so, he looked up, caught her eye, looked away and then ba
ck again at her. Rosemary felt a tingle travel down from her neck to the base of her spine. ‘He’s coming to ask you to dance,’ Gemma whispered excitedly.
Rosemary’s mouth went dry as this impossibly good-looking boy strode confidently across the room. Maybe it was Gemma he was interested in. But no. He was actually stopping right in front of her.
‘Would you like to dance?’ he asked, his eyes on hers as though they’d already met.
Unable to talk, she nodded. His hand was large and warm as he led her out to the floor. Rosemary was aware that all eyes were on her, and not just because they were the first couple to dance. Very tall, bald, coffee-coloured young men weren’t particularly common in this part of the world.
Oh my goodness! The music had changed now. Instead of the loud, jaunty tunes, it was a slow record. That meant you had to move closer instead of jiggling with a safe distance apart. ‘I like your dress,’ said her partner, looking down at her.
She blushed. ‘Thank you.’
Then they proceeded to move round in small circles, his arms around her. Thanks to her diminutive height, she barely reached his chest. It was tempting to bury her nose in his shirt, simply for comfort, but of course that would have been far too forward.
Rosie could hardly breathe with the newness of it all. A man! So close! A man she knew her father would never approve of because of the colour of his skin. A man who seemed to draw her in as though she had no choice.
‘My name’s Charlie,’ he said when the music ended.
‘I’m Rosemary,’ she volunteered nervously.
He smiled. ‘I know. I asked someone who you were when you came in.’
Rosemary hardly knew where to look. So he’d actually noticed her, even though there were so many pretty girls around. Unused to compliments, Rosemary didn’t know what to say. Luckily, he was talking instead.
‘I’m only here for a month,’ he said, feeling in his pockets and bringing out a small piece of paper and a pen. ‘But I’d like to see you again – that is, if you want to. May I take your number?’
After the Honeymoon Page 9