Lie With Me

by Sabine Durrant

  I remembered an argument, Saffron’s voice raised, talk of commitment, a bottle thrown. Another woman. A naked body in a downstairs room, the shutters closed.

  Or was that another day?

  Fractured images.

  I picked up my bag and walked past a row of shops, to the other end, where the road widened. A man was selling live chickens from the back of a van, advertising his wares through a loudspeaker. Two women in shorts with straw baskets over their shoulders were looking at something in the window of a small supermarket. ‘Such a shame,’ one of them said, in a loud English voice. ‘Of course I’ve always thought the mother did it.’

  I stepped forwards. Between a rainbow-striped lilo and an inflatable black shark was another Jasmine poster. One of the women noticed me and gave me a funny look. I stepped back.

  Nico’s, the closest taverna, advertised ‘Greek specialities, family cooking. Breakfast. Yoghurty honey. Moussaka. Calamari’. Beyond the dining area was a wide terrace built out over the water where various groups were seated at square white-clothed tables under a vine-covered awning. The sun bounced through gaps in the greenery, the sea flashed turquoise beyond. I prevaricated for a moment, wondering whether I dared stop for a coffee and a ‘yoghurty honey’, but an image of Andrew walking past stopped me. I could already hear the jibe he would make at my expense. ‘You deigning to join us?’

  Also – why spend money when I didn’t need to?

  I doubled back on myself, taking the main road this time out of the village, re-passing the old woman on the plastic chair, and the poor dead kitten, and the straggle of houses and veg gardens, to where the bus had dropped me. The small road leading to ‘Circe’s House’ was just beyond.

  It was narrow, and grubby. Hot going. Clods of earth cluttered the track and the bushes on either side looked battered, chopped at, as if heavy machinery had passed through. It was a good ten-minute walk, up through the olive grove, until the trees began to thin, the cicadas grew louder and the sky seemed more blue, the heat from the sun more intense. Oregano, warm and earthy, drifted on the breeze. Enormous bees buzzed.

  I was almost at the brow of the hill when a gate loomed, and beyond it a churned-up field, a yellow digger with a red crane parked in one corner, and in the middle an oblong area of concrete, stabbed with metal poles. A dog, chained up out of sight, barked urgently. The construction site – I must be getting close. Here, the track took a sharp right and continued more steeply towards a huddle of buildings. A tall man in an orange T-shirt and a cap was cutting the hedgerow. I said hello, and he put his clippers over his shoulder and stared at me. He had blond stubble and very pale blue eyes. I walked on, trying not to look back.

  There was an open gate at the top of the track and beyond it a grassy patch, a rough, uncared for, disorganised space, edged by dilapidated outbuildings: a ruined brick structure, overgrown with ivy, a grotty corrugated shed, and a long, narrow, low-slung bungalow, painted peach, hunkered down under a tiled roof.

  My first emotion was disappointment. This wasn’t what I was expecting. I felt a kind of homesick lurch, a feeling I often got on arriving somewhere new. (Then, of course, I was actually homeless; I had no home to be sick for.)

  The place was deserted. No car. The windows were shuttered, and the front door locked. I poked about a bit, trying to get in, and then I noticed a small passage leading around the side of the house which led on to a wide terrace, divided into sections with furniture – benches and wicker chairs and pots of lavender. It was in full sun – and there was the most breathtaking view. Outside again, the heat was white. The sea was closer than I’d realised – I must have climbed up and over a headland – and thick bands were laid out before me, in tie-dye colours of aquamarine, cobalt, sapphire, a dotted line of white clouds above the horizon, a frame of dark green cypress trees. I stood to drink it all in. So this was the point of the house. This was what made it special.

  This side of the house felt more cared for. The walls were white, even if the paint was peeling in places. I peered through a window into a bedroom, a living room, another bedroom. Most of the rooms were locked, but halfway along I pushed a small blue door and it opened.

  It took a moment for my eyes to adjust. I was in a kitchen, quite basic, with a stone sink and an old-fashioned gas oven. Saucepans hung from a circular iron rack. On a wooden butcher’s block lay a bag made out of 1960s-style geometric fabric, a purse and a packet of tissues half falling out of it. Wet footprints led across the terracotta floor.

  The fridge rattled.

  ‘Anyone at home?’ I called, standing up.

  No one answered. I felt another crushing sense of disappointment, of anti-climax. I thought Alice would have been looking forward to seeing me, that something would have been made of my arrival. But no welcome party. No bustle and fuss, delicious lunch, cold drink. It’s almost as if I weren’t expected.

  I walked through the door and stood on the terrace. The heat was white, almost blinding. The garden descended the slope in a series of rocky ledges, interrupted by bulks of lavender and white hibiscus and a pink-flowering shrub. And then beyond that, a plunge into emerald shadow, a glint of turquoise, and the bright corner of a cream umbrella.

  I left my bag on the terrace and followed the path, part rock, part cement. CDs swung and clicked from branches – some sort of bird deterrent. The cicadas grew louder, a great wave of them, screaming in unison, as if they knew something I didn’t. Under my feet was the crackle of small curled dead leaves. A breeze rattled and stirred; flies, on a mission, buzzed. It was noisy, that’s the thing I remember, a constant noise that blocked out other sounds. A person could appear suddenly without notice. You didn’t hear them coming.

  Certainly, at this point, no one heard me.

  I stood, when I got to the bottom of the steps, in the shadow of a fig tree, and studied the scene. I thought of those paintings by Hockney. The pool was a geometric arrangement of lozenges, white squiggles. Bodies lay motionless. I made out the two teenage girls, their narrow backs curving up above their bikini bottoms, hair across their faces, their thighs pink and exposed. Beyond them, furthest from me: two other figures. Andrew was leaning back on his lounger in a pair of dark blue swimming trunks, a Panama hat on his head, and a book in his hand. Alice was perched sideways on the edge of the next sunbed, a towel over her shoulders. Andrew’s eyes were on his book but his chin was tilted and even now I am not sure if it was the reflection of the water on his face, the way it crinkled and distorted, which made me think he wasn’t reading, but talking to her, quietly.

  How long did I stand there watching? Longer than I should have. A leaf from the fig tree, detaching in the breeze, rustled on its descent through the branches. I stepped forwards. Alice looked up. There was a moment’s delay. I saw her lips move and Andrew lowered his book. The teenage girls shifted. For a second or two, no one moved.

  I rubbed my hands together, soothing the marks where the straps had dug in, and called roundly, as if welcoming myself, ‘Hello!’

  Alice leapt to her feet, the towel falling from her shoulders. She was wearing a bikini – the Topshop one she had showed me in the cafe, the one that was supposed to be Phoebe’s – and she quickly fiddled with the straps at the back of her neck, prised her fingers under the band beneath her bust to rearrange it. Behind her Andrew, still seated, raised a hand in greeting, elbow taut, palm straight, as if stopping traffic. Daisy flipped on to her back and sat up. She was topless and I saw her breasts, small and pert, with nipples as pink as raspberries, before I turned my head.

  ‘Well!’ Alice said, coming towards me, her arms out. ‘You made it!’

  I was aware suddenly of feeling almost tearful with relief. My body was flooded with endorphins, so powerful it felt like a release. She was expecting me. She was pleased to see me. There was a broad smile on my face that was out of my control.

  ‘You’ve brought your coat!’ she said. ‘You’re mad.’

  She took it from me, threw it on a
chair, and slipped her arms around me. Her face met mine and I kissed her properly on the lips, knowing Andrew was watching as I pushed her mouth open with my tongue, my right hand pulling her towards me, thinking perhaps about Daisy’s nipples while scrunching her bikini strap under my fingers. But also wanting her, wanting to hug her close.

  She laughed, pulling away. ‘You stink,’ she said. It’s true I was catastrophically hot, my forehead beaded with sweat. My linen suit was crumpled and the polo shirt underneath bore evidence of the ‘gyro’ kebab I had eaten the night before.

  ‘Thanks.’ I laughed.

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  ‘I didn’t know anyone was here,’ I said. ‘No car.’

  ‘Tina’s gone to the big supermarket in Trigaki with the boys to get food. If you’d rung earlier, she could have picked you up. Did you get a taxi? Was it easy enough to find?’

  ‘Easy peasy,’ I said.

  Andrew had got to his feet and was waddling down the side of the pool, bandy-legged, his toes splayed. ‘Hello, hello, hello!’ he said, with enthusiasm. ‘How wonderful that you made it. Bet you’re itching to dive into that water. It’s gorgeous. Lightly salinated, perfect temp. What do you say?’ He slapped me on the back. His semi-nakedness was disconcerting: pale calves, freckly lower arms, a surprisingly round belly, hitched over the trunks, for such a small man. ‘Quick swim and then we’ll crack open a couple of beers? Tina will be back soon with lunch.’

  ‘Maybe in a while,’ I said.

  ‘Oh no, go on. Have one now. It’s glorious, I promise.’

  ‘It’ll help you relax,’ Alice said. ‘Wash the plane off you.’

  I nodded, feeling cornered, and the two of them accompanied me back up the path to the house so I could ‘get sorted’. Andrew, whistling tunelessly, disappeared into the kitchen while Alice showed me our room, at the far end of the house, accessed from the terrace by its own door. With the shutters drawn, it was hot and dark but I could make out a chest of drawers, an ornate wardrobe, and a large plantation-style bed, enveloped in a mosquito net.

  Alice said, ‘I expect you’d like to shower first.’

  I grabbed her. ‘I expect you’d like me to shower first.’

  She pushed me away, laughing. ‘Go on.’

  She opened a smaller door on to a dingy bathroom and left me there, telling me she’d wait for me outside. I undressed and washed as thoroughly as I could. The water came in spurts, now frantically hot, now piercingly cold. A few nasty insects droned around my ankles. There was a smell of drains. I used the Jo Malone shower gel on the shelf and afterwards dried myself with the only thing I could find: a tiny linen hand towel hanging by the sink.

  Naked, back in the room, I searched my bag and realised with horror I had forgotten to pack trunks. Not cool. Not the capable, organised, perfect house-guest image I was after. This was just what Andrew needed to get one over on me. I looked in the cupboard – maybe there might be a spare pair of Harry’s here. But no – just slithery dresses and flowery tops, curled fragments of underwear. I fondled a pair of Alice’s knickers, flimsy black lacy things, and cheered myself up momentarily by imagining myself peeling them off her later. I put them back. At the bottom of the wardrobe was a pile of empty blue Ikea packing bags. On top of them several thick stacks of leaflets, tied up with elastic bands – more Finding Jasmine stuff. I closed the wardrobe.

  Nothing for it. I poked my head out of the door, concealing my naked body behind the frame. Alice, Andrew and Daisy were sitting at the table on the terrace. They all turned.

  ‘Slight problem,’ I said. ‘I’ve forgotten my bathers!’

  Andrew gave a satisfied laugh. ‘Trust you, Paul! Daisy – get Paul a pair of mine, will you? The pink turtle ones? They should be in our room.’

  Daisy slipped off her chair and wandered to the opposite end of the house. She had tied a flowery sarong around her neck. The fabric fell in a loose fold and ended at the top of her legs. I watched the muscles in her thighs flex.

  Alice said, ‘Oh, Paul. Bad luck. No trunks!’

  ‘You can buy some down in the port,’ Andrew said. ‘The shop there does a nice range in tight Speedos.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said.

  I stood at the deep end, toes tense, arms upstretched, for what felt like a long time, watching a breeze flicker in a wave across the surface, before summoning every last muscle memory, and plunging head first into the water.

  It wasn’t perfect as dives go (a stinging pain on my thighs, a slug of water up my nose), but it wasn’t embarrassing. I swooped to the bottom, pulling up Andrew’s trunks, which had come loose, and absorbed the silence, the sense of being apart, alone in this white dappled world. I stretched out my arms, propelled myself across the base of the pool, watching the jagged lines of light flicker, feeling the crossed edges of the tiles rough along my torso.

  When I broke the surface, Alice was at the shallow end, smiling at me. ‘Nice?’ she said.

  I shook my head, like a dog, swept my hair back with one hand, and in a few strokes reached the side. ‘Glorious.’ I pushed myself out, flexing the muscles in my leading arm, hoping Alice would notice the difference between Andrew’s physique and mine.

  The trunks were too baggy, clinging almost to my knees; I pulled them tighter and sat on a free sunbed, aware that I was wet and soaking the cushion. Alice brought a towel over and put it around my shoulders.

  She sat down next to me. ‘How was your meeting?’

  I had water in my ears and was screwing up the corner of the towel to get to it. ‘Meeting?’

  ‘Yes. The American editor. What did she say? Did she like the book?’

  ‘Actually, yes,’ I said. ‘She did.’

  ‘Did she offer for it?’

  Alice sounded so eager, I didn’t feel I had a choice. ‘Yes, she did.’

  ‘Oh Paul, that’s wonderful.’

  It was one of those moments when, basking in her attention, I got carried away. ‘In fact,’ I said slowly, ‘she offered a very generous pre-empt – a high offer to stop my agent taking the book to auction.’

  Alice put her hand to her mouth. ‘How generous?’

  Andrew was lying on the other side of the pool. I didn’t know if he was listening, but there was one way to find out. ‘High six figures,’ I said.

  I felt the lie grow and fill the air and settle. I tried to ignore a plunging sense of dismay.

  Andrew sat up. Pearls of sweat collected between the sparse curly hairs on his chest. ‘So the Milky Bars are on you!’

  His hands were gripping the sides of the lounger.

  Chapter Eight

  I didn’t hear Tina and the others get back, but suddenly there they were, at the pool: the two younger boys – Archie and Frank – stripping off their tops, kicking away trainers, plunging in.

  Tina arrived more slowly, flashes of blue fabric through the bushes. When she emerged at the bottom of the path, she came the last few feet towards me with her arms outstretched. I stood up. ‘Paul,’ she said. ‘You made it! Clever, clever you. You found us and everything.’ She hugged me, recoiling at my wetness, and laughed, as the force of our greeting propelled an enormous straw hat backwards off her head. I was surprised by her warmth, and yet pleased. She was wearing a voluminous blue linen dress that covered her body like a tent. I never worked out why she was so unaware of her beauty. She was all about concealment – the only one among us who had no need.

  ‘You’ve got the same trunks as Andrew!’ she said.

  ‘They are Andrew’s.’

  ‘Ah . . . well,’ she bent forwards conspiratorially, her expression mischievous, ‘they look better on you.’

  Andrew looked up from his book. ‘There’s loyalty for you. My loving wife.’

  She had made lunch, she told us, and even persuaded Frank and Archie to lay the table before they came down.

  ‘Did Louis help too?’ Alice asked.

  ‘He was feeling a bit hot and tired.’

  ‘Where is he n
ow?’

  ‘In the house.’

  ‘Gaming?’

  ‘I think so.’

  The two women looked at each other and something ponderous and painful passed between them. I was vaguely aware that Louis had been becoming a problem. Alice shook her head; Tina smiled ruefully. Andrew, seeing it, stood up. ‘Listen,’ he said, walking over. ‘I’ll talk to him. We’ll sort it.’

  He crouched down at Alice’s feet, so he could look into her eyes. Ugh. The self-importance of the man. The arrogance. Who was he to play parent to her children?

  I remembered a snippet of wisdom I had picked up from Michael’s wife. ‘The conservation of gloom,’ I said.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Alice asked, looking up at me.

  ‘The rule that there always has to be one member of a family in a bad mood. Life would be too easy otherwise.’

  Alice half laughed and said, ‘Oh, that’s quite good.’ She stood up, treading carefully around Andrew, and hugged me. ‘The conservation of gloom. I like that.’

  ‘As a parent, you’re only ever as happy as your least happy child,’ Tina said.

  ‘Yes,’ Alice said. ‘But in my case it’s always Louis.’

  Andrew stood up from his crouch and awkwardly rubbed her shoulder, half pat, half massage.

  Tina was still smiling: nothing about his behaviour or body language seemed to concern her. ‘Right then, you lot,’ she said. ‘Lunch. Paul – you must be starving. These days they don’t give you anything to eat on planes.’

  ‘You have no idea,’ I said.

  She and I had reached the bottom of the path when she squeezed my arm. ‘I’m glad you’re here.’

  ‘New blood?’ I said.

  ‘Maybe. Or maybe I enjoy your company.’

  We ate lunch on the long table in the shade. Tina had made a salad with tomatoes, onions and olives, and plated up a selection of cheese and spinach pastries from the bakery in Trigaki. It wasn’t a particularly appealing spread (for all her qualities, cooking turned out not to be Tina’s strong point), but it was a perfect opportunity to gauge the dynamics of the group. Andrew took the head of the table. He had clearly taken on the role of patriarch, ‘organising the troops’, as he put it, telling everyone where to sit, making sure Tina and Alice were on either side of him like vestal virgins. In my pique, I almost stropped off to the far end, but Alice meaningfully tapped the seat next to her. Her feet rested on the bar of my chair, her hand on my thigh. She clinked her glass and made a toast to my success: ‘To Paul – for finally getting what he deserves.’ I couldn’t help smiling after that. Suck that up, I wanted to say to Andrew. Eat my shorts.