by Karen Swan
They began dropping height in ever-decreasing circles, coming to a stop not on Hydra itself but on a tiny outcrop just off the coast; she had read about it during her research: not only were no helicopters or planes allowed to land on the island at all (except for emergency aircraft), nor were any cars or scooters permitted either. Apparently, everything was transported by packs of donkeys, although this she had to see – was it a marketing gimmick? She wasn’t sure she believed it.
‘Mr Lincoln?’ a man in navy shorts and a grey polo shirt enquired, greeting them as they jumped down.
Joe nodded, glancing over to check she was still with him. Out of the air-conditioned coolness of the chopper, she was already beginning to sweat in her suit. It had been, what – four minutes?
‘This way, please. Your bags will be sent on.’
They were led to a small RIB tied up by the jetty and within minutes were speeding across the surface of the very sea that she had been looking down upon from the sky, themselves now one of the minuscule dots on the ocean’s skin. Chloe tipped her chin up, letting the wind blow her hair back and liking being buffeted by the sea air; it made her feel blown through, as though all the darkness could be swept out of her; the sea spray spritzing her face, cleaning her of the city’s grubbiness. They had been here all of five minutes and already her spirit felt lighter, even if the image of Serena standing at that doorway did flash behind her eyelids every time she blinked.
It was only a short hop to the port and both she and Joe straightened up, impressed and excited, as they came into the handsome harbour. It was crescent-shaped and densely flanked by tall, robust houses, white-hulled local fishing boats tethered outside cafes and tavernas, deep-draught gin palaces and yachts moored in the deeper water.
They jumped off, eyes wide as they took in the bustling scene. Most of the tables at the cafes were occupied, the awnings of the waterfront boutiques pulled out as protection from the late afternoon sun; the beautiful blue and white Greek flag fluttered from sailing masts, and everywhere there were indeed donkeys, suited up with saddlebags, heads nodding drowsily in the heat.
‘So that’s the first thing about this place,’ she said, trying to do her job and not just be another hungover tourist (not that she looked like a tourist in her Manhattan suit; in this heat, it was becoming creased and limp and she needed a shower and a change). ‘There are no cars, no scooters, no vans, no nothing. If you need to get somewhere or you need something to be delivered, it’s by foot, by donkey or by boat.’
He frowned. ‘So, if I wanted to get a sofa for the house?’
‘Donkey or boat.’
‘. . . Interesting.’ He didn’t look particularly pleased about it.
‘Old school, I’m afraid,’ she smiled. ‘They also get their water shipped in here from Athens.’
A look approaching panic crossed his face.
‘You did say you wanted rustic seclusion,’ she shrugged.
‘I suppose I did,’ he agreed. ‘So, what now?’ he asked, looking around them quizzically. ‘View the properties or check in first?’
Chloe felt a rush of panic. Indeed, what now? She had been so focused on getting here – or, in her case, getting away from New York – that she hadn’t thought as far forward as where they might actually stay. Which was a disaster, no two ways about it, she thought, looking around too. This wasn’t a big island and Hydra Town was, from memory, pretty much the only large settlement; any hotels or guest-houses would be found here. There was almost no development inland, and whatever could be found there would be privately owned.
She took in the number of wandering visitors, the occupied tables . . . it was high season – the port was packed. Supply would be exceptionally limited even at their ‘money no object’ level; you couldn’t have what simply wasn’t there.
She held a finger in the air, stalling him from saying anything further as her befuddled, much-dehydrated brain went into overdrive, considering their options. She needed access to their database but she didn’t want to ring the team in New York for help; she wouldn’t give Tom the satisfaction of knowing where she was. Not yet anyway. Let him sweat.
She closed her eyes and concentrated. Jack had given her the name of his contact in Athens, but Rome was their nearest office outpost to here. ‘Just give me a few minutes,’ she said, getting her phone and beginning to scroll through. ‘In fact, why don’t . . . why don’t we have a drink first and get our bearings? See if you can get us a table at one of the cafes here – unless you want somewhere more formal?’ she asked with a look of trepidation. God help her if he wanted a Michelin-star meal right now.
His mouth turned up fractionally at the corners. ‘A snack is fine. I’ll get us a table. You do your thing.’
With a sigh of relief, she watched him wander off, patting one of the donkeys as he passed by, a wry smile on his face. A couple of Scandinavian-looking girls gave him interested double-looks as they walked past, their brown legs scissoring beneath short flirty floral sundresses, but if he noticed, he didn’t look back. She wondered if they could tell he was different, set apart from the masses? That he’d flown here all the way from New York in a private jet? Certainly nothing about him advertised his wealth: not his jeans, not his watch (because he didn’t wear one), not his battered Adidas trainers; there was no swagger, no chest-puffing, no man-spreading, and yet he was still unequivocally a man’s man; he radiated masculinity in his stillness, the sense of containment about him. Chloe suspected he never lost control, never got messily drunk . . .
‘Invicta, sono Maria.’
‘Oh, hi, Maria, it’s Chloe Marston calling from the New York office.’
‘Hey, Chloe, how are you?’
‘I’m great, thanks. Listen, I wonder if you could help me out . . . ?’
He had managed to bag a table at a cafe halfway along the harbour, blue-and-white chequered cloths on the tables, little wooden chairs painted red; pink potted geraniums that were set on the ground as soft boundary markers clashed terribly but it didn’t matter. She took the seat beside him and sank into it, grateful to see that he had already ordered a large bottle of water and some wine.
‘Do you mind if I . . . ?’ she asked, pouring herself a tall glass of water, draining it and refilling it immediately. ‘I’m so thirsty.’
‘I’m not surprised. Hungry too, I should imagine?’
She hadn’t been able to face the coffee and pastries the hostess had offered on the plane but now she thought she would sell her grandmother for a plate of pasta.
‘Ravenous,’ she admitted, shooting him an apologetic glance. ‘. . . Aren’t you jaded at all? Not even a little bit?’
‘You were way ahead of me by the time I got there last night. I think you said you’d come on from somewhere?’
There was an interested note in his voice but Chloe swallowed and drank some more water. Alexander may have forced her to discuss her love life but she wouldn’t be repeating it with Joe.
‘God, look at that view,’ she said, looking determinedly out to sea, still scarcely able to believe this was her vista. This time yesterday she’d already been played for a fool, kissing Tom like a teenager on a New York street corner and planning their rendezvous at his hotel . . .
A seagull sitting on the crow’s nest of a nearby mast squawked loudly, shifting its webbed feet as it eyed the crowds for easy pickings. A marbled cat jumped off the wall and trotted, its tail aloft, in the direction of the large fishing boats that were just docking at the far end and throwing down their nets. A couple of ducks slid into the water off the outboards of moored caiques. It was more wildlife than she’d seen in a month of living in Manhattan (unless under-arm chihuahuas counted).
‘Would you like some wine? Or is that a provocative question?’
She smiled. In truth, the last thing she felt like was more alcohol but she had a duty to be good company and do her best for him whilst they were here; he had saved her in ways he would never know and for that she was grateful. P
lus, hair of the dog always worked, in her experience. ‘A small glass would be lovely.’
He took the rosé from a bucket of ice next to him and poured. ‘So are we all set for rooms?’
‘We will be. I’ve got the team cracking on with it now. They should be calling back any moment.’
‘Good.’ He tapped a finger against her glass, watching her. ‘I’ll admit, I’m beginning to get why people go for this gig now; I wasn’t convinced before, but I can see now it’s useful being able to just go anywhere in the world at a moment’s notice and it all just . . . happens for you. Logistics sorted, no hassles.’
‘I know.’ She smiled wanly, wishing someone could do it for her for once. ‘That’s the magic.’
‘Do you enjoy it?’
‘This?’ she quipped, motioning to the idyllic scene laid out before them. ‘Hell, no! Who could enjoy this?’
‘There must be lots of perks for you.’
‘Yeah, I suppose there are,’ she sighed. ‘And it could be a party every night if I wanted; discounts everywhere.’
He hitched an eyebrow. ‘I sense a but.’
Was her disillusionment so apparent? ‘I’m just careful to draw the line. It’s not my reality. I see your world and occasionally I get to live in snatches of it too – like right now – but I know I’m only ever here by proxy. It could be so easy to be seduced into thinking that because I can access it, I’m somehow part of it, but I’m not. I’ll never charter a private plane myself or have gold sprinkles dusted on my cornflakes. I don’t need the Dalai Lama himself to teach me how to meditate.’
There was a pause. ‘I’m getting the impression you find these things all a little . . . ridiculous.’
‘No! Not at all,’ she said quickly, not wanting to offend. ‘It’s endlessly fascinating to me to see what satisfies people like you who really do genuinely have it all. Appetite doesn’t necessarily dwindle just because hunger is met; it’s part of the human condition to always want more than we can have; whatever our level, there’s always something else to aspire to and I’m interested in what makes people happy when all barriers are removed. So in your case, finding a fantastic rural retreat somewhere like this.’
He nodded, his eyes slitted against the bright light. ‘This is pretty great.’
‘What you wanted?’
He glanced at her. ‘So far.’
‘Do you feel the need to escape because your work’s so intense?’
‘Yes. Exactly that,’ he said quietly, looking out to sea. ‘I want to be somewhere where no one can reach me – no emails, no texts, no FaceTime.’ He glanced back at her. ‘No demands.’
‘. . . But lots of donkeys?’ she asked hopefully as a small train of them walked past, one lifting its tail not three metres from their table and releasing a steaming load of dung onto the ground.
He laughed; it was a glorious sound, throaty and generous, his eyes crinkling at the corners, his teeth flashing white against the growing darkness of his beard. He nodded, drumming his fingers against the table as he looked back at her with amusement. ‘Yes, exactly, lots of donkeys.’
Chapter Sixteen
The houses rose up and away from the harbour in narrow streets, old grey stone steps polished to a shine by the generations of inhabitants, travellers and pack animals that trod weary paths up and down them under the blazing sun. On either side, potted, nodding flowers lined the streets, with small wooden chairs set outside, ready for the cooler hours. There was no common consensus on the island’s colourway – some doors and windows were fuchsia pink, others a marigold orange, sunflower yellow or cobalt blue – but the overall effect was splashy and vibrant, hot and vivacious. Most of the houses were stippled white, but some of the grander buildings were built from square-cut stones and looked out upon the town with arched windows and balconies. Theirs – for the next three nights anyway – was one such. Known as an archontikó, which was Greek for ‘mansion’, it was an eighteenth-century sea-captain’s house and one of the most notable properties on the island. It didn’t advertise its rooms but was filled through elite word-of-mouth recommendations. Since it was already fully booked for the week, Maria had only been able to secure the two rooms by offering the existing incumbents complimentary private transfers and stays with one of their partner hotels in nearby Spetses. They had been lucky the offer had been accepted; even Chloe didn’t know what they would have done otherwise.
She leant against the low wall of the roof terrace, gazing down upon the striking red roofs that looked almost aglow in the creeping dusk, the jingle of a donkey’s cowbell just audible in the maze of streets below as the church bells began to swing and chime.
Though the sun was setting, it was still steamy, the temperature at 29 degrees at almost nine. After lunch, they had briefly shopped, giving her a much-needed chance to buy some more appropriate clothes than her bedraggled cream suit. Joe had been patient, telling her to take her time, but she hadn’t listened; she wasn’t here to shop, they were here to meet his needs, not hers, and she had bought from the first boutique they’d gone into – a pair of white linen trousers, some chambray shorts, a pale-blue Swiss-dot cotton blouse, two t-shirts, a vest and a navy low-backed silk jersey dress that she was wearing now.
She hadn’t realized it was low-backed when she’d bought it; in the interests of expediency, she hadn’t tried anything on, simply buying off the hanger, and she had been alarmed to find a bra was simply not going to be an option with it. Still, she figured it would be easy enough to stay facing him, and if she didn’t, well – it wouldn’t be like he hadn’t seen a woman’s back before. A back was a back.
‘Ah, you’re up here.’ He was coming up the external steps, two glasses in his hands. ‘You do like to hide away in corners.’
‘I wanted to see the sun set,’ she said, taking one of the glasses with a smile as he came and sat beside her.
‘Good spot,’ he nodded, holding out his glass.
She clinked it. ‘Cheers.’
‘Cheers. To a successful hunt tomorrow.’
‘I’ve spoken to the agents now. Everything will be ready for us to view – all unlocked, so we can go any time that suits.’
‘Agents? But—’ He frowned.
‘Don’t worry, everything we’re seeing is either not yet marketed, or is known to them as being uninhabited.’
‘But the agents won’t be there?’
‘No, I explained you wanted privacy.’
‘And they were okay with that?’
‘It’s not standard procedure for them, but coming through us? Yes, it’s fine,’ she shrugged. ‘A lot of our clients prefer to do things anonymously.’
He nodded, looking out across the view. The sky was molten, liquid fire poured above a dark, sleeping sea. ‘It’ll be good to get started.’
‘Well, we’ve got a boat ready to take us where we need to go from nine. But clearly there’s no rush; sleep as long as you want. Jet lag’s going to kick in.’
‘I never need much sleep.’ He looked back at her, his eyes falling momentarily to her bare arms. ‘Did you sleep earlier?’
‘No. I tried, but—’ She shrugged. In truth, she had spent the time listening over and over to her voicemails. Elle had rung once. ‘Where’d you go, babe? I saw you talking and looking cosy with your hot client. Have you given him my number?’ Rosaria had left a message demanding she ring back – she hadn’t; Tom had rung thirty-three times and left fourteen messages, basically until her voicemail had filled up, blocking him – or anyone else – from leaving any more.
‘. . . Where are you baby? . . .’
‘. . . Call me back . . .’
‘. . . Chlo, what’s going on? . . .’
‘. . . Are you okay? Has something happened? . . .’
‘. . . I don’t understand . . .’
‘. . . Christ, talk to me . . .’
‘. . . Where the fuck are you? . . .’
She could track the growing confusion in his voice, the risin
g hurt, the building anger. He was so convincing at all of it, the beguiling lover so baffled, that if she hadn’t seen what she had seen with her own eyes, she would have believed anything he told her. But she had seen it; she had heard his voice and what he’d said to Serena: ‘. . . Call me. Day, night – there’s never a wrong time.’ There could be no going back now, no matter how much it hurt. Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me.
‘Chloe?’
‘Huh?’ She looked up. Joe was staring at her, a small frown on his brow. ‘God, I’m sorry, I was miles away.’
‘I could see that. You look pale.’
‘Do I?’ Her hands flew self-consciously to her cheek, her neck, but there was nowhere to hide with her new chop; the auburn mane Tom had so loved now snipped and whipped into defiant androgyny. ‘I guess it’s the jet lag. My body clock’s out. Not helped by the mother of all hangovers of course.’
‘Do you want to go back to your room? I won’t take offence if you’d rather have some downtime alone. We’ve got a busy day tomorrow.’
‘No, I’m fine. All good.’ She slapped a pretend smile on her face and took another sip of the drink.
Joe didn’t look convinced but he shrugged. ‘If you’re sure.’
They lapsed into a long silence, both of them watching a small water taxi chugging around the headland, its red light flashing.
Chloe glanced across at him, feeling suddenly awkward. Such had been her haste to escape New York, ergo Tom – and then the twin efforts of dealing with her hangover and organizing their accommodation here meant she hadn’t given much actual consideration to the fact that she was basically on holiday with a stranger. He was her client of course so she knew a lot about him – thirty-four, Aries, Vermont-born, younger son, lefthander, medium rare, allergic to sticking plasters – but keeping a list on someone wasn’t the same as knowing them, and he knew nothing at all about her, bar her name. Small talk was all well and good, but it was hard to keep up for more than a few hours at the best of times, much less twenty-four hours after the love of her life had smashed her heart into smithereens again.