The Greek Escape

by Karen Swan

  Joe. Tom. Joe. Tom.

  She lay there for a long time, trying not to think about either of them. She knew that in being here she was hiding again, doing precisely what she’d promised she wouldn’t, but she needed time to think. Tom would have been on her steps again last night, of that she was certain, and she wasn’t ready yet to deal with him. The way he’d fallen apart when Jack had spelled out the danger she’d been in with Joe, that she could have been hurt too . . . He had been devastated and she had seen that – in spite of everything, his weakness, his inability to commit – he did love her. She didn’t doubt that.

  She had comforted him out of instinct, habit, and he had seized it. He knew what she’d done with Joe; she knew what he’d done with Serena and yet still, still he wanted to continue? To try again? How many times could they do this – keep going back to each other, leaving again? They were toxic, no good together. Surely one of them needed to draw a line in the sand? She thought she had done that by moving here. Seemingly not. It was their same old story, just in a different city.

  A movement at the window made her jump suddenly, almost spilling her coffee over herself, and she slapped a hand over her chest as she saw Elle standing there, a most unamused expression on her face as she held out Chloe’s phone. Her hair, wild as a box of springs, looked fabulous.

  ‘If you don’t answer this thing, I will drop it out the freaking window, you hear me?’ she mumbled, barely coherent.

  ‘Oh, babe, I’m sorry,’ Chloe gasped, taking it from her. ‘Did it wake you?’ She glanced at the screen – six missed calls. An unregistered number. Tom? Using another line?

  Her stomach contracted. What if it was Joe? The police had told her to contact them if and when he got back in touch.

  Elle groaned dramatically, reaching an arm up to the window frame and leaning against it, looking like she might go back to sleep standing up. She too was in just her underwear, although hers was a lemon satiny set from Victoria’s Secret and she still managed to look like she was modelling for a catalogue. ‘Ugh, why did we do that?’

  ‘Because it was fun?’ Chloe leaned back against the steps again, face tilted to the sun like a sunflower.

  ‘Fun?’ Elle was quiet for a moment, her head still on her arm, before a small smile curved her lips. ‘. . . Ha, yeah, I guess it was.’

  ‘God I’m tired,’ Chloe mumbled. ‘I just need to sleep. That’s twice this week that I’ve drunk myself into oblivion and in between, I’ve been house-hunting in Greece. I’m so jet-lagged and hungover, my body literally can’t take it.’

  ‘That’s the jet-set for ya. No one ever said it was easy.’

  ‘Well, I’m not getting on another plane for at least a year.’

  ‘You say that like you want sympathy.’

  ‘I do. I deserve it. I’ve had a shit week.’ Her phone rang in her hand and she jumped. Unregistered number again. She stared at it as it continued to ring.

  ‘Jeez, answer it, why don’t you?’ Elle said grumpily. ‘I’ve had enough of whoever that is disturbing my morning.’

  Chloe looked up at her, panicky. ‘But I think it’s Tom.’

  Elle rolled her eyes. ‘Your freaking love life . . .’ she muttered. ‘You need to sort it out, once and for all. At some point, you need to stop running away from your problems and start facing up to them.’

  Chloe bit her lip. Elle was right.

  ‘Hello?’ She pinched her temples with her free hand, waiting for his voice, that beseeching tone that he had taken to using with her now, always so certain she was about to hang up again.

  ‘Where have you been?’ The demand was furious.

  ‘Alexander?’

  ‘I have been trying you for hours!’

  ‘I-I’m sorry. I didn’t recognize the number.’ She frowned; his anger was like a Saharan wind against her face, scorching her.

  ‘That’s because it is a new one. I always change my number every month.’

  ‘Oh.’ Was she supposed to have known that? Was it in the files? ‘Is everything okay?’

  ‘Okay? How can it be okay? Have you not seen the news?’ His tone was incredulous.

  ‘I . . .’ She squinted, trying to catch up, sober up. Last night she had gone straight from the hospital to the bar to back here. ‘No, I’m sorry. What’s happened?’

  There was a pregnant silence and she braced herself for the next ballistic round. And when the words came, they were indeed like gunshots. ‘My wife is missing. Believed dead.’ In a flash, his anger had gone, his voice quiet, young, flat – like these were lines he was being forced to say, but didn’t believe. Couldn’t.

  The entire soundtrack of New York fell away as the words echoed in her head. She had seen photos of his wife; she was incredibly beautiful, a former model; Chloe thought she recognized her from some campaigns a few years back. ‘Oh my God, Alexander, I’m so sorry.’ Her voice was thin, insubstantial, shredded with shock. ‘Oh my God.’ She slapped a hand over her mouth. ‘What can I do? Tell me how I can help?’

  ‘Get over here. I need somebody I can trust.’

  ‘Of course. I’ll leave right away,’ she said, already pushing herself up to standing. ‘Where are you?’ His apartment was on Park.

  ‘The South of France.’

  She ran all the way back home, twelve blocks in nine minutes. A Swiss flight was leaving JFK at one-forty; if she could pack and be at the airport within the hour, she could make it.

  She didn’t notice her loose rattling brain as she ran or her ragged breath as she took the steps outside her building two at a time. There was no time for a hangover now, no such thing as a weekend. Her hands shook as she tried to get her keys in the lock, throwing off her dirty, travelled-in, partied-in clothes on the floor as she darted through the apartment in a pale streak of limbs and panic, showering in three minutes and stepping out with wet hair – God, she loved having short hair – towelling it roughly before throwing open her wardrobe and looking for something clean to wear. Dropping the towel on the floor, she noticed again last weekend’s opera dress still on the chair. Would she ever get a chance to return it? It had cost over $2,000. She didn’t want to have to pay for the damned thing, she’d never have the occasion to wear it again.

  But there was no time to return it now. Again.

  She slipped on her white jeans and a Breton top; she was just sliding her feet into her new Gucci trainers when she heard a sound.

  She looked up and almost screamed.

  Tom was standing in the doorway to her bedroom, watching her.

  ‘Jesus! You almost gave me a bloody heart attack!’ she cried, almost weak with shock.

  ‘You left the door open. You need to be more careful. Anyone could have come in.’

  She looked at him – his assumption that he wasn’t anyone was a bit rich. She sighed, taking in his day-old stubble, the reddened rims of his true-blue eyes, and she knew what he’d come here for; but just like that dress – it wasn’t the time. Opening her wardrobe, she grabbed her leather holdall from the shelf. ‘Tom—’

  ‘Where are you going?’ he asked, part-incredulous to see her begin packing up again, part-resigned. ‘Oh, for Chris-sakes, don’t tell me you’re leaving again!’

  ‘This is work. For your company!’

  His expression changed, darkening. ‘Joe Lincoln? He cal—?’

  ‘Alexander Subocheva,’ she said, reaching down for her nude ballet pumps sticking out from under the bed. ‘I take it you’ve heard about his wife? Apparently it’s all over the news.’

  He frowned. ‘No. What?’

  ‘She went missing last night; she’s presumed dead.’

  ‘Jesus!’ He visibly paled. ‘What happened?’ He came further into the room, stepping over her wet towel, not thinking to pick it up.

  ‘I don’t know the details yet but he wants me to join him in France.’

  ‘Why?’

  She shrugged. ‘He says he needs someone he can trust.’

  Tom watched her as
she ordered an Uber.

  ‘Well when will you be back?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  She started throwing clothes into her leather holdall – lightweight trousersuits in sober colours, a black shift dress for the worst-case scenario . . .

  ‘You must have some notion?’

  ‘How? How can I know?’

  He looked agitated. ‘So then talk to me now. Look at me.’

  ‘I’ve got a flight to catch, Tom.’ She checked her passport was still in her handbag; she always carried it with her.

  ‘But I might not be here when you get back. I can’t stay out here forever. I’ve got to get back to London.’

  She kept her eyes on her packing, rolling up her knickers into balls and stuffing them in her shoes. If it had been intended as an ultimatum, it had failed. ‘So then go.’

  There was a pause, his stare becoming weighted. ‘. . . Just like that? That’s it then?’ His voice sounded flattened, steamrollered.

  ‘Yep.’

  Another long silence. She could feel his frustration build; she knew him so well. Five seconds, ten. The pressure was building up inside him as she moved with hasty efficiency. Sure enough . . . ‘What the actual fuck, Chlo? Do I not even get an explanation? Monday, you—’

  ‘You know exactly what happened,’ she said, talking over him, a quiet, calm voice. She turned her back to him, climbing onto the bed and looking for her sunglasses in one of the boxes on the high shelf.

  ‘No! I don’t!’ he cried. ‘I waited in that room all fucking night for you and you never showed. You didn’t answer my calls. You didn’t turn up to work. And then the next thing I heard you were with him.’

  The way he said it – her eyes met his. ‘Be careful, Tom. People in glass houses and all that.’ Finding the shades, she jumped back down again.

  ‘What?’ He threw his hands out furiously. ‘What are you talking about?’

  She threw them in the bag and stopped. ‘I’m talking about Serena, Tom.’

  He paled, as instantly and completely as if he’d been doused in milk.

  ‘I saw her coming out of your room. I was standing right there. I heard you both. “Call me – day or night,” you said.’

  He wetted his lips, looking ashen, desperation in his eyes. ‘Oh Jesus, Chlo, look, it’s not what you think—’

  ‘No? So you’re denying it then?’

  ‘I . . .’ He stared at her, his arms hanging helplessly by his sides.

  She gave a silent snort of contempt. ‘I didn’t think so.’ She stared into the bag, her life packed into it as she prepared to blow away to the next chapter, on the road again. ‘Just go back to Lucy, Tom. Or Serena. Whatever. Whoever.’

  She zipped up the bag, just as her phone buzzed. She checked it – the car was outside.

  ‘But I don’t want them. I want you. I came over here for you. Everything I told you on Monday was true.’ He was pleading now, begging, as he saw her straighten up, getting ready to go.

  She looked at him. He was the second man in two days to ask her to stay; the second man in two days to betray her. She wouldn’t do this any more. ‘I don’t believe you, Tom. You’re too late. You had me! I was there, by your side, every day for four years. I would have done anything for you. I adored you; you were the man I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.’ She shrugged, feeling her own tears gather. ‘But you’ve blown it. I just don’t trust a word that comes out of your mouth any more.’

  She picked the bag up off the bed.

  ‘Please! Don’t go,’ he said, reaching out and stopping her, his hands on her arms. ‘Let’s talk about this.’

  ‘There’s nothing to say.’

  ‘Really? So what about Joe? Or rather, the guy masquerading as him? Is there anything to say about that?’

  Chloe felt winded by the sound of his name again, the memories raining against her like blows.

  ‘Because I know what happened. It was written all over your face in the meeting.’

  ‘I know you do,’ she said calmly. ‘But this isn’t about him.’

  ‘I disagree!’ he cried. ‘You slept with him, Chlo! Are you going to tell me it was a mistake?’

  She didn’t reply. Was she? Clearly, logically, it had been. The man had done nothing but lie to her. How could she condemn Tom for the same crime and not Joe too? How could she? And yet . . . ? ‘Of course it was.’

  ‘Do you bitterly regret it?’

  ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘But it just happened, right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It was just a terrible error of judgement; something you would change in a heartbeat and would never repeat if you could go back in time . . . ?’

  ‘Don’t try to make out I’m the same as you, Tom.’ Her voice sounded tired. She didn’t want to argue with him any more. ‘This is about you and the fact that I cannot trust you.’

  ‘But you can! I’m telling you the truth. None of it was a lie. We just made bad decisions, both of us. But we can come back from them. I can forgive if you can. Chlo?’

  She looked around the messy flat – clothes everywhere; life interrupted again as though she couldn’t settle here, no matter how hard she tried. She looked back at him with a flat stare. ‘You need to pull the door hard on your way out, okay?’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Though her body was still, her eyes were gliding over the salon like they were on skates. This yacht was an entirely different animal to the one she’d been on earlier in the week, in a different sea, with a different client. It was five times the size, for starters, with none of the sinuous lines of the schooner, no sense of understatement. And this wasn’t even the main attraction but merely Subocheva’s shadow yacht, the auxiliary vessel to his prized J Class and now the headquarters for coordinating the search for his missing wife.

  More like a tanker to look at, it was low slung and blocky; white hulled and double-tiered with blacked-out windows and a double-storey below-decks hull. Its principal mission was to carry sails, all the smaller craft and toys, provisions and a helipad, but if it had originated as a workhorse, it had been outfitted to a billionaire’s expectations of comfort: there was a lap pool on the top level, the main stateroom was all pocketed white suede sofas and French-polished walnut; it slept eighteen in nine majestic suites and had an army of twenty-five staff, all clad in red shorts and navy polos. Not that their presence had done anything to protect their owner’s safety.

  Chloe had learned what she could on the flight, reading every newspaper report and watching the news channels over and over for new information. But in spite of the story being repeated on a loop, it seemed the news agencies were low on actual facts – Elodie Subocheva had disappeared from her yacht overnight; her disappearance had not been discovered by staff until the following morning and no body had yet been found. Accident. Possible Suicide. These were the words being repeated by the chief of police tasked with investigating her disappearance but it seemed to Chloe that the story was being treated by the news services less as a human tragedy and more as an opportunity to run clips of the Subochevas’ glamorous lifestyle – shots of the two of them together on the red carpet, Elodie slight and ethereally beautiful beside her big cat of a husband, her hand like a child’s in his; archive footage of her walking in the Yves Saint Laurent show, all Bambi legs and big eyes; aerial footage of their magnificent pale-pink villa in Cap d’Antibes, a holding shot of the yacht Chloe was now sitting in.

  Alexander himself was broken, locked away in his suite, a stream of staff trying to go in with messages, questions, phones, food – only to be thrown straight out again; even Anjelica wasn’t granted access to the inner sanctum, in spite of her steeliest glares and low-voiced threats to the guard on the door that she categorically had to see her boss.

  Chloe was sitting on the suede sofa in the stateroom, keeping as still as she could and doing her best to stay out of the way. Alexander had been informed of her arrival forty minutes earlier but she knew he w
ould see her when he was ready. He had called her here for a reason; she was here by personal request.

  There was an air of barely suppressed panic on board; the staff looked terrified – they were being interviewed in turn by the police; they would all most likely lose their jobs, but that wasn’t what was making them look so worried: they had failed their employer, a powerful man who was known for pressing for his pound of flesh. If foul play should come to be suspected . . .

  From what she could ascertain, the biggest hindrance to the investigation was that no one knew exactly what time Elodie had disappeared. According to the staff interviews, she had taken a light supper on the main deck at eight, sitting alone, reading her book – The Unbearable Lightness of Being. One of the security guards patrolling the boat had seen her standing by the handrails on the port side just before nine-thirty; she often did this; she had been looking out to sea and was wearing a green silk dress. It was the last known sighting of her; by the time the guard had completed a lap around the boat and come back, she was gone. He had assumed she had retired to her room.

  Her bed had not been slept in but the book was back on her table. The maids were adamant they hadn’t returned the book to the room themselves so this posited two scenarios: one, that Elodie had returned the book to her room after dinner but then went back on deck a short while later to watch the stars. The other was that she had not returned to the room at all, until after the security guard had seen her on deck.

  The chief of police – a Monsieur Desfils – seemed to think this was important. If it was the former scenario, then her disappearance could be tagged to those minutes around nine-thirty, falling – or jumping – overboard in the time it took the security guard to patrol a lap (three minutes nineteen seconds apparently; the police had had one of their officers walk and time it). But if she had only returned the book to her room after standing on deck, then she had to have left her room again later, which could have been any time in the night.

  And there was the problem. The alarm hadn’t been raised until 8 a.m., ten and a half hours later. The yacht had been moored but the strong winds and local currents last night meant they were looking at a search radius of almost 300 nautical miles. They were in a race against time. Even if Elodie had survived the fall and a night in the water, she was still in grave danger. She would be tiring fast by now and these were busy waters, with very many large vessels – fishing boats and ferries, as well as privately owned yachts – ploughing turbulent channels; and whilst this might create some hope she would be spotted, there was a greater fear she would not be seen in the dark, in time, that she would not be able to move away . . .