Chapter Two
We leave London for Santorini in two days’ time. Two days. I can’t wait. I bought a Santorini guide book, and not just from any dusty old book shop. I bought my book from Stanford’s in Covent Garden, the biggest travel book shop in the whole world. And I bought a hiking map, not that me and Lulu are likely to go hiking, in fact we probably won’t even go for a walk. But the map was on sale with fifty per cent off and the pictures in it are gorgeous.
I lay on the sofa with my guide book pressed to my heart, and gazed out the window; a bus shuddered to a halt at the bus stop outside. What had started as a fairly warm morning ended with a surprise typhoon – in other words, a typical spring day. A cyclone of biting wind orbited the line of near frost-bitten commuters that shuffled forward miserably to board the bus, ineffectually hugging their bum-freezer jackets to them. My longing for the beautiful landscape of Santorini was physical. I snuggled deeper into the sofa cushions and closed my eyes; setting my eyelids as a backdrop to a vision of pictorial perfection in the form of the Santorini village of Kamani, with its miles of sandy beaches that I’d just read about. The guide book says, ‘The enjoyment of sun and sea has no limits.’ Now…isn’t that a marvellous perception, and the truest thing you’ve ever heard? You don’t catch people frolicking in the sea on a sundrenched day with faces on them like the antichrist, do you? You don’t see people sunbathing with their forehead crumpled in a frown of misery. I took a soothing breath and cuddled my dream. The Santorini sand is warm, the sky is misty blue and the sea is tinged with flashes of silver as the sun pierces a hazy cloud and takes aerial snap shots of a speed boat slicing the waves. My reverie drifts to me and Lulu lying on our favorite Disney beach towels; we’re wearing tiny bikinis’ that fit us perfectly. Somehow we have magically morphed from a busty, hippy size twelve to a skinny-dipping size eight. A terrific delusion, I clung to this thought. And…
The front door slammed.
I jolted, sat up quickly, and re-orientated.
Lulu burst into the lounge, dumped her shopping bags and raised her hands in triumph.
‘Evie! I have thought of everything we need for our trip to Santorini, and I mean e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g,’ she said, her voice dripping with success. ‘Flip-flops, bumper fun pack of condoms…the lot.’
There were five shopping bags on the floor, by the looks of things she certainly had thought of everything. She folded her arms in a business-like-way, her eyes bright and focused.
‘I’m having business cards printed for our holiday, what would you like to be? ‘I’m going to be a Record Producer,’ she added proudly.
‘I’ll just be myself; otherwise holding onto a conversation gets confusing after a few drinks.’
‘Well, you’ve always managed in the past,’ she fired back, looking a little deflated. She narrowed her eyes in thought.
‘I’ll make you my assistant,’ she said brightly.
‘If you must,’ I agreed, not wanting to appear boring. I curled my legs up on the sofa.
‘What have you been doing today?’
‘I’ve been reading about Santorini,’ I told her, stroking my guide book fondly. ‘I think we should book a day trip to the volcano.’
She raised the palm of her hand. ‘Evie, this is a sunlounger holiday, and to make the very most of it we have to spend the week lying on a…sunlounger. Not orienteering all over the bloody island. Our trip last year to the South of France should’ve been a sunlounger holiday, but oh no, you insisted on touring the entire coastline. Dragging me on and off trains for the best part of two weeks, tormenting the locals by constantly asking directions to places we were already at, just to practice your French.’
‘You enjoyed those day trips.’
‘I did not, and you know that I didn’t…And when we went to the Scottish Highlands, I told you I wanted to spend the day in the spa. But you had a better idea; you wanted to go rambling, which turned into an eighteen-hour search and rescue. We thought we would never be found – we crouched in that cave and posted our Wills as our Facebook status. It was a friggin’ nightmare. I can’t help thinking that on balance this sightseeing lark is a very over-rated activity.’
‘Santorini is known as ‘The Island of the Volcano’, we cannot spend a week on the island and not visit the main attraction… I’m adamant,’ I said staunchly, jabbing my finger on a picture of the proud volcano chiseled against a clear azure sky. ‘If you won’t come with me, then I’ll go on my own.’
She slid my guide book a condemning glance.
‘I’m going, with or without you!’ I insisted.
‘Oh for god’s sake alright, if you feel that strongly we’ll visit the bloody volcano, but that’s the only sightseeing trip we’re taking. I read in a magazine at the doctor’s surgery that compromise is the key factor to the success of any holiday. And so…I’ll compromise.’
‘What else did the article say?’ I asked, intrigued.
‘I didn’t read on, I was bored of it by then…Do you want a cup of tea?’
‘If that’s all that’s on offer.’ I replied glumly.
On the countdown to our holiday we’ve been carbs and alcohol free. According to Lulu, women in New York look terrific because they don’t drink alcohol or eat carbs during the week. I’m not sure how Lulu knows this, because she’s never been to New York.
‘I’m not convinced our diet agrees with me, I feel nauseous, and…’
She smiled with wide, kind eyes.
‘Of course you feel nauseous, that’s because alcohol kills bacteria, and as we’re not drinking, we’re likely infested with non-alcoholic micro-organisms. As soon as we check into our hotel in Santorini and get those first cocktails down our throats, you’ll be fine.’
‘I hope you’re right,’ I said, appreciating her reasoning.
‘I’ll make the tea,’ she offered, and left the lounge.
I lowered my eyes to my book.
…Eruptions centered on the volcano continue.
Is that so? But…I’m not overly concerned, surely they have a volcano thermometer?
…The last eruption was in 1950.
How interesting, still that was ages ago.
…Sulphur dioxide is given off.
I rubbed my forehead thoughtfully. I’m surprised, isn’t that a poison?
…Fumes of methyl are constantly emanating from it.
Emanating, does that mean hissing and spitting?
…There have been twelve explosive eruptions.
As many as that?
Not that it matters, because that’s twelve eruptions in the last two million years. I slapped the guide book on the coffee table. I’m not worried, of course I’m not. Still, there’s no harm in researching further. I lurched for my laptop and Googled ‘volcanoes’. I’m stunned. They’re everywhere: Iceland, Italy and Hawaii. I watched a YouTube video of a volcano erupting – I was totally drawn in, it was quite a sight. And lava can reach degrees of 1200 Celsius. That’s hot. My eyes blinked at the same rate as my heart. Still, I’m sure the Santorini volcano is safe enough. I quickly Googled ‘death by lava’, just out of curiosity. And wished I hadn’t. I felt a surge of terror. You don’t stand a hope in hell of survival, not a chance! Lava is molten rock…Rock hot enough to melt! I read on at a frantic pace. A volcano in the Democratic Republic of Congo erupted with ‘biblical fury’, like something out of a horror movie. ‘Biblical fury’ – that’s as angry as you get. How close is Congo to Santorini? What am I thinking? Why concern myself with a volcano in Congo, when I could be incinerated on Santorini? I could be reduced to ashes on my dream sunlounger holiday. And at my own expense. I’ve got a good mind to complain to the tour operator. Does the insurance company know what’s going on here?
I’m not going, definitely not!
Lulu placed two steaming mugs on the coffee table and smiled at my laptop screen, her eyebrows lowered in interest.
‘Are you booking the day trip to the volcano?’ she asked.
Me, going to a Volcano? Is she mad?
‘Sticking our heads in a percolating crater will be just like having a facial peel.’ Lulu said matter-of-factly. ‘I quite fancy it.’
‘The volcano trips are sold out,’ I told her, swiftly logging off.
‘Are they? Oh, well, never mind.’
She sunk into the sofa, crossed her legs, and opened her Hello magazine with a flourish. She gave the centerfold a glare of concentration.
‘I like to keep up-to-date on important political global issues,’ she told me, studying an article featuring Beyonce and Jay-Z’s stunning new Los Angeles home.
Lulu loves her periodicals.
‘Evie, I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to our holiday. It will be amazing.’ She laid the magazine on her lap, in a gentle motion. ‘I can’t wait. This is going to be the best holiday ever because for once we’re both single. It’ll be a proper girls-on-tour trip. It’ll be just like the movie Thelma and Louise.’
Her piercing look had a spellbinding influence.
She was right. This was going to be the holiday of a lifetime.
‘Without the driving over the cliff bit, of course,’ she added, as an intelligent afterthought. ‘We’ll give that bit a miss.’
Chapter Three
‘Transatlantic travel is so exciting,’ Lulu said as we trundled our suitcases along the departures concourse at Gatwick Airport.
I followed briskly on her heels.
‘We’re not flying transatlantic; we’re flying trans-mediterranean,’ I pointed out factually.
‘Oh shut up, it’s the same thing.’
‘It isn’t, it’s not the same thing at all, in fact…’
She wheeled to face me.
‘Evie! There is no need to come over all show-offy, just because you’ve been munching a bloody guidebook. Every time you’ve drawn breath in the past week it’s been to keep me up-to-speed on archaeological discoveries made from the third millennium B.C to the fall of the Roman Empire. Or to regurgitate your personal thesis on whether or not Crete may be the lost ancient city of Atlantis…and we’re not even going to Crete, we’re going to Santorini. Or to give me some uber-interesting statistics on the merits of soil with grey ash content in the production of grapevines. When I order a glass of wine all I need to know is how much it will cost, I’m not interested in the science of how the wine found its way into the glass in the first place. And I think you’ll find that most people feel the same way, so if I were you I would give it a rest!’
‘You were interested when I told you that the Germans outlawed the Greek flag during their occupation of the island. And in defiance the people of Santorini painted their houses blue and white, in honor of their flag.’
‘Yes, I was interested! But only because mention of the Germans reminded me to pack extra beach towels – I swear that hijacking sunloungers is a national addiction. They spread their towels on all the sun beds, stake their claim and bugger off for the day. Well, we are going to do the same. We are going to set our alarm for six o’clock and take turns getting up early and going to the pool to snatch the best beds.
‘Why don’t we spread our towels on the sunloungers when we get back to the hotel at night…before we go to bed?’
She raised a manicured finger.
‘Bloody hell, yeah! That’s a brilliant idea.’
I felt myself grinning. It really was a good idea.
‘D’you know what Evie, when you haven’t got your nose stuck in your guide book, you can be quite interesting.’
‘Lulu, just think… blue seas, a breathtaking landscape dotted with snow-white hamlets, swaying gum trees, amazing sunsets… Did I tell you about the mesmerizing sunsets? They’re—’
She interrupted with her own imaginings. ‘One night stands, open air clubs, topless foam disco’s…’
Excitement pinged between us. It was my turn.
‘Practicing the language, shopping for mementoes…’
‘Counterfeit handbags,’ she butted in.
What?
‘The guide book said nothing about counterfeit handbags,’ I told her.
‘Evie, no sunlounger holiday would be complete without a counterfeit handbag,’ Lulu insisted with a knowing smile. ‘Your stupid guide book would hardly be likely to advertise black market handbag suppliers,’ she extended her hand to me. ‘Now come on, let’s hurry – I want time for tax-free shopping.’
We arrived excitedly at the check-in area, undaunted by the mile-long queue. A wave of euphoria swept from my recently tinted hair to my pedicured toenails. Lulu gripped my elbow like the teeth of a trap.
‘In a few short hours we’ll be clip clopping on the glittering marble foyer of The Santorini Kastelli Hotel,’ she said in a rush.
‘Oh my god, yes we will, won’t we? I’m sooooo looking forward to this.’
Her face clouded in thought.
‘Did I remember the euro coins left over from our trip to France?’ she asked worriedly. She lifted her handbag to her ear and gave it a shake. There was an answering jingle. She grinned – she had the coins.
‘And I remembered to bring tea bags,’ she announced proudly.
‘And the Marmite?’ I asked.
‘Yes, and the travel plug,’ she confirmed.
‘We’ve never been so organized,’ I boasted.
‘I know!’ she agreed. ‘We haven’t.’
The queue inched forward slowly. Eventually, it was our turn. The check-in girl studied our passports coolly, before laying them on the counter. Her face was a mask of tedium.
‘Did you pack your bags yourself?’ she asked monotone, and yawning into her fist.
‘No of course not, our butler packed our bags,’ Lulu said, and tinkled with laughter at her own witty riposte.
‘Very funny,’ the girl replied without looking up. She surveys our e-ticket…a flicker of significance interrupts a second yawn.
‘Did you make the reservations?’ she asked.
‘Yes, yes we did.’ I quickly confirmed before Lulu cut in with another unwelcome smartypants remark, resulting in us sitting at opposite ends of the aircraft in a thrombosis clench.
The girl raised dark eyes.
‘You cannot travel on these tickets today,’ the check-in girl announced flatly, tapping her pen on the tickets in emphasis.
Lulu tipped forward to rest an elbow on the check-in desk.
‘Excuse me, but this is the line for Santorini, is it not?’ Lulu asked, overly slowly and waving an arm in a Grecian-esque sweep at the restless queue of passengers behind us.
‘It is indeed,’ the girl agreed in a cut-glass tone.
‘And we are in possession of two tickets to that very island, are we not?’ Lulu re-confirmed.
‘You are, yes,’ the girl said.
‘And I can assure you that this is Miss Evie Dexter,’ Lulu said, squeezing my shoulder in introduction, ‘and I am Miss Lulu Spencer, as detailed in our passports.’
‘Of that there is no doubt,’ the girl conceded, her dark eyes travelling between Lulu and I.
Lulu gave a condescending smile.
‘And today is the first of August in the year of our lord two thousand and thirteen,’ Lulu informed me, the check-in girl, and a curious woman behind us.
‘It is indeed,’ the girl stated. ‘And herein lies the problem.’ The girl placed her palms on the counter in front of us. ‘These tickets are valid for the first of August in the year of our lord two thousand and…fourteen. You will have to go home and return exactly one year from today if your plan is to use these tickets to fly to Santorini.’
Lulu shook the notion out of her head.
‘I’m sure you’re mistaken,’ Lulu retorted as casually as she could manage. Although the wide eyes and blank stare totally gave her away. She was freaked.
I was freaked.
‘You hadn’t been drinking when you made the reservation, had you?’ the girl asked …jokingly holding the offending documentation aloft. Lulu lur
ched forward and snatched the proffered e-tickets. Her eyes scanned the travel details at a frantic pace. Beneath the numbing shock I felt a spike of panic, because we had been drinking. Even so, there is no way we would make such a stupid mistake. We wouldn’t book a holiday in the wrong year, no way.
‘We’ve booked the bloody holiday in the wrong year!’ Lulu told me, horror stamped on her face. I almost asked how such a thing could happen, but then I remembered that between us we have a garden shed in Afghanistan, two useless tickets to see Rihanna in Stockholm and an orangutan.
Lulu turned on the check-in girl.
‘It’s only one number out, 2013 is almost 2014, surely you can do something?’
The girl wasn’t entirely unsympathetic, although to say she was helpful would be an exaggeration.
‘I’m sorry but no, I can’t do anything, the flight manifest is showing a full compliment, there are no unsold seats. You’ll have to speak to the tour operator chartering the flight, only they would know of any cancellations. The rep is around here somewhere.’
‘Evie, you’re a tour guide, do something!’ Lulu wailed, twisting the e-tickets in a manic knot.
My eyes roved the concourse.
‘There’s the rep!’ I told Lulu pointing to a long-faced, floppy-fringed bloke leaning against the Bureau de Change.
I tugged the paperwork from Lulu’s frenzied grip.
‘How do you know that he is the rep?’ she asked.
‘Stoaty head, red blazer, clip-board…who else would it be? You stay here; you have a talent for rubbing people up the wrong way.’
‘Whaaa…’
‘Leave this to me! We are getting on a plane and going somewhere!’ I promised. And I marched off without looking back.
The rep whispered into a small old-fashioned flip-top mobile phone. I took a closing step towards him, and stared him out. He quickly ended his call…
The Stewardess handed me a packet of honey-roast peanuts with a polite smile, gripped her trolley and moved gracefully on. I gave a sigh of celebration, unbuckled my seatbelt for comfort, and smoothed my hair with self-importance. I’d managed a landslide victory, if I say so myself.
Sunlounger - the Ultimate Beach Read (Sunlounger Stories Book 1) Page 27