Ugh. This was the beach in Side all over again. And they thought if they gave her money they’d get what they wanted? Not if she could help it. She frantically looked round for a means of escape and found none, but Drusilla came to her rescue once more: ‘She’s not for sale,’ she said coolly. ‘Be patient, Lucius, your time will come.’
Ella profoundly wished she could tell him to keep his pawing hands to himself, but she didn’t want to draw attention to herself, not if she was planning to escape.
‘Leave her alone, Lucius,’ a rich voice, deeply melodic flowed around her. It was a voice that was seared in her memory banks. Five minutes ago, in another time and place, he’d been helping her sit down. How could he be here, right now?
This was the maddest dream she’d ever had.
‘Marco?’ she said incredulously.
‘Marcus Gaius at your service, and my impolite friend is Lucius Decimus. Forgive him, he is, shall we say, curious and over enthusiastic. We are new to all of this.’
Me too, she felt like saying.
‘So you think it’s acceptable to buy women?’ she said, feeling absurdly disappointed. She had hoped for more.
Marcus/Marco turned those devastating brown eyes on her and smiled a sweet and sensitive smile which made her feel quite dizzy.
‘As it happens, I don’t,’ he said. ‘But I was with my friends in the taverna. And well, here we are. I shall drink some more wine and fall asleep, and in the morning stumble down the tunnel that leads back to the library, where I shall pretend I have been studying all night.’
Ella drew a sharp intake of breath. It existed. The tunnel to the library existed. Just as her guide had said.
‘Take me with you,’ she blurted out. ‘I can’t stay here, I'm not, well, I'm not supposed to be here.’
‘I can tell you are too gracious for the life you have been prescribed,’ said Marcus bowing deeply, ‘I will try to help you if I can.’
His words were drowned out by a huge fanfare; the doors burst open once again and the eunuchs were announcing the arrival of Senator Maximus Severus. He came in, a fat old man, surrounded by acolytes, and Drusilla immediately fawned all over him.
‘Drusilla my dear,’ he held out a bejewelled hand for her to kiss. ‘What delights do you have to offer me, this evening?’
Drusilla clapped her hands and several of her girls came forward, but Maximus dismissed them after a cursory look up and down, and then said, ‘Anyone else?’
Drusilla hesitated, ‘I do have someone new, but she is still somewhat untrained,’ she said. ‘Elena my dear, come forward.’
What? What? She was going to be offered up to this old goat? Hell’s bells, she had better think of something and fast.
‘You do me great honour,’ she said, between gritted teeth, curtseying low.
She glanced over to Marcus who had retreated with his friends, some of whom were beginning to head upstairs with their new companions. This dream was fast becoming a nightmare. What on earth could she do?
‘Sit, Senator,’ said Drusilla, ‘have some wine while Elena prepares herself for you.’
What on earth to do? If she ran out of the room, she wouldn’t get far. Maximus Pervertus had a whole host of scary-looking Roman guards. Russell Crowe, eat your heart out. Her best bet was to get upstairs and see if there was a way out.
As she was escorted past the scholars, she deliberately stumbled and fell against Marcus.
‘You have to help me,’ she said, ‘I just can’t be with that horror.’
Marcus looked across cautiously, then whispered, ‘Wait for me upstairs, I'll make a diversion.’
Elena was taken to a very simple room with a stone bed and delicate furnishings. She sat down, not knowing quite what to do. There was nothing much to use as a weapon apart from an amphora on a small table that might come in handy, but she’d have preferred a dagger.
Minutes passed and she was feeling sick to her stomach. Suppose Marcus couldn’t save her? She’d have to try and save herself. Or wake up. That would be helpful. But unfortunately, try as she might, she couldn’t seem to come to in the 21st century. She shut her eyes and resolutely was still stuck in Roman times when she opened them again.
Picking up the amphora, she crouched behind the door, waiting for the Senator to appear. She might be dressed in a toga, but she was still a 21st-century woman at heart. No man was going to get anything out of her she wasn’t prepared to give.
She heard footsteps approach and, heart in mouth, waited till he’d come round the corner and she smashed the pot straight over his head.
‘What did you do that for?’ said Marcus as he slid to the ground.
‘Oh,’ Ella’s hands flew to her face. So much for going it alone, she’d managed to knock out her putative protector. Finding a jug of water, she threw it over Marcus’s face in an attempt to bring him round. Oh god, he was cut too, what had she done?
She stripped a bit of cloth from her toga and gently started dabbing his head. After a minute or two she became aware that he was rousing and, without thinking, leant over and kissed him on the lips as his eyelids fluttered open.
‘That’s a rather nicer welcome than the one you first gave me,’ he said with a grin.
‘I'm so sorry,’ she said, ‘I thought you were Maximus.’
‘I always like a girl who’s prepared for anything,’ he said. ‘Come on. I’ve arranged for Lucius to cause a disturbance. If we take the back stairs, we can get away and find our way through the tunnel to the library. I'll take you to the Temple. You can find sanctuary there.’
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’
‘Never been fitter,’ said Marcus. ‘Though my head is a little sore…’
He stood up gingerly and then, taking her hand, he led her down the corridor. There were indeed spiral stairs, descending into darkness, which presumably the slaves used. Grabbing a brazier from the wall, Marcus led her downwards.
Behind them, they heard a shout, and the cry went up, ‘Fire, Fire!’
‘Good old Lucius,’ smiled Marcus, ‘now come on… Run!’
She was running and running, and they were chasing her. So close now, she could almost feel them catching her. She tripped and fell…
And then woke up, head leaning against the wall, her foot still throbbing, Marcus – Marco – leaning over her with a concerned look on his face.
She blushed remembering the way he’d looked at her in her dream, remembering the way she’d felt about him. Thank goodness it was a dream, only it had felt so very real.
The first-aid lady Marcus had brought back with him bandaged up Ella’s foot in no time, and he insisted on getting her back to the coach. It was too far to walk, so he carried her. An experience which wasn’t, she had to admit, so terribly unpleasant. She had completely lost interest in the site by now and was only vaguely aware of the magnificent amphitheatre as they passed it.
‘Now,’ he said, as he deposited her in the coach, ‘stay here while I get you a drink, and try not get into any more trouble.’
‘I'll try,’ she said meekly. She sat back against the seat, dreamily thinking about how like the Marcus in her dream was to the Marco of reality. She wouldn’t kick either of them out of bed on a dark night.
Hang on? Where had that come from? She was supposed to be off men.
The coach started to fill up as the rest of the tourists emerged, hot and dusty and chattering ninety to the dozen about their visit to Ephesus.
I bet yours wasn’t as eventful as mine, she thought. She looked at the empty seat next to her. There was only one person who she wanted to fill it.
And here he was, standing before her with coke and ice creams. Her true hero.
‘Is this seat empty?’ he said.
About the Author
Julia Williams was born and raised in London. She is one of eight children, including her twin sister, who also writes. She studied English at Liverpool University, where she met her husband, Dave, a dentist. They l
ive in Surrey with their four children. She has been to Turkey several times and visited Ephesus twice. She's enjoyed revisiting it for the purposes of fiction!
Website: www.juliawilliamsauthor.com
Twitter: @JCCWilliams
Blog: www.maniacmum.blogspot.com
Visit the Sunlounger website at www.va-va-vacation.com/julia-williams
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THE SECRET CINDERELLA LIST
***
Lara Williamson
Destination: Lindos, Greek Islands
I have a wonky donkey between my thighs. I’m pretty sure it is wonky because I feel four hairy hooves buckling beneath the weight of my spanakopita-laden belly enveloped in a huge, syrupy meringue of a dress. At this moment, I wouldn’t be surprised if a camera crew jumped out and offered to whisk me and my dress away to star in My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding. Actually, come to think of it, the dress could probably walk there on its own.
The donkey, fearing a heart attack, refuses to carry me any further and halts beneath dense, twisting vines pregnant with grapes which are draped over sunlight-dotted white washed walls. Everything about Lindos is tinged with magic: the scent of orange blossom on warm breezes; plush olive groves crowned with fruit; and the maze of narrow cobbled streets that carry you, princess-like, towards a fairytale Acropolis. If it weren’t for me grunting and sweating like the least super of supermodels on the planet then the picture would be pretty much perfect.
I didn’t want to do it, be a model for the day, I mean. There was the faint whiff of eau de panic about my person when I said that I wasn’t worthy of licking Cara Delevingne’s Chanel espadrilles. ‘You’re right,’ they replied, ‘but since you won’t be going remotely near any Chanel espadrilles, you’ll do just fine.’
My name is Ella Delaney and my shame is complete. On a normal day I’m the fashion and beauty assistant at Velveteen magazine. A model gets Norovirus and suddenly I’m propelled into a size-zero dress and told to smile. The weirdest thing is that the model looked all right until she saw the dresses she had to wear. At that point she vomited and went straight home. Somewhere in Greece there is a model laughing at her lucky escape and drunk on ouzo while I assume her role of mega macaroon.
‘Jee-zus, this isn’t what I imagined at all,’ wails Christa Caruso.
Yeah, you and me both.
‘You’re supposed to be channelling Miss Havisham escaping her fusty old UK attic to go frolicking in frothy frills on a Greek fantasy island. Instead you’re like a burst sausage in pink silk crepe.’ Christa Caruso shakes her head and smoothes down her Alexander McQueen dress. ‘Get with the programme. This is Velveteen, honey.’ She taps her forehead with her index finger.
V-E-L-V-E-T-E-E-N
Velveteen is the fashion bible for twenty-somethings, and when I got the job it was like I’d died and gone to fashion heaven. God was Marc Jacobs and the girls in the office were show ponies cantering around in their best Stella McCartney, wafting the scent of Calvin Klein’s Downtown eau de parfum in their wake. After lunch they would come back laden with baby blue shopping bags tied with creamy coloured ribbons. I knew I could do that: canter about with bags. How hard could it be? I wanted to be one of them. Now that I am I’d do anything to keep my job. Why else would I be trying to look sexy while the seat I’m sitting on is taking a huge steaming dump?
Fashion heaven, to be fair, wasn’t quite what I anticipated. For a start I wasn’t cantering anywhere other than into an airless, windowless fashion cupboard. Nor was I sipping champagne and leaving traces of MAC Ruby Woo on cut crystal glasses. My boss, bloody Christa Caruso, had seen to it that I was organising clothing into piles: expensive; wrap-in-tissue expensive; wear-silk-mittens-before-handling expensive; and do-not-breathe-lest-your-tuna-breath-destroys-it priceless.
On the day she hauled me from the depths of the cupboard and told me I was coming on the fashion trip with her, I very quickly changed ‘bloody Christa Caruso’ to ‘lovely Christa Caruso’, and I don’t think she was any the wiser.
‘Get your cases packed, honey. We’re heading for Greece on Saturday. I’m going to direct the sassiest fashion shoot ever seen and you’re going to take care of the clothes on account of you being an expert with an iron.’
Wah…?
Momentarily I’d lost my ability to speak. She said she knew it was exciting but I should close my mouth and stop impersonating a koi carp.
‘For the love of Schiaparelli,’ Christa is now bellowing. ‘Get the frickin’ shot before the donkey meets St Peter of donkeydom at the pearly farm gates. For your information, I don’t do dead donkey shots in my magazine, no matter how fashionable a model would look in a black mantilla.’
Ethan Jones, the photographer, asks me to lean a little to the left and then to the right and waft my arms around. ‘One more shot of this particular dress and I think we’ll have it.’ This is welcome news since I’m sure I’m looking more like a possessed woman in a public loo trying to find the end of the hidden toilet roll than a model.
A light flashes and bounces off the silver reflector in James’s hand. James is Ethan’s assistant and pretty damn hot he is too. Tanned body; check. Lopsided smile and green eyes flecked with sparks of amber; check.
James is an eight bordering on a nine on The Secret Cinderella List.
The Secret Cinderella List was a plan hatched at my ‘pity party for one’ after I’d been dumped by El Bastardo. (The guy who went off with the barista who served sex on the side with his frothy mocchacino-cappuccino-frappucino-latte-macchiato.) I decided right then and there to start The Secret Cinderella List: scoring men from one to ten on how much I wanted to kiss their faces off. It was pretty simple.
1. Run away.
2. See 1.
3. Smile and walk away as fast as you can, without breaking into a run.
4. Make eye contact and pretend to be interested for five minutes. Then get a friend to ring your mobile and then say you have to go. It’s an emergency.
5. Consider a date. Consider it a no.
6. Show willing but if he mentions cars/football/porn/his ex/his mother…? Exit pronto.
7. If he asks, go on a date; smile, eat and drink. Decide if he’s worth a second date before you get booze goggles on. Once you’ve got the booze goggles on you’ll not care if he’s a one or a ten as long as he buys the kebabs.
8. FAF. Fit as flip.
9. Assume hawk position. Eye him 24/7 for anything that will elevate this god of gorgeousness to a ten. See 10.
10. Wear matching underwear, handcuff yourself to him, jump on him and kiss his face off. Repeat all of the above.
‘Shot one in the bag,’ Ethan is shouting. ‘You can get down off your high horse now.’ He laughs and runs his fingers through his chestnut hair.
Stumbling inelegantly, I dismount the donkey and it brays its relief by breathing a whole load of whatever slops it had for breakfast in my face.
‘Um, we got a good picture then?’ I peer out at Christa.
‘CRAP!’ she screams, horror spreading across her face.
CRAP!
Not that it needed repeating.
‘I didn’t think I was that bad,’ I reply, sniffing the air.
‘You’ve tramped donkey crap into the Louboutins.’
Christa ignores me for the next hour, which is fine by me. The shoes have since been placed in a transparent sealed bag as though they’re forensic evidence of my inadequacy. EXHIBIT A: ELLA DELANEY CRAP. I don’t look at Christa but I make sure she’s looking at me when I toss my hair over my shoulder, defiantly. Perhaps defiantly is too strong a word because even though, in my head, I am some sort of superhero, it’s a little difficult to hair-toss when the make-up artist has teased your barnet into an enormous bird’s nest. Complete with eggs. I kid you not, proper speckles and feather
s and all. Hot from a chicken’s derriere. To make matters worse, the make-up artist sashays over and shoves a small plastic seagull into the fretwork of my frazzled follicles.
Ethan says he’s not buzzing with this new look and wants me to change it, which is fine by me. The plastic seagull on my head has already toppled over twice and nearly had my eye out. I think long and hard about screaming. Anyone for Cyclops fashion?
We swap one dress for another and this is the most beautiful dress I’ve ever encountered. My body has been ladled into molten silver and the dress drips into a delicious puddle at my feet. My hair has been teased around a laurel of silvery green olive leaves and falls into red waves on my shoulders. Ethan wolf whistles as James helps me waddle across to the new location and tells me to stand where they’re setting up the next shot. Come on, do something that’ll make you a ten. That’s what I’m thinking as James’ hand squeezes mine. For a brief second I detect the crisp citrus of Dior’s Eau Sauvage rising from his neck. It mingles with the salty tang being blown up from the Med. A heady concoction if ever there was one.
‘This is your spot,’ James says, stepping back. ‘Behold the world is at your feet.’ He bows.
God, he’s not wrong. It’s breathtaking from this viewpoint at the Acropolis. I’m like Moses without the Jesus sandals and Ten Commandments under my armpit. Here I am, Ella Delaney, twenty-four, GSOH, single who wants to mingle and I’m standing looking out over an endless horizon. Turquoise bleeds into eternity and it’s as though Richard Ward has come along with his hairdryer and is wafting my body with hot air. For a second I close my eyes and nod my head. This is what it feels like to be in paradise.
Sunlounger - the Ultimate Beach Read (Sunlounger Stories Book 1) Page 62