The Holiday (29 page)

Stupidly he had let his principles fly out of the window and done what he had been asked to do. Which meant that because it had happened once it would go on happening. But it didn’t get any easier. Theo said he was no good at it because (a) he was British — what did the British know about passion? — and (b) he lacked experience. Such a cheap sense of humour, that boy! Even relying on his imagination, which was as vivid as the next man’s, if not more so, he still found that the sex scenes he wrote lacked emotion and spontaneity.

He had spent most of today trying to write this chapter but hadn’t got anywhere with it. Not long after Theo had left to take Izzy out for dinner, he had decided to give himself a change of scene by going into Kassiópi for the evening, but that had proved as big a waste of time as the rest of the day had.

Maybe not entirely. People-watching could always be put to good use and he had been quietly amused by the group of youngsters sitting at a nearby table. The dynamics of any group of people never failed to interest him. It was always fascinating to see who was the leader and who were the followers, and in this instance, the smallest guy was the one with the biggest mouth and ego. Mark had recognised the two girls as part of the Sinclair contingent — he had seen them swimming out to the raft below their villa — and the lads were presumably the ones Izzy had said were staying with their parents in the pink villa next door to Dolly-Babe and Silent Bob’s. It was funny how easily their little community had been put together. Here they all were, two thousand miles from home, but already they had restructured themselves into a microcosm of what they had come here to escape.

Climbing the first of the steady uphill slopes of the path, Mark wished that he, too, could escape. If he could find a way round that chapter, he would. But he knew there was no avoiding it: it had to be done, and soon, or it might make him freeze up. Writer’s block was only ever a stone’s throw away for any novelist, and he knew that the smallest problem could grow into a wall of self-doubt and neurosis. Then, with a wry smile, he thought, he should let Theo write it. After all, he was the one with all the experience.

That was the trouble with writing. It took up the vast majority of his time and made for a lousy social life. Most days he would get up early, work through till lunch, then make himself a sandwich. He would eat it standing at the sink planning his afternoon session, which inevitably struck through most of the evening, or he would go out for a walk along the coastal path to clear his head. If he was feeling generous to himself he might wander up the hill and have lunch at the village bookshop, where they had an extraordinary selection of second-hand books as well as a great café. On warm sunny days he ate outside on the terrace, fending off the gulls while eavesdropping on the tourists and gaining all sorts of fascinating insights into their lives.

Other than his writing and the writing group he led, he had no commitments to tie him to anyone or anything. Initially, that was exactly how he had wanted it. He hadn’t wanted another person’s life touching his. But once he had gained sufficient belief in himself that he was straight enough to consider a relationship little had come his way. It had seemed easier in the long run to cut his losses and absorb himself in his work. When he was on a roll there was nothing better, it gave him the ultimate high: the satisfying high that drugs and alcohol had never provided. What more mysterious and mind-altering process could there be than to sit down of a morning and, at the touch of his fingertips, lose himself in a world that at times was more real than the one in which he lived?

He turned to his right and stood at the end of Theo’s drive. It was lit up every few yards by a series of mushroom-shaped lights. Outside the villa, he saw Theo’s car. Surprised that his friend was back so soon, he hunted through his pockets for his key, then hesitated. Supposing Theo was back early because he and Izzy were on the verge of doing what the protagonist in his current book was supposed to be enjoying?

Theo wouldn’t thank him for bursting in and ruining it. Do that and he’d never hear the last of it.

So, what should he do?

Go in and ruin everything for his friend, or wander down to the beach and wait for the lights to go out?

He favoured the last option. Edging his way quietly round the side of the house, he took the path down to the beach.

Theo knew that his garden made the perfect romantic setting, so he led Izzy to the edge of the terrace and put their glasses of Metaxá on the low wall, then watched her stare up at the stars that pricked the velvet night sky. He knew that the next few moments would be crucial. Turn on the charm now, and she would run. He had come so far this evening in gaining her trust and he didn’t want to do anything to jeopardise that.

While driving back from the restaurant he had been trying to come to terms with exactly what he felt for Izzy. His conclusion had surprised him. Or had it?

Beside him on the terrace, Izzy said, ‘I’ve had a wonderful evening, Theo. Thank you, it’s been lovely.’

Any number of snappy one-liners came into his mind, but with iron-will restraint, he said, ‘I’m delighted you enjoyed yourself. Do you think you would want to do it again sometime?’

She smiled cautiously. ‘I might.’

‘And has my behaviour met with your exacting standards?’

‘Um ... I think so.’

He moved in closer. ‘Does that mean I get my prize?’

‘Well, perhaps just a small one.’

‘Not too small, I hope.’

Backing away from him, Izzy reached for her glass, took a sip of the smooth brandy and wondered why she was still keeping Theo at what she thought was a safe distance. Wasn’t she being absurd? Why not go for it? What was to stop her seizing the day and enjoying a sparkle of brightness in an otherwise lacklustre life? It was only a kiss he wanted.

So why did the idea make her feel so nervous?

She took another sip of her drink and forced herself to face the truth. She was nervous that he might be disappointed in her. Doubtless he would be a skilled kisser and would know a good kiss from a bad one.

But as convinced as she was that Theo was about to try to kiss her, he didn’t. Instead, he stepped away from her and began to pace the terrace.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

He came and stood in front of her again. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘it’s just that you make me feel nervous.’

‘Nervous? I make
you
nervous?’

‘Yes, Izzy. I know this sounds crazy when we have known each other for so little time, and yet ... and yet ...’ His words fizzled out and he resumed his pacing.

‘And yet, what?’ she asked. What was going on here? Was she missing something?

He came to a sudden stop, just in front of her. ‘I think there is a very real danger that I am falling in love with you.’

She stared at him dumbfounded. ‘You’re kidding, right?’

He looked hurt. ‘From the moment I first saw you, you have had an extraordinary effect on me. Not so much as a kiss has passed between us, but I know I feel so very strongly for you.’

‘But you know nothing about me.’

‘I have learned more than you think. When you talk, Izzy, I listen. And tonight you have spoken a lot about yourself.’

There was no refuting this. Perhaps it was all the wine she had drunk, but she had shared with Theo more about herself than she had with anybody else. To fill in the silence she said, ‘We have kissed, actually.’

‘We have?’

‘Yes, that day when you taught me to dive.’

He shook his head. ‘That was no kiss.’

‘Your lips touched mine, if I remember rightly. Sorry to be pedantic, but by my definition that makes it a kiss.’

With one of his brilliant smiles, he said, ‘By my definition that was merely a touching of lips, it was not a touching of souls. Now this is what I call a kiss.’

In what seemed like one deft movement, he stepped in close, drew her to him and kissed her. But that’s not fair, she thought, I wasn’t ready! She willed herself to relax, to enjoy the sensation of Theo’s firm mouth familiarising itself with hers. But it was no good. She felt stiff and awkward in his arms, conscious of everything she was doing wrong, or might do wrong.

 

It was at this moment, down on the beach where he was still killing time, that Mark looked up the hillside. In the light cast from the villa, he had no problem in identifying Theo and Izzy on the terrace above him and what they were doing. Troubled, he pushed his hands into his trouser pockets. For some reason that wasn’t clear to him, he was disappointed that Izzy hadn’t held out longer on Theo. Why was everything so bloody easy for the man?

He kicked at a rock, feeling that strange sixth-sense thing he got when his writing wasn’t going well. It was what he called a plot snag. It was a warning sensation ‘that pestered him, kept him awake at night, kept him from thinking straight, giving him no peace until he hit on what the problem was and where the answer lay. Sometimes it was days before the solution came to him.

He bent down, picked up a large, heavy stone and hurled it into the calm sea. It made a satisfyingly loud splash. So loud that it caused a distraction for the happy lovers above him.

‘Is that you, Mark?’ came Theo’s voice. ‘What are you doing down there?’

‘Enjoying a late-night stroll. Why? What the hell are you doing up there?’ His words had slipped out before he could stop them.

‘Izzy is here and I’m supposed to be making her some coffee. Why not join us?’

By the time he had reached the terrace there was no sign of either Izzy or Theo. He went inside. Through an open door at the far end of the sitting room he saw that Theo was on the phone in his study. With both elbows resting on the desk, he appeared to be engaged in one of his typically heated Greek conversations and looked far from happy at having his attention diverted.

Mark found Izzy in the kitchen making the coffee. ‘I’ll get the mugs,’ he said, reaching for them from a shelf on one of the dressers. He set them down on the chunky wooden table behind them. ‘Good meal?’ he asked, searching the tall fridge for a carton of milk.

‘Yes, it was excellent. But I ate far too much.’

‘Where did he take you?’

‘I’ve no idea. It was way off in the hills. The people who run the taverna are friends of his.’

‘Spiros and Marika?’

‘That’s right. Have you been there too?’

‘Once or twice. As a matter of interest what did you have for your dessert?’

She gave him a puzzled look. ‘Um ... something delicious with a name I can’t quite remember.
Loc-, loca — ’

‘Yes, that’s it,’ she said. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘No special reason. It looks like Theo’s going to be a while on the phone, let’s take our coffee outside.’

They sat at a small table where Mark lit several candles designed to keep mosquitoes at bay. ‘I’ll leave you to add your own milk and sugar,’ he said. Leaning back in his chair, he hooked one leg over the other and fiddled with a fraying shoelace. He stared morosely into the darkness. It had been the worst kind of day for him: depressingly uncreative. In his uncommunicative state, he knew he wasn’t good company, that he should have stayed down on the beach until Izzy had gone home. But, then, common sense had never been his strong suit.

As though reading his mind, Izzy said, ‘So how was your evening?’

He shifted his gaze, settled it on her face. ‘Disappointing. I went into Kassiópi hoping that a change of scene might improve my mood.’

‘And it didn’t?’

‘No.’ The finality in his voice sounded harsh and discordant. Realising how rude he was being, he added, ‘Sorry, I’ve had a bad day, got nothing of any worth done.’

‘Do you get many days like this?’

‘It varies.’ He told her about his struggle with his protagonist’s miserable love-life. ‘It’s an on-going thing I have with each book I write. You’d think it would get easier, but it doesn’t.’

‘I’ve made a start on
Culling The Good.’

‘And your verdict?’

‘I’d be a fool if I sat here and told you I wasn’t enjoying it.’

‘You’d be surprised how brutally candid people can be. I’m continually criticised for being too grim and bleak, too realistic. Not that it bothers me. In-your-face realism is what I’m aiming to achieve. I want to offend. It means I’ve hit home, touched a nerve. I’m not interested in the cosy crime world of purple rinses, thatched cottages and mass redemption. I like to think that my books have a touch more gravitas and shock value in them than your average episode of
Scooby-Doo.’

‘Based on the little I’ve read so far of your book, I think that goes without saying. But perhaps you could answer this for me — it’s something Max and I were discussing this afternoon. If all comedians are supposed to have a dark side, does it naturally follow that writers of your genre have a comedic side to them?’

In spite of his ill-humour, Mark smiled. ‘Gee, you think?’

She smiled too. ‘Perhaps I’ll ask you again when you’ve had a better day. Do you suppose Theo is going to be much longer? I ought to be going, really.’

‘I’ll go and have a word with him, shall I?’

‘Please. I don’t have a key and I know that Max will be waiting up for me.’

‘He will? Why? Doesn’t he trust you?’

‘It’s not me he doesn’t trust, it’s Theo. Oh, perhaps I shouldn’t have said that. You won’t tell Theo, will you?’

‘The lips are sealed. Hang on here a minute and I’ll see what he’s got to say.’

He returned shortly. ‘Looks like Theo’s going to be stuck for some time. He’s asked me to do the honourable thing and walk you home or he’ll get it in the neck from Max. That okay with you?’

‘Mm ... With the insight I now have of what goes on in your mind I’m not sure I want to go anywhere in the dark with you.’