The Holiday (32 page)

‘Subtle, Mum,’ said Francesca, twirling the pencil between her fingers, then tapping it against her teeth. ‘I was wondering when you’d get round to checking them out.’

Since the night Izzy had hurt her ankle and Francesca had brought Harry home, the Patterson boys had put in more than the occasional appearance. Usually late at night. Much to Francesca’s amusement, Max had taken a liking to Harry, referring to him as PM — Promising Material. ‘He’s clean, good-looking and polite. What more could I want for my daughter?’ he teased her. ‘And just think, he might even be the type to hold down a steady and well-paid job when the time comes.’

‘You’re so woefully predictable, Dad!’ had been Francesca’s response.

The guest list was extended to include Dimitri and Marietta, who ran the jewellery shop in Kassiópi; and Sophia and Angelos, plus Giorgios and his two younger sisters.

‘You know who we can’t miss off the list, don’t you?’ said Max.

Everybody looked at him.

‘The Fitzgeralds.’

‘You’re right,’ said Laura. ‘It would be very rude to exclude them. Go on, Francesca, add their names. And we’ll have to remember to tell Theo that his little game of pretending to be Mark’s chauffeur will have to come to an end before then. I don’t want Dolly-Babe being made to look a fool in front of everybody.’

‘Oh, you’re all heart, Mum.’

‘Now then,’ said Olivia, after she had fetched one of the many books she had brought with her — Who’s Who in Greek Mythology. ‘Who shall we dress up as?’ She flicked through the pages until one caught her eye. ‘Aha, anyone fancy being Medea?’

‘What’s she famous for?’ asked Sally.

‘Wasn’t she the one who was into rejuvenation?’ said Izzy, flexing her ankle experimentally — she had removed the strapping last night in bed to see if she could manage a day without its support. ‘She chopped up an old ram, popped it into the cauldron of bubbling potion and out leaped a young lamb.’

‘She was also a ruthless so-and-so,’ added Corky. ‘Keen to teach Jason a lesson for his infidelity, she murdered their children.’

‘Hey, I like her style,’ laughed Sally, ‘a woman not to tangle with. Read on, Mrs S, and let’s see who else you’ve got for us.’

Quietly relieved that everyone was now absorbed in preparing for the party, Laura slipped away to the far end of the terrace where she lay down on a sun-lounger. Happy in the knowledge that she no longer had to entertain the troops, she closed her eyes and, without meaning to, was soon dozing. She dreamed that, on his return to England, Max impressed his new client by dressing up as Hercules and wrestling his competitors to the floor.

While everyone else was trying to decide which mythological character they wanted to be at the party, Francesca and Sally knocked up some invitations on Max’s computer and offered to deliver them.

Their first port of call was Nick and Harry. ‘It makes sense to start off at the furthest point and work our way back,’ said Francesca, as they took the path down to the beach.

‘It wouldn’t have anything to do with being keen to see Harry, would it?’

Francesca pretended she hadn’t heard what Sally had said, but it wasn’t a million miles from the truth. Rarely did she and Sally keep anything of a personal nature from each other, but in this instance Francesca was keen to preserve a degree of privacy. Not that there was much to tell. Well, not by Sally’s standards, anyway. But discussing Harry with anyone might taint what Francesca felt for him. Though she wasn’t entirely sure what it was. He was so unlike any previous boyfriend she had had. Maybe that was the appeal.

But what she did or did not feel for Harry was beside the point. Three nights ago, without meaning to, she had annoyed and upset him. They had been on their own, Nick and Sally having gone to a bar for another all-night session, and they were walking home through the olive grove. It was nearly two o‘clock in the morning and they were following the small beams of light cast from their torches. The path had seemed steeper and bumpier in the dark and, in her high platform shoes, the going was even harder. It wasn’t long before she missed her step, and because Harry was the kind of bloke he was, gentle and caring, his hand was immediately there to stop her going over. ‘You don’t need to let go,’ she had said, feeling his hand loosen on her arm once she had regained her balance. It sounded as if she was teasing him, and she probably was, just a little, but she quite fancied the thought of him holding her hand. Without a word, he slipped his hand into hers and they continued on their way.

It had been a long time since she had felt like this — cherished, as though she mattered. It made her wonder what she had ever seen in a jerk like Carl — whose idea of a romantic moment was to lick his lips and say, ‘How about it?’ She cringed at the memory of him saying this the first time they had met, at a party. How could she have fallen for such a crass line? What on earth had been the attraction? Perhaps her parents had been right that the whole episode had been her need to rebel, to shock her father into believing that she was all grown-up. She realised now that, far from shocking him, she had only disappointed him.

She had been so deep in thought that she missed her footing again, and if it hadn’t been for Harry she would have fallen flat on her face. He held on to her tightly, his fingers digging into her arm. ‘You okay?’ he asked.

‘Thanks to you I am,’ she said, her face raised to his. Aware of how close their bodies were, she waited to see what he would do.

The wait was worth while.

Every delicious, anticipatory second of it.

He removed his glasses, and very slowly brought his mouth down to hers. His timing was supreme: not too fast, not too slow, just perfect. And when he got down to it — when he got into his stride and held her to him — she realised she had never been kissed so beautifully.

‘You’ve done this before, haven’t you?’ she said, when at last he let her go.

‘Not like this I haven’t.’

His honesty, and the sweet, tender way in which he was looking at her, squinting to focus on her face, made her smile. She reached up and pulled his head down to her again. But after the briefest of kisses, he gently pushed her from him.

‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.

Suddenly he looked awkward. His glasses were in place again, as was his shy reserve. ‘Nothing’s wrong,’ he mumbled, more to himself than to her. He wasn’t even meeting her gaze now.

‘Liar,’ she retorted. ‘Tell me what’s wrong.’ She sensed rejection only a short slippery step away and didn’t like the idea. Not so soon after Carl.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, still not looking at her, ‘it’s just ... if we carry on I’m not sure I’d know how to stop myself from ...’

This was the last thing she had expected him to say, and relief made her laugh. ‘From what?’ she asked, curious to see how he would answer.

‘I think you know. I also think you’re having a joke at my expense.’ In the shadowy darkness, his face was tight with condemnation.

‘Hey, there, Mr Sensitive, before you start accusing me of teasing you, how about you considering that the boot might be on the other foot? No girl likes being kissed — a kiss that would score highly in the history of your one hundred best snogs, and then have a repeat sample denied her.’

He nudged his glasses. ‘Are you always this stroppy when a guy tries to act decently?’

‘No!’ she snapped. ‘It’s a first. I’ve never met a bloke who hasn’t tried to grope me at the first opportunity.’

He frowned. ‘So where does that leave me? Mr Bloody Boring again, I suppose. Someone you and Sally can have a good laugh at.’

She hesitated. ‘Actually, it makes you a refreshing change. So quit blathering, and if it isn’t too much of a turn-on for you, give me your hand so I can get home in one piece.’

‘I’ll do my best to contain myself,’ he responded, his expression stern, which was at odds with his normally good-natured face.

They walked on in stony, nerve-jarring silence. At the gate to Villa Petros, he let go of her hand and was all set to leave without another word when she touched his arm lightly and said, ‘I’m sorry that you thought I was laughing at you. I wasn’t, really. It was relief. It was — ’

But he wasn’t interested in what she had to say. ‘Goodnight, Francesca.’ He turned and left her.

She let herself in and went to bed. But she couldn’t sleep. All she could think of was turning the clock back to that moment in the olive grove when Harry had kissed her, and before she had blown it with him. Not for the first time in her life, her hot-headedness had got the better of her.

That had been three nights ago and she hadn’t seen him since. And now, as she and Sally approached the pink villa that Harry and his family were renting, she wondered how he would react to seeing her again.

‘It’s a bit of a wreck, isn’t it?’ said Sally, as they pushed through the tangle of overgrown bushes and weeds that had invaded the path. Everything about the villa looked tired and worn out. The faded walls had long since lost their original vibrancy and the green paintwork on the shutters was peeling badly. Even the bougainvillaea clinging to one of the walls looked as if it had had enough.

Without catching a glimpse of Mr and Mrs Patterson, Francesca and Sally could hear them. It was obvious from the raised voices coming from inside the villa that an argument was in full swing. Nick had often referred to the warring tension between ‘the aged ones’ but Francesca hadn’t taken him seriously. Now she knew he hadn’t been exaggerating. ‘Perhaps we ought not to bother them,’ she said, thinking of Harry and how he would hate her to see his parents like this. ‘Let’s leave them till later.’

‘What? And miss out on embarrassing them? No way.’

When they reached the terrace they saw Nick and Harry. They were dressed for the beach, in swimming shorts with a towel slung over a shoulder, snorkels and masks in hand. Despite the commotion still going on inside the villa, Nick was instantly all smiles. ‘Welcome to the madhouse. As you can no doubt hear the lovebirds, Ma and Pa Patterson, are a bit preoccupied with each other at the moment so I shan’t introduce you. We have to make allowances, love blinds them. We’re off for a swim, want to join us?’

Sneaking a look at Harry, Francesca said, ‘Later, maybe.’ She handed over the invitation to Nick. ‘Mum and Dad are giving a party and you’re all invited.’

With Sally’s help, she explained about the party and its theme. ‘If you’re stuck for ideas, we’ve got a brilliant book on Greek mythology we could lend you.’

‘And, please, don’t say you want to be Hercules, Nick,’ said Sally. ‘We’ve got them queuing up for him.’

But Nick dismissed Hercules out of hand. ‘The man was a fool going along with all those tedious labours. I think I’ll go as Cronus.’

‘Who was he?’ asked Francesca. Nick had never struck her as being the sharpest knife in the cutlery box and she was amazed that he knew anything about Greek mythology.

Throwing a look over his shoulder, towards the villa where the noise had at last died down, Nick said, ‘At his mother’s request, Cronus hacked off his dad’s genitals with a sickle and tossed them into the sea. It was poor old Gaia’s answer to the vasectomy.’

‘They were a sick old bunch, weren’t they?’ laughed Sally.

‘What will you be going as, Francesca?’ Harry asked, and Francesca, who until now had been sure that he was doing his best to avoid eye-contact with her, met his gaze.

‘I haven’t decided yet,’ she said, ‘though I did wonder about Cassandra.’

He pushed up his glasses. ‘Cassandra,’ he repeated, keeping his eyes on her. ‘The daughter of Hecuba and Priam whose fate it was never to be believed.’

She smiled. ‘That’s her. Good choice or not?’

His mouth twitched amiably. ‘I’d have to reserve judgement.’

‘You do that, then.’

‘Sure you don’t want to join us for a swim now?’ he asked.

‘I’d love to but we’ve got the rest of these invitations to deliver. See you later perhaps?’

‘That would be nice.’

 

Once they had left the boys and were out of earshot, Sally said, ‘A seriously weird family, wouldn’t you say, all that arguing?’

‘Explains why Nick’s such a head-case, doesn’t it?’

‘So where does Harry fit in, then?’

Francesca laughed. ‘He has to be adopted. Nobody as normal as he is could have been conceived by such genetically impaired parents.’

They headed for their next port of call, Villa Mimosa. This was a large, buttermilk-coloured, two-storeyed house about a hundred yards higher up the hillside and just beyond a smaller villa that seemed uninhabited. In the baking midday sun, the steep climb left them both breathless. With the sound of cicadas chirruping noisily all around them, they paused to catch their breath and to take in the view below them. Down on the beach, Nick and Harry were swimming in the sparkling sea, their snorkels poking up through the choppy waves. Thinking of the brief exchange, just now, with Harry, Francesca was hopeful that another of his off-the-chart kisses might be on offer. She smiled at the prospect.

‘Come on,’ she said, turning round and climbing further up the path. ‘We’ll burn if we stand here much longer. Let’s go and see if Dolly-Babe’s in.’

They found her reclining on a sun-lounger in the shade of a large canvas parasol. She was wearing a white swimsuit that couldn’t have been designed with swimming in mind — it was a dazzling sight of pearls and rhinestones. But Francesca was more struck by the two very upright boobs thrusting through the glitter — silicone-enhanced for sure. When Dolly-Babe saw the girls, she put down her glass and hurriedly tied a sarong around her tiny waist. ‘Can I help you?’ she asked, lowering her sunglasses and peering at them in a less-than-welcoming fashion.

Francesca explained who they were and handed over the invitation.

‘Ooh,’ said Dolly-Babe, her demeanour undergoing a dramatic change. ‘A party! That’s nice. Care to join me for a drink, girls?’ She slipped on a pair of gold-trimmed Prada mules that had Sally’s tongue hanging out with envy and tip-tapped inside the house, returning minutes later with an open bottle of chilled wine and two extra glasses. ‘Now, then,’ she said, when they had settled into their chairs and raised their glasses, ‘what kind of a bash is it that your parents are throwing?’