The Holiday (9 page)

She had played right into his hands and, giving her a pitying look, he had returned his attention to the therapist. ‘She doesn’t turn me on, that’s the nuts and bolts of it. And you can see why, can’t you? You can see why it would be such a lacklustre performance.’

‘Perhaps you should be telling Izzy this, and not me,’ the woman had said. Her gaze and neutral tone never faltered.

‘Yes, Alan,’ she had agreed, her own voice spiralling dangerously out of control. ‘If it was always so bad, why did you keep up the pretence? Why did you bother? And more importantly,’ her voice wobbled, ‘if I didn’t turn you on, how did you ever manage to get an ... well, to go through with it?’

‘You see what I mean?’ he had said to the other woman, a triumphant smile snaking across his face. ‘She can’t even bring herself to say the word erection. Is it so bad to want a woman in bed with me and not an embarrassed child? Look, she’s flinching.’

The hour-long session had finished on that appalling note and they had driven home in silence. They went to bed that night each intent on proving the other wrong. It was a disaster. A ghastly humiliating disaster. She ended up in tears and Alan, victorious, declared her useless. ‘You need help, Izzy,’ he had said, coming out of the bathroom without a stitch on.

She had turned away from the sight of his naked body and wondered if he was right. The truth was, she wasn’t very experienced. A brief encounter here, a regrettable dalliance there, had done nothing to alter her opinion that sex seemed guaranteed to undermine a girl’s confidence. In the complex world of everybody’s birthright to complete satisfaction, how did she rate? Was she doing it right? How did her technique compare with that of Alan’s previous lovers? He often spoke of his past relationships, referring to them as stepping-stones. ‘And they’ve led me to you, Izzy,’ he had said, the first time they had slept together.

Nervously she had followed his lead and allowed him to strip away her clothes and as he dropped them on the floor, her instinct, even in such a moment, was to tidy them into a neatly folded pile — jeans at the bottom, sweater on top, socks tucked into shoes. Or had it been a need to distract him? Or a distraction for herself?

He must have sensed her awkwardness for he said, ‘Relax Izzy, you’re quite safe with me.’

‘Sexually repressed’ was what he had called her three years on in that silly pink room. Funny that it had taken him so long to reach that conclusion. Funny, too, that it had never bothered him until he felt the desire to leave her for somebody else.

‘Well?’ prompted Laura, when Izzy still hadn’t responded. ‘Did he claim that you were neither use nor ornament in bed?’

‘Actually, he was more explicit than that,’ Izzy said, forcing herself to be honest. ‘He said I was sexually repressed. Also that I was boring.’

Laura burst out laughing. But soon stopped. ‘Oh, Izzy, don’t look so hurt, I wasn’t laughing at you. Please don’t think that. It’s Alan I’m laughing at. When men start throwing accusations about like that, you can bet your bottom dollar that it’s their own inadequacies they’re running from. Did you never stop to think that maybe he was a bit lacking in that department? That by blaming you he was hiding from his own problems? All that counselling stuff he put you through was just a ruse in which he hoped to bury the truth with his horrible lies and twisted accusations.’

‘Do you really think so?’

Laura’s face hardened. ‘Yes I do. What’s more, and I promised myself I’d never say this, but Max and I never liked him, and the sooner you get over him the better. You need to prove to yourself that he was wrong. And wrong with a capital W. If I were a doctor, you know what I’d prescribe you?’

‘Don’t tell me, an intensive course of holiday romance.’

Laura smiled. ‘Got it in one. What you need is a relationship that has perfectly defined boundaries. When your holiday comes to an end, you walk away with your pride and dignity fully intact. And because love was never asked to join in, there’s no danger of you getting hurt. For the first time in your life you could be in control of something. Who knows? You might prove to yourself that you’re not such a disaster in bed as Alan has made you think you are.’ She pointed to the front page of the Express, and added, ‘That’s probably what that woman is doing. I bet she’s led a really boring existence, been dictated to all her marriage and has now finally done something about it. Her life will never be the same again. When the moment of passion has died she’ll sell her story to the highest bidder and make herself some money. She’ll be a celebrity. Hats off to her, I say.’

‘But what about the boy?’

‘He’ll sell his story too, if he’s got any sense. Let’s not delude ourselves that he’s a poor shy little lad who doesn’t know what he’s doing. Odds on, he’s up for it just as much as she is.’

‘And what effect will it have on him when he’s older? How will he view women?’

‘Time will tell. But for now, let’s worry about your neurosis, shall we?’

‘Which in particular? Alan? Or my mother?’

‘Oh, Lord, I’d need another carafe of wine to find the enthusiasm or strength to dissect your mother. No, I’ve a better idea. Let’s discuss you and Theo. What would you do if he did take a liking to you? How would you react?’

‘With distrust, I suppose.’

‘And what if he was able to allay your suspicions, what then?’

Izzy lowered her knife and fork. ‘I’m not sure he, or any other man, would be able to do that.’

A determined note came into Laura’s voice. ‘Look, we both know that Alan was a creep of the highest order, but you’ve got to get it into your head that not all men are as cruel as him. You’ll have to let one of them slip under the wire at some time in the not-too-distant future.’

‘I know, I know, but you’re speaking from the comfort zone of your own marriage to Max, which is bound to make you hold men in higher regard than I ever could.’

‘I haven’t always been married to Max. There was a time before him, a time when I was hurt just as badly as you.’

This was news to Izzy. Because Max and Laura were so happy and well suited, she had never thought of them with other partners. ‘Really? You’ve never mentioned it before.’

‘It’s not something I like to remind myself of.’

‘Why, because it still hurts?’

‘No,’ Laura said emphatically. ‘Because I was so stupid, and on two counts. Stupid to believe a word he ever uttered, and stupid enough to let him cause me a single moment of pain. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned from the experience, it’s that Max proved to me that not all men are such pigs. It’s only the occasional rotten apple that gives the rest of the barrel a bad name.’

‘And you’re determined that I should learn that lesson as well?’

‘Is that so very bad of me?’

‘It would explain why I feel that you’re literally throwing Theo at me.’

Laura smiled. ‘Go on, hand on heart, tell me you wouldn’t be tempted if he made a play for you. Well, wouldn’t you?’

‘Laura, I can honestly say, with my hand on my heart, that I’m not going to answer any more of your daft questions. Another glass of wine?’

Theo was on the phone, and with the likelihood of the call going on for some time yet — judging from the expression on his face and the rapidity of his words — Mark decided to leave him to it. It always amused Mark that when Theo was speaking in his native tongue he could never work out whether an enthusiastic exchange was taking place or a heated argument: the tone was always the same, hugely expressive and bordering on volatile.

He went through to the kitchen; a large rectangular room with rough uneven walls of stone that, in places, were more than twenty inches deep. There were no fitted cupboards, just two enormous wooden dressers that held a variety of brightly coloured crockery and glassware. At the furthest end there was a small walk-in pantry where the shelves were neatly packed with everyday requirements, including at least a dozen different varieties of olive oil. In front of one of the dressers, and in the middle of the room, was a chunky oblong table with six wooden chairs around it; they varied in size and design, and Mark guessed they were handmade. Beneath a small window that looked out on to a vegetable plot and a glimpse of the sea, there was a white ceramic sink; it was modern but masquerading discreetly as old. Next to this, and taking up most of the available wall space, was a massive American fridge. Mark opened its shiny blue door and helped himself to a glass of water. He added ice to it and strolled through the rest of the house, out on to the terrace. He paused for a few minutes in the dazzling sunshine to slip on his sunglasses, the heat coming at him as a hammer-blow, before going down the stone steps to the area of garden that overlooked the swimming-pool.

Villa Anna was not at all what he had expected. Having stayed with Theo many times in Athens, he had made the assumption that his friend’s recently acquired and renovated country retreat would be a replica of the many soulless apartments Theo had lived in over the years. But he should have known better than to presume anything of Theo. A friendship that had spanned more than two decades should have prepared him for the unexpected. Villa Anna wasn’t even a toned-down version of the chic minimal furnishings and discordant sculptures with which Theo normally surrounded himself: instead it was a comfortable home with leanings towards tasteful modesty rather than expensive artifice. The cluttered shelves of books that lined the irregular, sloping stone walls, the simply framed sketches, the family photographs, the blend of faded rugs and muted fabrics, and the antique furniture — some of which Mark recognised as having once belonged to Anna Vlamakis — gave an air of permanency to the house. It’s a home, had been Mark’s first thought when Theo had unlocked the front door and brought him inside, less than half an hour ago.

So, was this where his friend was finally putting down some roots?

If it was, Mark could understand it. His own memories of previous trips to Corfu, together with the little he had seen so far of Áyios Nikólaos, was enough to make him see that Theo had found himself an ideal bolthole for when he tired of the madness of Athens.

Wanting to explore further, Mark followed a winding gravel path bordered on either side by bushes of scarlet oleander and large urns of broad-leafed ferns. It took him to a small clearing that was almost at the very tip of the headland. To his right was the bay of Ayios Nikólaos with its narrow stretch of beach, gently sloping hillside of cypress trees and clusters of villas, and to his left, a verdant coastline that led, he supposed, to the nearest village. Theo had given him a brief run-down on the local geographical landmarks during the drive from the airport, but until he saw it for himself it would mean nothing.

Back home he, too, lived near the sea: the North Sea. Admittedly the water wasn’t as clear, or anywhere near as warm, but in its own way the view he lived with was just as spectacular as this. He had lived in Robin Hood’s Bay for the last six years, in a three-storey Georgian house he had bought on the proceeds from his first book. It had originally been built for a sea captain in the mid-eighteenth century and had a great sense of history. Over the years it had been well documented by countless local historians. Living in a historic landmark was a pain at times, but he wasn’t alone in that: practically everyone in the tightly packed village suffered from the same affliction. Perched on the cliff edge with its maze of little streets and the jumble of cottages with their distinctive pan-tiled roofs and an identity that was firmly anchored in fishing and smuggling, Robin Hood’s Bay was a real tourist pull. People came from all over to ooh and
aah
at its quaintness, especially in the summer. In the winter months, when few people had the urge to cope with the cold rain and gusting winds that came in off the sea, the village became a different place altogether. It was that time of year that Mark liked best. A grim bleakness descended on the landscape and gave him the sense of brooding isolation that inspired his writing and which had become his trademark. When Theo had made his first visit in the depths of one of the coldest winters Mark had known, he had shaken his head and said, ‘So, this is where you intend to hide for the rest of your life, is it?’

‘Who said anything about hiding?’

‘You have another word for it?’

There had been an element of truth in what Theo had said. After a long period in his life when everything he had touched had seemingly gone wrong, he had felt the need to disappear, to submerge himself in another world. But for all Theo’s initial cynicism, he had soon come to realise why Mark had chosen to live where he had. ‘It is a place of paradox,’ he said, when he made his second visit in the height of summer and saw the carefree crowds of holidaymakers sunning themselves in the harbour with their ice-creams, heard the laughter of children playing in the rock pools, watched the fishing-boats coming in after a day at sea, and strolled through the expanse of purple-flowering heather that covered the moors only a few miles away, ‘but I can see that this quaint little village suits you well. It reflects perfectly the dark and dour side to you, and the quirky mercurial bit you keep for those who know you best. But it is good, I see an improvement in you already. You are not so uptight.’

Theo had been right, as he so often was. Robin Hood’s Bay suited him well: it felt comfortably secure and made few demands of him. That was how he wanted to live. Quietly. Unobtrusively. Doing what he enjoyed most, which was writing, and with nothing of his past to cast a shadow over his new life.

And that was what he had achieved, until February of this year when his latest novel,
Silent Footsteps,
was published. Within a week of the book hitting the shelves, he had received the first of the letters. To begin with he had ignored them, treating the typewritten notes as nothing more than the weird work of a crank. But then a familiar pattern emerged, and he began to feel spooked. The crank, whoever he was, was carrying out a copycat version of the killer’s actions in Silent
Footsteps.
The story-line had revolved around a stalker who had written repeatedly to his victims telling them that he was their friend, that he was looking out for them. He always started the message in the same way: ‘Remember, you’re never alone. I am your friend.’ It was classic stalker mentality: the stalker’s need to feel involved in his victim’s life, to become the focus of that person’s every waking thought. But it wasn’t just the wording of the letters that concerned Mark, it was the postmark on each envelope that caused him the most anxiety: the crank was replicating the sequence of postmarks that Mark had written into his book. The order in which the letters arrived was identical to the pattern in
Silent Footsteps:
Winchester first, followed by Salisbury, Lincoln, Norwich, Chester, Liverpool, Guildford, Durham, and finally Hereford. They were all cities that had cathedrals of notable interest, but while there hadn’t been any particular reason why Mark had used this in his novel — it had simply been one of those lucky ideas plucked from the ether, which seemed to work well in the plot he was pursuing — the man, or woman for that matter, who was behind the letters Mark had so far received must have chosen the places with a very specific purpose in mind: to put the wind up him. It made him think, What if this person is serious? What if he’s
deadly
serious?