The Storm Sister (The Seven Sisters #2) (2 page)

As soon as I entered my room, I made a beeline for my laptop and wrote him an email to accept his offer. Before I sent it, I took a shower, then stopped to read it through again, blushing at how
eager I sounded. Deciding to save it in my drafts folder and send it in a couple of days, I stretched out on my bed, flexing my arms to relieve the tension and soreness from the race that day.

‘Well, Al,’ I muttered to myself with a smile, ‘
that
will be an interesting regatta.’

I sent the email as planned and Theo contacted me immediately, saying how pleased he was I could join his crew. Then just two weeks ago, I found myself inexplicably nervous as I stepped aboard
the race-rigged Hanse 540 yacht in Naxos harbour to begin training for the Cyclades Regatta.

The race was not overly demanding as competitive racing went, the entrants comprising a mix of serious sailors and weekend enthusiasts, all buoyed up by the prospect of eight days’
fabulous sailing between some of the most beautiful islands in the world. And as one of the more experienced crews involved, I knew we were strongly fancied to win.

Theo’s crews were always notoriously young. My friend Rob Bellamy and me, both thirty, were the ‘senior’ members of the team in terms of age and experience. I’d heard
that Theo preferred to recruit talent in the early stages of a sailor’s career to prevent bad habits. The rest of the crew of six were in their early twenties: Guy, a burly Englishman; Tim, a
laidback Aussie; and Mick, a half-German, half-Greek sailor who knew the waters of the Aegean like the back of his hand.

Although I was eager to work with Theo, I hadn’t stepped into it blindly; I’d done my best beforehand to gather information on the enigma that was ‘The King of the Seas’,
by looking on the internet and talking to those who had crewed with him previously.

I’d heard that he was British and had studied at Oxford, which would account for his clipped accent, but on the internet, his profile said that he was an American citizen who had captained
the Yale varsity sailing team to victory many times. One friend of mine had heard he came from a wealthy family, another that he lived on a boat.

‘Perfectionist’, ‘Control freak’, ‘Hard to please’, ‘Workaholic’, ‘Misogynist’ . . . These were other comments I had gathered, the
latter coming from a fellow female sailor who claimed she’d been sidelined and mistreated on his crew, which did give me pause for thought. But the overwhelming sentiment was simple:

‘Absolutely the best bloody skipper I have ever worked for.’

That first day aboard, I began to understand why Theo was afforded so much respect from his peers. I was used to shouty skippers, who screamed instructions and abuse at one and all, like
bad-tempered chefs in a kitchen. Theo’s understated approach was a revelation. He said very little as he put us through our paces, just surveyed us all from a distance. When the day was over,
he gathered us together and pinpointed our strengths and weaknesses in his calm, steady voice. I realised he’d missed nothing and his natural air of authority meant we hung on every word he
said.

‘And by the way, Guy, no more sneaking a cigarette during a practice under race conditions,’ he added with a half-smile as he dismissed us all.

Guy blushed to the roots of his blond hair. ‘That guy must have eyes in the back of his head,’ he mumbled to me as we trooped off the boat to shower and change for dinner.

That first evening, I headed out from our pension with the rest of the crew, feeling happy I’d made the decision to join them in the race. We walked along Naxos harbour, the ancient stone
castle lit up above the village and a jumble of twisting alleys winding down between the white-washed houses. The restaurants along the harbour front were teeming with sailors and tourists enjoying
the fresh seafood and raising endless glasses of ouzo. We found a small family-run establishment in the back streets, with rickety wooden chairs and mismatching plates. The home-cooked food was
just what we needed after a long day on the boat, the sea air giving us all a ravenous appetite.

My obvious hunger elicited stares from the men as I tucked into the moussaka and generous helpings of rice. ‘What’s the problem? Have you never seen a woman eat before?’ I
commented sarcastically, as I leant forward to grab another flatbread.

Theo contributed to the banter with the occasional dry observation, but left immediately after dinner, choosing not to participate in the post-supper bar crawl. I followed him shortly
afterwards. Over my years as a professional sailor, I’d learnt that the boys’ antics after dark were not something I wished to witness.

In the next couple of days, under Theo’s thoughtful green gaze, we began to pull together and quickly became a smoothly efficient team, and my admiration for his methods grew apace. On our
third evening on Naxos, feeling particularly tired from a gruelling day under the searing Aegean sun, I was the first to stand up from the dinner table.

‘Right lads, I’m off.’

‘Me too. Night boys. No hangovers aboard tomorrow, please,’ Theo said, following me out of the restaurant. ‘Can I join you?’ he asked as he caught up with me in the
street outside.

‘Yes, of course you can,’ I agreed, feeling suddenly tense that we were alone together for the first time.

We walked back to our pension along the narrow cobbled streets, the moonlight illuminating the little white houses with their blue-painted doors and shutters on either side. I did my best to
make conversation, but Theo only contributed the odd ‘yes’ or ‘no’, and his taciturn responses began to irritate me.

As we reached the lobby of the pension, he suddenly turned to me. ‘You really are an instinctive seaman, Al. You beat most of your crewmates into a cocked hat. Who taught you?’

‘My father,’ I said, surprised by the compliment. ‘He took me out sailing on Lake Geneva from when I was very small.’

‘Ah, Geneva. That explains the French accent.’

I readied myself for the typical ‘say something sexy in French’ type of comment that I usually got from men at this point, but it didn’t come.

‘Well, your father must be one hell of a sailor – he’s done an excellent job on you.’

‘Thanks,’ I said, disarmed.

‘How do you find being the only woman aboard? Although I’m sure it’s not a one-off occurrence for you,’ he added hastily.

‘I don’t think about it, to be honest.’

He looked at me perceptively through his horn-rimmed glasses. ‘Really? Well, forgive me for saying so, but I think you do. I feel you sometimes try to overcompensate for it and
that’s when you make errors. I’d suggest you relax more and just be yourself. Anyway, goodnight.’ He gave me a brief smile then mounted the white-tiled stairs to his room.

That night, as I lay in the narrow bed, the starched white sheets itched against my skin and my cheeks burnt at his criticism. Was it
my
fault that women were still a relative rarity
– or, as some of my male crewmates would undoubtedly say, a novelty – aboard professional racing boats? And who did Theo Falys-Kings think he was?! Some kind of pop psychologist, going
around analysing people who didn’t need to be analysed?

I’d always thought I handled the woman-in-a-male-dominated-world thing well, and had been able to take friendly jibes and asides about my female status on the chin. I’d built myself
a wall of inviolability in my career, and two different personas: ‘Ally’ at home, ‘Al’ at work. Yes, it was often hard and I’d learnt to hold my tongue, especially
when the comments were of a pointedly sexist nature and alluded to my supposed ‘blonde’ behaviour. I’d always made a point of warding off such remarks by keeping my red-gold curls
scraped back from my face and tied firmly in a ponytail, and by not wearing even a smidgen of make-up to accentuate my eyes or cover up my freckles. And I worked just as hard as any of the men on
the boat – perhaps, I fumed inwardly, harder.

Then, still sleepless with indignation, I remembered my father telling me that much of the irritation people feel at personal observations was usually because there was a grain of truth in them.
And as the night hours drew on, I had to concede that Theo was probably right. I wasn’t being ‘myself’.

The following evening, Theo joined me again as I walked back to the pension. For all his lack of physical stature, I found him hugely intimidating and I heard myself stumble over my words. As I
struggled to explain my dual personas, he listened quietly before responding.

‘Well, my father – whose opinion I don’t normally rate to be fair,’ he said, ‘once stated that women would run the world if they only played to their strengths and
stopped trying to be men. Maybe that’s what you should try to do.’

‘That’s easy for a man to say, but has your father ever worked in a completely female-dominated environment? And would he “be himself” if he did?’ I countered,
irritated at being patronised.

‘Good point,’ Theo agreed. ‘Well, at least it might help a little if I called you “Ally”. It suits you far better than “Al”. Would you mind?’

Before I had a chance to answer, he halted abruptly on the picturesque harbour front, where small fishing boats rocked gently between the larger yachts and motor cruisers as the soothing sounds
of a calm sea lapped against their hulls. I watched him look up to the skies, his nostrils flaring visibly as he sniffed the air, checking to see what the dawn would bring weather-wise. It was
something I had only ever seen old sailors do, and I chuckled suddenly at the projected image of Theo as an ancient, grizzled sea dog.

He turned to me with a puzzled smile. ‘What’s so funny?’

‘Nothing. And if it makes you feel better, you’re welcome to call me “Ally”.’

‘Thanks. Now, let’s get back and grab some sleep. I have a hard day planned for us all tomorrow.’

Again that night, I was restless as I replayed our conversation in my mind.
Me
, who usually slept like a log, especially when I was training or competing.

And rather than Theo’s advice helping me, over the next couple of days I made numerous silly mistakes, making me feel more like a rookie than the professional I was. I castigated myself
harshly; but ironically, even though my crewmates teased me good-naturedly, never once was there a word of criticism from Theo.

On our fifth night, feeling horribly embarrassed and confused by my uncharacteristically sloppy performance level, I didn’t even join the rest of the crew for dinner. Instead, I sat on the
small terrace of the pension eating bread, feta cheese and olives provided by the kind owner. I drowned my sorrows in the rough red wine she poured me, and after a number of glasses, began to feel
decidedly queasy and sorry for myself. I was just lurching unsteadily from the table, headed for bed, when Theo arrived on the terrace.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked, sliding his glasses up his nose to see me properly. I squinted back at him, but his outline had become inexplicably blurry.

‘Yes,’ I replied thickly, sitting back down hurriedly as everything I tried to focus on started to sway.

‘Everyone was worried about you when you didn’t turn up tonight. You’re not sick, are you?’

‘No.’ I felt the burning sensation of bile rising in my throat. ‘I’m fine.’

‘You know, you can tell me if you are sick and I swear I won’t count it against you. Can I sit down?’

I didn’t answer. In fact, I found I couldn’t as I struggled to control my nausea. He sat down in the plastic chair across the table from me anyway.

‘So what’s the problem?’

‘Nothing,’ I managed.

‘Ally, you’re an awful colour. Are you sure you’re not ill?’

‘I . . . Excuse me.’

With that, I staggered up and just made it to the edge of the terrace before I vomited over it onto the pavement below.

‘Poor you.’ I felt a pair of hands clasp me firmly around my waist. ‘You’re obviously not well at all. I’m going to help you to your room. What number is
it?’

‘I am . . . perfectly well,’ I muttered stupidly, horrified beyond measure at what had just happened. And all in front of Theo Falys-Kings, who, for some reason, I was desperate to
impress. All things considered, it could not have been worse.

‘Come on.’ He hoisted my limp arm over his shoulder and half-carried me past the disgusted gaze of the other guests.

Once in my room, I was sick a few more times, but at least it was into the toilet. Each time I emerged, Theo was waiting for me, ready to help me back to the bed.

‘Really,’ I groaned, ‘I’ll be fine in the morning, I promise.’

‘You’ve been saying that in between rounds of vomit for the past two hours,’ he said pragmatically, wiping the sticky sweat from my forehead with a cool, damp towel.

‘Go to bed, Theo,’ I murmured groggily. ‘Really, I’m fine now. Just need to sleep.’

‘In a while, I will.’

‘Thanks for looking after me,’ I whispered as my eyes began to shut.

‘That’s okay, Ally.’

And then, as I drifted in the half here, half there world of the few seconds before sleep, I smiled. ‘I think I love you,’ I heard myself say before I descended into oblivion.

I woke the next morning feeling shaky but better. As I climbed out of bed, I tripped over Theo, who had used a spare pillow and was curled up on the floor fast asleep. Shutting the bathroom
door, I sank onto the edge of the bath and remembered the words I’d thought – or Christ, had I actually
spoken
them? – last night.

I think I love you.

Where on earth had that come from? Or had I dreamt I’d said it? After all, I’d been very unwell and might have been hallucinating.
God, I hope so
, I groaned to myself, my
head in my hands. But . . . if I hadn’t actually said it, why could I remember those words so vividly? They were ridiculously inaccurate, of course, but now Theo might think that I actually
meant them. Which of course I didn’t, surely?

Eventually, I emerged sheepishly from the bathroom and saw that Theo was about to leave. I couldn’t meet his eye as he told me he was going to his own room to take a shower, and would come
back to collect me in ten minutes to take me down for breakfast.