Vicki lies on the bed in her beautiful mosaic dress, watching him shave his face and chest. The room fulfils his basic needs. There’s a bedside table with a well-thumbed burgundy bible in the drawer, a hardwood sideboard stocked with teabags, coffee, milk and sugar tubes, and a scaled-up wash basin with a foggy mirror. Black mould blights the ceiling. The room’s prepaid, their host discreet. They won’t be disturbed. He covers one nipple with his fingertip and shaves off the curls of hair sprouting from his areola.
‘Are you sure you won’t join me for a drink?’ he says.
‘I’m sure. Had a long day. Go and enjoy yourself. I’ll be fine.’
He leaves Vicki lying on the single, orange bed and goes off in search of a late-night bar.
Next morning, he discards the flavourless croissant and weak coffee, leaving the house in pitch darkness, and drives to the airport, determined to beat the crush. His heart sinks when he arrives at the bag drop, the queue snaking out of sight. Eventually, he stands in line, removes his jacket, phone, watch, belt and shoes, and waits for the next grey tray. From the communal dressing area, it’s a short stroll to Duty Free. He stares into Vicki’s sad eyes.
‘Would you like me to buy you some perfume?’ he asks.
‘That would be lovely, thank you.’
‘What would you like me to buy you?’
‘Eternity, please.’
He buys her Eternity then finds a café for breakfast. Famished, he orders two bacon butties and sits down to a healthy cherry yogurt, fresh orange juice, a tall mochaccino. She doesn’t eat. Before long, their gate number flickers on the departure board. He forces his way through the bustling crowds of holidaymakers and boards the monorail. There’s a black leather seat free in the lounge. He watches drizzle run off the window. An airbus on the tarmac. Lights flash. Cases load. Rain teems down. As dawn breaks.
‘Do you need to use the toilet?’ he says.
‘No, I’ll be fine.’
He presents his boarding pass and walks through the driving rain to the plane, not giving a damn if he gets dripping wet. They were so in love. He remembers when they visited the artist’s market in Montmartre in the depths of autumn. Easel upon easel of art. Painters in bobble hats, huddled under umbrellas. The clouds burst sending them scurrying into the nearest brasserie. He’d savoured the scent of her wet skin as they hid in the corner. Fresh lovers waiting to share a toasted-cheese-crusted terrine of hot onion soup. They’d kissed and cuddled for the first-time. Nobody seemed to mind.
His seat is located half-way down the aircraft. He switches his phone to flight mode and dozes.
*****
He took her in his arms. ‘Happy, Vic?’
Her brown eyes twinkled. ‘Yes, very.’
It was late spring, Saturday morning. The purple tulips were in full bloom. Warm sunshine graced their bodies. Vicki was heavy with child. Her abdomen was distended. They lay on the crumpled bed, her baby prodding his stomach. He marvelled at how she’d push herself to the limits of her own endurance to birth her miracle, her new life. He treasured her, cherished her, every pounding heartbeat, every sublime kiss of her.
Their life had changed beyond recognition. They’d scrimped and scraped until they afforded a starter home beside a shady copse in rural Essex, an end-of-row house. Downstairs, the tiny hall lead to a spacious lounge. The miniscule diner caught the morning sun, an ideal location for his writing desk. A galley-sized kitchen overlooked their charming woodland garden.
A short climb upstairs led to Vicki’s world. Her pink bedroom. The wedding cake bed with its nest of soft cuddly toys: her favourite dark-brown, one-eyed, teddy bear, fluffy red squirrel, sad, blue plastic dolphin. The changing room with its quaint pine dressing table, pink en suite. The nursery with a snow-white cot, rocking horse and cradle. Bedecked in pink. As soon as she fell pregnant, Vicki instinctively knew her baby was a girl. Emma Jane she’d call her, after her late mother. Their parents died of diseased hearts. Emma would have no grandparents. Vicki took her maternity leave knowing that she wouldn’t return to work, wanting to devote herself exclusively to her child. They found the perfect love, a love that was all-consuming, unselfish and respectful. Vicki was happy. He was all she’d ever wanted in a man; romantic, passionate, caring and considerate.
‘I love you so much, Vic,’ he told her.
‘And I love you,’ she said, her eyes shining like twin beacons, ‘Now lie back.’
Vicki sat up straight and pulled her loose, grey vest over her head. Her skin was caramel, her burnt sienna hair tied back in a tight bun. Stray wisps of gold kissed her gilded neck. She electrified him. Their love knew no boundaries. They’d consummated their marriage hundreds of times, and every time that she made love to him was still as wonderfully intense as the first.
*****
‘You haven’t fastened your seatbelt.’
Vicki sits on the next seat while he buckles his belt. The aircraft rolls along the tarmac, the cabin crew stand harmonised in the aisle, pretending to pull down orange oxygen masks. He wonders if he’ll lose her in the panic of decompression, his arms spreading out like tentacles, scrabbling for air. Imagining the plane in a nosedive, he adopts the brace position, head down, hands-over-head. The flight attendant standing nearest him pulls a life vest over her shoulders. Ties the straps round her waist. Flashes her light. Flaunts her whistle. In the event of a crash landing, he’ll have to take off his shoes, exit via the wing, leave his belongings, leave her. His head spins. He pours with sweat, feels sick, stares at the Fasten Seatbelt sign, a soft-lit blur, and cries out.
‘Is everything alright, Sir?’ the flight attendant asks.
He feels other eyes watching him, reads alarm in the woman’s face, hears babies crying.
‘Had a migraine,’ he says, incoherently, ‘Feel better now.’
She leans across, concerned. ‘Are you sure? Can I fetch you a glass of water?’
His head clears. ‘I’ll be okay.’
The plane taxis up to the runway and waits. He holds his woman tight. The engines roar, the ground falls away. He sees dinky cars riding on the motorway. Patchwork quilts of green. His ears pop. They soar through wispy strands of cirrus, cotton wool clouds, into the clear blue sky, her heavenly oblivion.
‘I feel high!’
‘We are high!’ he says.
‘Not that kind of high, happy-high!’
He holds Vicki to his heart. Her happy-highs mean the world to him.
*****
It was high summer, Saturday afternoon. Salmon pink roses climbed the mossy garden wall. The sun’s rays tanned their bodies. Vicki breastfed her baby, her dark honey complected nipple extruding as Emma refused to let her go. She winded her child until she burped out a stream of warm curdled milk down her back. Happy and content, Vicki squatted on the comfortable bed, cradling Emma in her loving arms, rocking her to sleep.
‘I worry I might lose you, Vic,’ he told her.
Vicki’s thin eyebrows arched in surprise. ‘Why?’
‘Because you’re not careful.’
‘I am careful! I don’t drink, smoke or fuck around. I sleep well, exercise, diet. What more do you expect of me?’
She laid her baby down between them like a wall dividing two opposed nations.
‘Sleep tight, little one,’ she hushed.
‘Not that kind of careful, safety-careful,’ he persisted, ‘When you drive or cross the road you’re distracted.’
He was constantly berating Vicki about her distraction.
‘I’m not distracted! Don’t say that!’
She shoved him off her chest, sat up straight, crossed her legs and covered herself with her hands to protect her modesty. Her shock of burnt sienna hair hung in curls, waves, kissing her breasts, like a siren’s. She gave him her fierce look. Her walnut eyes burnt lesions in his heart. Vicki looked strikingly beautiful when she was enraged.
‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled.
She calmed down, ‘It’s alright.’
‘It’s just that, I love you and your baby so much. I never want to see you spoilt or hurt.’
‘I said it’s alright.’
‘I don’t know what I’d do without you, Vic.’
She drew him to her breast.
‘Come here,’ she said, as he melded his mouth to her and fed, ‘I’ll always be here for you.’
*****
As soon as he arrives at the village resort, he unpacks his suitcase, strips off his sweaty clothes, and showers. The luxury en suite bathroom, with its bidet, organic toiletries and fluffy ‘his and hers’ bathrobes are special features of the Superior Room. There’s a gigantic, grey double bed, air-con, Wi-Fi, mini bar, plasma screen tv, full-length wall-mirror. A terrace with a sea view. The staff are discreet. They won’t be disturbed. Someone has thoughtfully switched on the TV to show a virtual tour of the resort’s facilities. The bedroom is decked in bouquets of flowers, an ice bucket with a complimentary bottle of sparkling wine, mineral water.
There’s a pillow menu for those special romantic bedtime occasions. Vicki lies on the bed, radiant, smiling, in her beautiful mosaic dress; turquoise, strawberry, tangerine, lemon, lime…
‘Are you sure you won’t join me?’ he asks, drying his mop of curly bronze hair.
‘I’m sure. Been a long day. Go and eat. I’ll be fine.’
He leaves Vicki lying face down on the bed.
He arrived at the hotel too late for the open-air Greek Night. Instead, he takes the stepped path uphill to the main restaurant to sample the buffet. The adults-only resort is set high on a clifftop, edged by greenery, overlooking a royal blue sea. Dusk is dry, hot. He pauses at the crazy-paved pool terrace to watch the sun sink on the horizon. From there it’s a short ascent, past the swathes of swaying olive trees, stubby palms, a white-washed wall of overhanging bougainvillea. The other guests come out to play at dusk and dawn like rabbits from a warren. He sees them ogling him: bored, glass in hand, from their rogue’s gallery on the veranda bar, and averts his gaze.
The lobby area is deserted. There are pictures, pop-up stands. Of divers snorkelling, folk dancers, a couple strolling along an empty beach hand-in-hand, leaping off a boat deck, riding a camel. There’s touch-screen tv, virtual tours of the clustered complex: a three-tiered saltwater pool, beach café, bar, restaurant, spa, fitness terrace. And there are diaries of activity, schedules of wellbeing. Tomorrow, new arrivals are invited to meet the team over a glass of sparkling wine.
He walks down a short flight of stone steps to the restaurant and is stopped dead in his tracks by a display of colour brochures promoting the spa. He picks one up. On the front is a picture of a young woman seated on a white fluffy towel on a pebbled beach, staring out to sea. She is sitting upright, her bare, slender back to him, her long legs crossed, another towel draped over her lap. Three round candles: beige, liquorice, stone in colour, are arranged around her bottom, with a stack of flat pebbles. Her skin is caramel. Her burnt sienna hair is stretched, tied back in a tight bun. Stray wisps of gold kiss her neck. Other than a small, button ear, her face is blank. He thinks she’s Vicki. His eyes sting with tears. He buries his face in his hands.
A voice rings out behind him: strong and sonorous: ‘Are you alright, can I help you?’
He rubs his eyes, turns to face her. She’s tall, slim and well-built with a round face, a bob of auburn blonde hair. The gold-enamelled badge above her left breast introduces her as Ana. She has the kindest smile he’s ever seen. He feels mildly embarrassed.
‘Sorry, I had a bit of a shock,’ he says, ‘I’ll be alright.’
Ana’s face creases with concern for him. ‘There is no need to say sorry. I saw you crying.’ Her speech is stilted: German? Slavic? ‘It is good for men to cry. Men can cry too, you know.’
‘I know!’ he snaps, irritated at being spoken to like a child. I’m not stupid, he almost says.
Ana feels sorry for him. He looks so glum. Perhaps if she mothered him a little?
‘Would you like to talk to me about it?’
‘No, I wouldn’t!’ he says, immediately regretting his outburst; the girl is only trying to be helpful, ‘I’m sorry I didn’t mean that, I…’
She interrupts him, ‘That is okay. I understand.’
Her shoulders sag. Ana didn’t mean to upset the man. She only makes matters worse when she interferes in other people’s lives. That is Ana all over, the Good Samaritan who can’t help but give of her love. Because she has so much love in her heart to give. Her heart is bursting with love. Still, she keeps up her brave smile for him, extending her hand in his direction like some sturdy olive branch.
‘My name is Ana,’ she says, awkwardly.
‘I gather that,’ he smiles and takes her hand, surprised by the steeliness in her grip.
She blushes and tinkers nervously with her badge, ‘Oh!’
‘Yes! Oh!’ he quips. They burst out laughing. He has such a lovely smile, she thinks. His smile lights up his whole face. Ana looks so happy, carefree, and young, compared to him. He assumes that she’s a student working at the resort for the summer holidays before starting Uni. He gives her back her smooth hand.
‘It is good to meet you,’ she beams.
Ana ascends the stairway, resplendent in her olive-green tee-shirt and navy gym shorts, glimpses over her shoulder, and flashes him a smile, adding:
‘See you in the morning on the fitness terrace for my step aerobics class. Do not be late!’
*****
It was early autumn, Saturday evening. The blushing pears hung heavily on the bough. There was a cold breeze. Vicki zipped up her daughter’s pink sequinned parka and strapped her into her buggy, pecking her rosy cheeks. Emma gurgled with delight. She was just walking out of the door, bumping her baby down the red-glazed tile steps, when he cautioned her. What he said next sent nerve-chills scampering down her back:
‘I dreamed you had an accident last night, Vic.’
He scratched the dandruff out of his grey hair, rubbed his bristly chin. His spindly, thin, calves stuck out of his worn navy bathrobe. He’d literally just bathed, always bathed after a workout, couldn’t be bothered to dress before bed. This was his evening ritual: a work out at the sports centre, bathe, bed, maybe edit a story – if his mood felt right.
Vicki was shocked spark-white, ‘Accident? What sort of accident?’
‘A road accident.’
‘And Emm? Is she hurt in this… accident?’
He had difficulty breathing. His mouth fought to shape the word. ‘Yes.’
Vicki inhaled deeply, then exhaled. ‘How? How are we hurt?’
‘I don’t know!’ he shouted madly, ‘Everything went black! Then I woke up!’
‘I didn’t feel you wake.’
She hyperventilated, panicked inside, deep inhale, deep exhale.
‘I didn’t want to disturb you.’
He stared morosely at his pointed feet.
Vicki calmed herself. ‘Look, you had a nightmare, a bad dream. I have to go out shopping. We’re clean out of fish, fruit, yogurt, bread…’
She braked the buggy and went to pull the door.
‘Please, don’t go out!’
Vicki looked utterly fed up. ‘I need to get some fresh air. Don’t you see how lonely I get, cooped up like a hen in here, with you writing all day? Which story is it today? Dying Wish?’
‘Siren.’
She gave him a wary look. ‘Siren?’
He nodded.
‘And what’s that all about?’
‘I can’t tell you.’ He sounded nervous. ‘It’s secret.’
Vicki’s cheeks flushed with anger. ‘Secret? Really? I didn’t think we had secrets between us?’
With that she slammed the door shut and stormed out into night.
*****
He is greeted by a portly redhead in a brown skirt, matching cravat, starched white shirt and frumpy shoes. She leads him through the restaurant, past groaning buffet carts, to a table-for-one. The restaurant heaves with adults: newly-weds, young couples, couples with grown-up children, old aged pensioners, singles, widows, widowers. The sun-goddesses are out, adorned in shimmering, low-cut evening gowns, flirty-short cocktail dresses. Their necks are draped in heavy gold chains, strings of pearls, diamond necklaces.
Many of their red-skinned menfolk wear a jacket and tie in line with the smart evening dress code. He feels conspicuous in his creased navy-mix cotton shirt, stone shorts, loafers. Attracts the unwanted attention of several guests on the adjacent tables who stare at him disdainfully from behind balloons of wine, down their turned-up noses. To his relief, Candia, his waitress for the night, asks for his room number and drink order. He glances at the number scrawled on the back of the indigo zing card holder.
‘804,’ he says, engrossed in the drinks list.
‘Thank you.’ Candia takes down his napkin, ‘What can I get you to drink?’
‘A bottle of ouzo and a jug of table water.’
‘A bottle of ouzo?’ The waitress looks perplexed.
‘Yes.’
‘Very well, Sir.’ She jots the order on a duplicate pad. ‘Please, enjoy our buffet.’
‘Thanks. I’m starving. I intend to.’ He fakes a smile at her.
This man has a lovely smile, she thinks. His smile lights up his whole face.
‘Mind if I ask you a question about the resort?’ he says, star-gazing.
‘Of course not. How may I help you?’
He produces a pre-stamped postcard. The front comprises three photographs of the resort. An evening shot of the beach café looking out to sea. A photo of the high-level pool and terrace. And a picture of a young woman, walking under a shady canopy of stubby palms, overhanging bougainvillea. Hands trembling under the tablecloth, he asks her where he can post the card.
‘There is a post box in the village,’ she explains, ‘Would you like me to post it for you?’
‘Would you, please?’
Candia nods and he hands her the card. Relaxed at last, he enjoys a hearty supper of tzatziki, moussaka with garlic bread, buttered anna potatoes and spinach baked in feta cheese, followed by rich walnut cake in syrup and local cheeses, drowned in copious dregs of ouzo.
Stuffed with stodge, struggling to focus, drenched in sweat, he scrapes back the wicker chair from the table, staggering to his feet. The surrounding diners set down their cutlery, turn their heads and watch. The restaurant is silent.
The assistant manager, Georgi, rushes to his side and fusses over him.
‘Are you alright, Sir? May I help you?’
He slurs his speech, ‘I’m fine, okay? Now leave me alone!’
‘Have a good evening, take care…’ Georgi begins, touching his wrist.
‘Get off of me!’ he shouts, pushing his way out of the restaurant.
The disco up on the veranda bar is in full swing, its dancefloor awash with flashing lights: turquoise, strawberry, tangerine, lemon, lime green. DJ Lenox dims the lights down low, plays a slow number. The man sinks into a tufted black leather sofa and watches the tall, slim, auburn blonde smooch a young, olive-skinned man with a Balbo beard. Ana has changed into a sexy, full-length, black evening dress, split right up to her waist. Her partner caresses her bare hips as she draws him in and kisses him deeply. The couple appear to be very well acquainted.
Feeling lonely, he weaves his way dejectedly down the moonlit path to his room, inserts the zing card, opens the door, hooking a notice on the handle. He won’t be disturbed. He switches on the lights. Vicki is lying face down on the bed where he left her. He lifts her up, sits her on the pillow.
Vicki is a photograph. The bedroom is his shrine to her. Her intimate portraits are scattered all over the bed, plastered to the full-length wall-mirror. Vicki: heavily pregnant, posing naked. Vicki: suckling her new-born baby. Vicki: dressed in a fake fur, pouting her scarlet lips for the camera, as a bewildered priest holds Emma over the font, crossing her forehead with holy water.
Distraught, he lies on the bed. ‘I’m sorry Vic,’ he says. ‘It’s alright.’
‘It’s just, I loved you and your baby so much. I never wanted to see you spoilt or hurt.’
‘It’s alright,’ he says, ‘Come here, I’ll always be here for you.’
He downs the sleeping pills and shuts his eyes.
*****
It is late spring, Friday evening. She sits on the sofa in the comfort of her lounge holding Emma to her chest. As the chill rain drums against the window and pelts down on their tarmac drive. She checks her watch, grins: Jasmine will be home soon. She takes a last look at the message, scrawled on the back of a postcard:
I don’t know what I’ll do without you.
Sam xxx
Vicki smiles, a bitter-sweet smile. Then she feeds his crying card into the shredder.
