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But I’m too much of a wimp, and besides, that’s the coward’s way out. The foamy sea swishes around my legs as I awkwardly make my way back to shore, hobbling from foot to foot in a vain attempt to avoid the sharp pebbles from digging into my feet. My eyes sting, my feet are glued with sand, then as I pluck my wet bikini bottom out of my left bum cheek with a twang, a male voice says, “Hello, Cinderella.”
I turn around and look up at a handsome face, using my hand as a sun visor. I don’t recognise him and I’m in no mood for getting picked up on the beach by a stranger.
“Hello,” I say, suspiciously. He’s holding two bottles of mineral water that he’s just bought from the old man on the pushbike kiosk. He gives me a wide, friendly grin, flashing a perfect set of white teeth. His skin is tanned and smooth, even the hairs on his well-toned chest and arms are golden. Clearly, this man spends hours in the gym.
“Did you get your other shoe back?” he asks in an accent similar to mine, another Londoner on holiday. I furrow my brows; what’s he on about? “You know, the one you lost trying to do the Zorba the other night. We found it under our table after you’d gone, so I handed it in to the manager. He said your folks were regulars and that he’d make sure you were notified.” He glances around the beach as if my parents will materialise from thin air. “They did contact you, didn’t they?” Then it dawns on me. He’s the man I fell onto when I was drunk at the restaurant.
“I’m really, really sorry about that. I don’t usually get drunk and fall over.” My face is getting progressively hot. “And yes, I did get it back, thanks for handing it in, they’re my best pair.”
“S’okay,” he says cheerfully, crinkling his slightly curved nose. He sweeps back his short, golden brown hair with his free hand, showing off his toned biceps, and then wipes the sweat off his forehead with the back of his forearm as if he was shooting an advert for Emporio Armani or something.
I like the fact that he hasn’t dyed the tufts of grey in his hair or cut it into a style to disguise his receding hairline. I don’t usually find men of my own age attractive. “Don’t worry, we’ve all been there. It was fun,” he laughs, kindly. Then he looks over his shoulder. I follow his gaze. In the distance, a little girl plays in the sand with a bucket and spade. A slim, young woman with blonde hair piled on top of her head is kneeling beside her. She clocks us, jumps to her feet and calls out to him.
“Dan! Hurry up, we’re parched.” I knew he was married.
“You’d better get back to your family,” I say as the beating windwhips up strands of loose hair and lashes them onto my face.
“Er…yeah.” He nods, and then lowers his aviator Ray Bans. His deep blue eyes, the shade of the evening sea, hold my gaze, his full lips part, he’s about to speak and then…
“Dan!” his wife screeches, waving her arms in the air manically, almost tumbling out of her white skimpy bikini.
“Anyway.” I look away and nod towards my sunbed. Dad lifts his arm lazily in acknowledgement and the handsome stranger responds with a shy wave. “My dad’s waiting,” I say, pulling hair strands out of my mouth. “I’d better get back.” I’m really in no fit state to be flirting with anyone so soon, and the last thing I want to do is get involved with a married man. “Thanks for saying hello…” I back away, “and for finding my shoe’.”
“No worries,” he says, and then he’s gone.
I watch as he struts along the beach, taking long, smooth strides. I wonder if he’s a professional model, he certainly has the right height and physique for it. Or, perhaps, he’s some kind of ex-athlete. I can just see him on the racetrack in navy shorts and a red, white and blue vest, pounding across the finishing line, his strong arms raised in triumph to the roar of the crowd. Hmmm… I wonder; and just then he looks back and waves. I drop my head quickly, hurrying back to my sun lounger with a small smile on my face. Men. They’re all the bloody same, aren’t they?
4
On our way back to the flat, Dad and I stop off at a café on St Lazarus Square in Scala for a Greek coffee, a taste I’ve come to acquire and will miss terribly when I’m back in London tomorrow.
We sit in companionable silence, sipping from our espresso cups as we gaze at the 9th century Byzantine church of St Lazarus, just feet away from our table. The faint sound of bouzouki drones into the street from the café radio. Cyclists swish up and down the road, drivers beep, beep, beep their horns, yelling at each other in Greek.
“I know how much you miss him,” Dad says suddenly, his eyes fixed on the limestone block building. “And I’m not going to lie to you, love, Nicholas was a good man. We all liked him.” He shakes his head and stares at his open-toed sandals, stretching his toes. “The stupid bloody sod.” I swallow hard. I can’t bear talking about Nick in the past tense as if he’s dead. Dad glances at me briefly, then puts his cup down and faces me. “Look, Audrey, love, he may be able to weave his magic through a camera lens.” Nick’s a professional photographer, passionate about his art. “But with a job like that,” he complains, “well, he’s not the marrying kind, is he? We did all tell you that from the start.” I don’t know what Dad is talking about, Nick’s work gigs were never a problem, no matter how far he travelled. I trusted him completely. Dad isn’t helping.
I stare silently into my cup. A trickle of sweat rolls down my spine, a man’s voice yells, “Sophia!” I jerk my head up and watch as he chases a little girl who is running amok, weaving through the legs of tourists outside the church. The town is heaving. It’s always busy on a Saturday. I feel hot, sticky, uncomfortable. Why did I agree to come here? We should’ve gone straight back to the flat for a shower and a change instead of stopping off for coffee in the lunchtime heat.
“What I’m trying to say, love, is…” Dad’s voice again. He licks his dry lips as if trying to summon up the words that will miraculously make my pain dissipate. “Well, you’ve just got to move on now, don’t you?” he says finally. I look at him blankly. Isn’t that what I’m trying to do? “You’ve still got your friends, your lovely home.” A two-bed Victorian garden flat in Muswell Hill stacked with memories of Nick. I bought it a few years ago on the cheap because it needed complete renovation – everyone told me it was a great investment, and they were right. Nick helped me to restore it, and although it took the most part of two years it was worth it in the end. It’s more than doubled in price. “And you’ve still got us.” He covers his warm hand over mine and gives it a good shake. “And your career.”
“I’m an I.T. assistant, Dad,” I whine. I work for a friendly team of web-designers on Cavendish Square in central London, “Hardly a career.” Dad seems irritated by my negativity; beads of sweat have formed at his receding hairline and are beginning to slide down his temples.
Dabbing his face with a napkin, Dad glances up and acknowledges a waiter who’s just placed two glasses of iced cold water onto our small wooden table. “You’ll meet someone else in time, you’ll see,” he says, once the waiter is out of sight, his voice as unconvincing as his portrayal of Father Christmas. Florian and the twins know that it’s Grandpa dressed in a red suit and a beard. “Audrey, I want you to promise me one thing.” Oh, here we go, another lecture. I suppose this coffee stop-off was just an excuse for a father-daughter talk, no wonder Mum didn’t want to come. “If Nicholas calls you begging for another chance, promise me you’ll say no this time, no matter what.”
He’s referring to the short, yet painful, separation we had eight months ago. We’d been bickering all week over his refusal to give up his pokey one-bedroom flat in Crouch End and move in with me, and I was itching for a row. I couldn’t see the point in paying for two properties, especially as he was practically living at mine. But mostly, I was sick and tired of his fear of commitment, of him dragging his feet and delaying our wedding. He knew how much it meant to me and he didn’t seem to care. I think that’s what hurt the most. I finally reached boiling point one Saturday night and we had the fallout from hell over something completely trivial. I’m pretty sure it was over whose turn it was to order the takeaway. Anyway, after launching into a string of accusations and letting rip some home truths, I threw him out in a mad frenzy. It took two long weeks of apologetic texts, phone calls and pleading voicemails before I caved in and took him back. I wish I hadn’t now.
I huff in a high-pitched tone. “If he wanted to be with me, Dad, he’d have married me when he had the chance instead of calling it off at the last minute.” I shake my head incredulously, tears sting my eyes. I don’t want to cry again – not here, not now. I wish Dad would just stop nagging me.
He stretches back in his chair, cupping his bare, bony knees. “You can mock all you like, Audrey, but I’ve been around the block a few times. Good women like you are hard to find. You mark my words. He’ll be back with his tail between his legs once he gets fed up with the boozing and the clubbing. That’s what us blokes are like, we love the initial freedom but it hits us later. And harder.” I frown at him. I wonder if he’s speaking from experience. “Just listen to your old dad, will you, and beware.”
It’s Sunday. I’m standing in front of the living room mirror smoothing down my freshly blow-dried hair in preparation for my flight home. Maria has many talents other than domestic goddess and mindfulness coach. The sleekness in my otherwise frizzy mane is remarkable. I told her this morning that if she ever fancied a job in London I could quite easily get Leeroy in Mayfair to employ her as a stylist.
“Ah, you very nice lady, Audi,” she said as I forced twenty euros into her palm, “but I can never leave Kypros. Is my home.”
My suitcase is packed and Dad has called a taxi to take me to the airport. I study my reflection in the mirror. I’ve got a tan, a healthy glow. Two weeks in Cyprus with my parents has been a real tonic, which does rather surprise me because I always thought that the only real tonic was one with a large vodka in it. And I think I’ve finally come to my senses too. Painful as it was, that pep-talk with Dad seems to have worked a treat. Nick is no good for me. I’ve got to stop wallowing and move on, start again.
Squaring my shoulders, I stand back. I don’t look bad at all for forty-one. It’s funny how things turn out, isn’t it? Life’s full of curves and twists and it doesn’t always follow your idyllic path. Maria told me that it’s the knock backs that make us stronger, perhaps she’s right, but only time will tell. The toilet flushes, there’s a shuffle, then Dad emerges from the loo with a newspaper folded under his arm. Old habits die hard.
“You look great, love,” he says, smiling at me in the mirror.
