2
AMBER
I can’t shake the anxiety gnawing away at my insides. It’s the email that’s done it. As if I wasn’t nervous enough already. I tell myself I’ll open it when we arrive at the villa.
Probably.
One thing’s for sure: there’s no way I’m going to let it ruin our holiday.
We’re somewhere over central France when I check our location on the in-flight screen. Beside me, Dominic stretches in his seat. He insisted we fly business class, even though I told him it was a waste of money.
‘It’s very generous of you, Dom. But it’s so expensive. It’s not like we’ll get there any quicker. We’ll be on the same plane as everyone else,’ I said, peering over his shoulder as he booked our tickets, my eyes popping at the cost.
He’d just laughed and asked me to read out the number on his Amex Platinum credit card.
‘Want to join the mile-high club?’ he asks now, a glint in his eye.
I feign shock and slap his thigh playfully. ‘I can’t believe you just said that. You should know by now I’m not that kind of girl.’
He shrugs, then grins again. ‘Ah, well, it was worth a try.’
We spend the rest of the flight watching the latestMission: Impossiblefilm, and before I know it the seat belt signs flash on as the pilot starts his descent.
‘Dom?’ I say, clutching his hand as the wheels hit the runway. ‘Your friends. D’you think they’ll like me?’
He brings my hand to his lips and drops the lightest of kisses. ‘Of course they will, angel. Once they get to know you. And if they don’t, they’ll have me to answer to.’
* * *
A wall of heat hits us the moment we exit the plane. It’s so intense, beads of sweat have broken out across my forehead and between my shoulder blades before I’ve even stepped onto the runway. The herb-scented air feels so thick, so heavy, it’s like I have to push my way through it. Even the tarmac shimmers in the mid-afternoon heat like a mirage in the desert.
I hitch Nessa’s cabin bag over my shoulder and follow Dominic onto the bus for the short ride to the terminal. Wearing a cream linen suit and wraparound shades, his dark brown fringe flopping sexily over one eye, he’s both stupidly handsome and completely oblivious to the admiring looks a couple of women on the bus are throwing his way.
His phone trills in his breast pocket and he pulls it out, his face beaming as he checks the screen.
‘It’s Simone. She’s sent a driver to take us to the port. We’ll meet Vic and Barney there.’
Travelling to Pelagia is far from straightforward. We have to catch a hydrofoil from Corfu to the neighbouring island of Thalassia, which takes about three hours, then it’s a twenty-minute ride in a sea taxi to Pelagia. Even if everything goes to plan, we won’t arrive at the villa till gone eight o’clock tonight.
The bus pulls up outside the terminal and we pile out, Dominic stopping to help an elderly couple with their hand luggage. The old man thanks him. Dominic shakes his liver-spotted hand.
‘My pleasure. You and Pat have a good trip, OK? And don’t forget to try the calamari. It’s out of this world.’
By now, I should be used to Dominic’s ability to charm everyone he meets, whether it’s the woman in the dry cleaner’s or the Amazon delivery guy. It’s not an affectation: he genuinely likes people. It’s disarming, his easy warmth. Disarming and, if I’m honest, a little addictive. He can strike up a conversation with anyone and make them feel like they matter. When you’re with Dom, you’re always the most interesting person in the room.
When we first met, I put this down to simple good manners, the kind they drill into you at public school, along with Latin verbs and how to row. It was sometime later I realised his need to connect with people stemmed from being packed off to boarding school aged seven.
Compared to my own chaotic childhood, his prep school sounded idyllic, like an Enid Blyton book. All madcap schemes and midnight feasts.
When I told Dominic this, his usually sunny features darkened. ‘It was moreLord of the FliesthanMalory Towers. You had to make friends to survive. Sink or swim.’
I tie my long, ebony hair into a high ponytail and follow him through the double doors to the baggage reclaim area. Soon we’re pushing our loaded trolley out into the arrivals hall. A stocky man in his fifties with slicked-back hair and an impressive moustache is holding up a piece of cardboard with Dominic’s name on.
‘Mr Brookes?’ He gives a small bow. ‘I am Yorgos, your driver. Please, come with me.’
We’re hit with another blast of hot air as we leave the air-conditioned terminal and I ferret around in my bag for my sunglasses.
‘You are staying on Pelagia, yes?’ Yorgos asks as he loads our cases into the boot of his white Mercedes.
