There was a book I used to borrow from the library when I was a kid.An Illustrated Book of Greek Myths. Inside the gilt-edged pages were elaborate pictures of gods and monsters. Zeus and Hera. Athena and Aphrodite. The Minotaur and the Gorgons. I would lose myself in the tales of vengeful gods and warring families, doomed lovers and impossible tasks, all while, in the lounge next to my bedroom, Mum and her latest boyfriend drank themselves into oblivion.
How I wished Pegasus would whisk me away from that poky flat that always stank of stale cider and ashtrays. What I would’ve given to be as brave as Athena, or as untouchable as Artemis. But there were no winged stallions on the South Langley Estate. And when I fixed Mum’s endless string of feckless boyfriends with a petrifying gaze, they never turned to stone.
I’m on the point of telling Dominic about the book of Greek myths when I stop myself. Instinct tells me it’s better to focus on the things we have in common than those we don’t, and one thing’s for sure: his privileged childhood in leafy south Oxfordshire with his barrister father and GP mother couldn’t be more different to mine. He wore a stripy blazer and a straw boater to school. I wore ratty hand-me-downs and shoes held together with hope and a prayer. His parents took him on holiday to Tuscany and Provence. I often didn’t know where my next meal was coming from. At the time, I knew nothing else. After all, I wasn’t the only kid on our estate living in poverty. It was only later I discovered the gaping chasm between the haves and the have-nots. And I’ve a feeling that sharing memories of my childhood with my boyfriend would be like opening Pandora’s box. Better to keep the lid on.
Suddenly, I feel untethered, as though I might be blown away on the evening breeze like a gauzy dandelion head. I grip the gnarled bark of the olive tree tightly, hoping the feeling will pass.
Dominic and I might enjoy going to the gym and cooking together. We might both love action movies and country music. But is it enough? How am I supposed to compete with friends who have known him half his life?
It shouldn’t be a competition, so why does it feel like one? I could blame my own insecurities, but it’s more than that. I’ve fallen hard for Dominic, more than I have for any other man.And somewhere along the way I’ve started to crave his approval. His attention. His love.
That’s why this week in Pelagia matters so much.
I want his friends to like me. Correction: Ineedhis friends to like me. Because if they welcome me into their inner circle, I might stop feeling like I’m just the latest in a long line of girlfriends passing through Dom’s life. I might feel like he’smine.
I step back from the olive tree, smooth down my top and rejoin Dominic on the track.
‘Ready?’ he asks, and though I can’t see his face in the dark, I can hear the eagerness in his voice.
I take a deep breath and lace my fingers through his.
‘Of course.’
Dom chatters as we walk, telling me about the legendary parties he, Simone and Victoria used to throw at their student digs. I try to match him stride for stride until I stumble over a rock and my hand slips out of his. He doesn’t reach back for it.
I tell myself it doesn’t mean anything. I wish I believed it.
6
AMBER
Dominic and I round another bend in the track to find ourselves staring at a wall of wooden hoardings. It’s just possible to make out a sign in the half-light.
Elysium Construction
The art of luxury living.
‘Is this Simone and Felix’s villa?’ I ask, puzzled.
‘No, theirs is a bit further on. Simone told me some Russian shipping magnate was building a place just down from theirs. This must be it.’
‘Funny name for a building company. Isn’t Elysium like the afterlife or something?’
‘I don’t know about that, but Simone said Felix was apoplectic and I can see why. It’s going to ruin their views of Kalypso Bay.’
We leave the entrance to the building site and continue along the track. Before long we’ve reached a pair of stone pillars topped with glass spheres that give off a moon-like glow.
‘Here we are.’ Dominic waves his phone so the beam sweeps across the entrance.Villa Paradisois spelt out in neat turquoise tiles, embedded in a low, whitewashed wall. Further along, towards a pair of cedar gates, a black intercom is mounted beside a brushed-steel letterbox. Something whirrs, and I glance up. A discreet camera is pivoting, tracking our approach.
Dom steps up to the wall and presses the buzzer. There’s a crackle, followed by a woman’s voice.
‘Dom, is that you?’
‘You betcha, baby.’
‘Come and find us. We’re having drinks on the terrace.’
The gates begin to hum and slowly swing open, revealing a gravel drive lit by more golden orbs that are strung from the branches of olive trees. The effect is beautiful. Otherworldly.
