Mark follows me. ‘I guess we need to wear our shoes,’ he says. He slides his flip-flops back on. ‘These monstrosities can handle getting wet.’ He nods at my fabric wedges. ‘Not sure yours can.’
‘If I run fast, maybe I’ll make it to the water before a layer of skin burns off?’
He shakes his head. ‘I’ve got a better idea.’
‘If you’re about to offer me your ganja sandals, I’d rather risk third-degree burns.’
‘Nope.’ He comes to stand in front of me, turns sideways and points at his back. ‘Jump on.’
‘You want me to ride you like a pony?’
He tosses a glance over his shoulder. ‘That will get usbotharrested.’
My cheeks heat up. I’ve muddled up pony ride and piggyback because his stubble is turning me into a walking Freudian slip.
Before I can second guess myself, I stand on the sunbed and climb onto him, wrapping my arms loosely around his neck and shoulders.
My dress isn’t quite long enough to cover my knees, so when he hooks his hands under them, he’s touching bare skin. The grip of his fingers feels shockingly intimate, and for a moment Iimagine being alone with him in the dark, those hands parting my thighs with single-minded intensity.
Trembling, I make as little body contact as possible, and when we’re at the lapping waves and he lets go, I try to ignore the friction as I slide off him and focus instead on my feet sinking into the wet sand.
It’s breezier at the water’s edge, and we instinctively stroll towards the airport end of the beach where there are fewer people. In the relative quiet, I’m hoping he’ll open up.
‘I found your crucifix,’ I begin. ‘At least, I assumed it was yours. There’s nothing more Catholic than a crucifix, but I didn’t think you were much of a believer.’
‘I’m not. I was given it as a kid.’
‘By who?’
‘My Italian grandmother.’
The image of the cigarette packet in the bin floats into my head. The foreign writing suddenly making sense.
Was it Italian?
Everything slows down as I make the final connection.
Chapter 36
‘You went to see your father.’ My thoughts race one after another. ‘You went to find your father in Sicily.’
The reason for the state he was in last night is perfectly, painfully clear.
He kicks the wet sand.
‘He’s in Rome. If he was in Palermo where he grew up, I would have found him months ago. But my grandmother was from Rome, so I widened my search.’
‘How long have you been looking for him?’
‘Just after I started therapy a year ago. Turns out I’m riddled with daddy issues – who’d have thought?’ He smiles wryly. ‘I thought this was the way to deal with them. My therapist wasn’t convinced, but I didn’t listen.’
‘Not like you at all,’ I gently tease.
He shakes his head. ‘Larnaca – Rome return in under twenty-four hours. Wouldnotrecommend.’
‘I’m not interested in your one-star Tripadvisor review. I’m interested in how youfeel.’
‘That’s easy, Ifeelfucking stupid.’
