I needn’t have worried about his wet clothes on the car seat. It’s so hot in here, any dampness evaporated into steam on contact.
The steering wheel is still uncomfortably hot as I pull up at the airport car park so he can pick up the car he was too drunk to drive last night.
Before he gets out, I put out an arm to stop him.
‘I’m sorry about what I said that first night at Tig’s.’
He frowns. ‘What do you mean?’
‘When you were driving me home, I said you were an arsehole like your father.’ I hold his eye. ‘It was a horrible thing to say, and I’m really sorry. I don’t think you’re remotely like Giovanni.’
He nods. ‘It’s okay. I know I’m not.’ He swings open the door. ‘I’d never have the patience to coach blind orphans.’
Chapter 37
Fifteen minutes later, I’m back at the villa. It’s four o’clock – siesta time – so the house is quiet. My eyelids are heavy with lack of sleep, so I strip, dial up the AC and flop onto my bed.
But after half an hour, I still haven’t nodded off. Mark hasn’t returned, and it’s making me antsy even though there’s no logical reason to be anxious.
Needing a change of scenery, I put on my bikini and sarong, and head outside, passing Pen who’s lazing by the pool.
‘You put sunscreen on?’ I ask.
‘Yes, Mum.’
‘Where is everyone?’
‘Yan went to find a gym and Tig and Theo are sleeping. Haven’t seen Mark.’ She lifts her head and squints at me. ‘Are you okay?’
The smell of chlorine is making me nauseous. And panic isn’t far behind.
‘I’m fine,’ I tell her automatically.
I hear a car in the drive, and I instantly relax – Mark’s back.
‘I’m going to go and explore,’ I say, pointing towards the garden.
The further I get from the pool, the better I feel. I pass lemon trees and gnarled old olives, and soon the stink of the chlorine is replaced by the soothing scent of lavender bushes.
Right at the bottom of the garden, a full hundred metres from the house, is a shed I’ve never noticed before. A quick peek inside reveals it’s where the unused garden furniture is stored – wooden sunbeds, folding chairs and a wrought-iron table. I draga sunbed out, find a spot shaded by a row of cypresses and lie down.
My finger reflexively hovers over Instagram on my phone, but I stop myself. Doom-scrolling will only feed the latent anxiety I’m only just keeping at bay. Instead, I select a body scan meditation, put in my AirPods, and throw my phone under the sunbed.
I close my eyes and breathe slowly but struggle to keep my mind on the meditation. It’s airless and hot, even in the shade. A bottle of ice-cold Coke would be heaven right now, but I’m enjoying the solitude too much to go and get one.
A tap at waist level next to the dilapidated shed catches my eye. I get up, half expecting it not to work, but I’m pleasantly surprised when I twist it open and water gushes out. I sprinkle cold water over my arms and legs, shivering at the delicious mix of heat and chill on my skin.
I cup water in my hands and splash it over my shoulders and torso. It feels great for about ten seconds, before the Mediterranean heat reasserts itself.
I shake my hair out of its messy bun and dunk my head under the tap, squirming as the icy water cascades down my neck and face. Properly soaked, I lie back on the sunbed, closing my eyes against the sun.
The droplets of water trickling down my cleavage and across my belly are like expert fingers massaging me into a blissful slumber.
For the first time in hours, the weight in my chest lifts and I can breathe again.
But then a twig snaps, breaking the spell, and when I look up, Mark is approaching.
He’s wearing board shorts and a white linen shirt that hangs open, drawing attention to the tanned contours of his pecs and abdomen. Heat prickles the nape of my neck, making my wethair stick to it. He’s still five metres away, but he’s already upped the ambient temperature.
