Out of the Blue

by Belinda Jones

  I can’t help but imagine the rip of fuzzy white fibres and the tantalising glimpse of his lower navel.

  ‘What was that?’ he asks.

  I turn my inadvertent whimper of lust into an exaggerated yawn and head for the stairs.

  ‘Do I take that as a no?’ he calls after me.

  ‘Ohee!’ I call back.

  I sleep long and wake up ravenous. Remembering the stash of breakfast goodies, I head straight for the kitchen and help myself to a bowl of cereal. The kettle is just boiling for the camomile and aniseed tea when I hear Alekos cursing in Greek from the next room. From the additional sound effects I’m guessing he’s had a bit of trouble squeezing his toothpaste on to his toothbrush one-handed, and then knocked the whole lot down the sink.

  ‘Everything alright?’ I call.

  He appears a few minutes later looking a little frustrated but claiming all is well. ‘If you could just open these for me?’ It’s his painkillers. I feel a pang of sympathy – he doesn’t look like he slept well – but I know he doesn’t like to be fussed over so I simply offer him some tea and then, seeing as I’m up, breakfast.

  ‘Thank you,’ he says, taking a seat at the table.

  I find myself flashing to MSV as I place each item before him – he must have to do this for his kids every morning whereas I’m a little out of practice, the last man I served breakfast to was Ricky, twelve years ago.

  ‘Er, could you open the yoghurt for me?’ he asks.

  ‘No problem,’ I say, peeling back the lid.

  ‘And I’ll need a spoon?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘And if you could cut up the nectarine so I can have it with my cereal?’

  Darn, I haven’t really thought this through. I can see why he ordered a meze last night – if he relied on me to prep his food he’d starve.

  ‘All set?’ I ask, hoping there’s nothing more I’ve forgotten.

  ‘You’re not going to eat with me?’

  ‘I already had some cereal – I was going to jump in the shower . . .’

  ‘Oh.’ He looks a little put out. ‘Okay.’

  Oh dear. Was that very rude of me to go ahead without him? On the ship I’m so used to scooting solo through the buffet, grabbing a perfectly sectioned pink grapefruit and a bowl of pre-mulched muesli and chowing down as I go over my schedule for the day. As many colleagues as there are in the canteen breakfast, it has never been a social meal for me – it’s more about speed-eating and mild indigestion, on my feet before I’ve swallowed my last bite. Nevertheless, perhaps tomorrow I’ll try exhibiting a little more etiquette.

  As for today, once I’m all spruced and Alekos is out of sight, I sneak back to the kitchen to do the washing-up. I feel so furtive you’d think I was planning to make off with the family silver. Frankly, I’d rather he walked in on me in the shower than mid-domestic duty but luckily I manage to get it all done before he reappears.

  ‘By the way, I meant to give you this . . .’ Alekos hands me a phone number with the names Nikos and Athina scribbled beside it. ‘They are a Greek couple I think you should interview for your presentation. Married thirty-five years. Nice story. They are based in Athens, but that is only a fifty-minute flight from here.’

  ‘A mere hop.’

  He nods. ‘Their apartment overlooks the marina – I thought a bit of Greek shipping would be appropriate, seeing as this will be broadcast on a cruiseship.’

  ‘No doubt with a Greek captain at the helm!’ I concur, touched that he’s been thinking about my project. ‘Thank you very much.’

  ‘No problem. Ready to go?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, gathering up my bag and towel. ‘I quite fancy the beach today!’ I jest with him. Like I have a choice.

  ‘Really? That sounds nice,’ he plays along. ‘Actually, I think it’s time for you to learn to drive a speedboat.’

  9

  ‘The beginning is half of every action.’ – Greek proverb

  You know how you should never get a friend or family member to teach you to drive a car because you’ll both end up all tense and tetchy? Same applies to speedboats. At least it does when the teacher is as brusque and bullish as Alekos. He’s clearly of the ‘throw you in at the deep end’ mode of education.

  ‘Go on, then,’ he urges, offering me zero instruction.

  ‘Aren’t you going to—’

  ‘I’m sure you can work it out.’

  I survey the dashboard area with all its dials and then look, in vain, to the floor for pedals – there are none. Is he really going to let me loose like this? Oh well, here goes nothing – I turn on the engine. I look at him, he looks at me, and then at the lever to my right.

  ‘Do I push the handle forward or pull it back?’

  ‘Think!’ he barks.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘What would be logical?’ He cocks his head.

  ‘Forward to go forward?’ I venture.

  ‘Precisely!’

  I give him a withering forgive-me-for-being-a-little-cautious-my-very-first-time! look. ‘I just don’t want to damage the boat,’ I explain.

  ‘I won’t allow you to. GO!’

  I wish I had the nerve to throw it forward and thus send him flying but I don’t. This is a lot less smooth than driving a car – the waves seem to be the equivalent of great ruts and potholes in the road and I don’t feel entirely in control.

  ‘I’m not sure this is my thing,’ I quaver.

  ‘You’ll get used to it.’

  Alekos is not a quitter and nor will he allow me to be.

  As we roam around the bay he finally gives me some guidance and, better yet, some praise: ‘Good!’ he encourages. ‘You’re getting the hang of this now.’

  As my confidence grows so does my speed. I’m starting to feel like a female action hero, especially when I stand up to the wheel. Any minute now I’m going to do one of those tidal wave turns, then dive in and wrestle with some villain underwater.

  ‘Looks like we’ve got some customers, we should head back.’ Alekos throws cold water on my fantasy.

  ‘Can we come out again later?’ I’m surprisingly eager for a reprise.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Great!’ I say, heading back to the jetty.

  ‘Start turning,’ Alekos advises as we approach his brother’s other boat.

  ‘I’ve got plenty of room,’ I assure him, a little cocky now, already wondering what it would be like to handle an outboard motor.

  ‘Turn! Turn!’ He goes to grab the wheel but in releasing the hand that was steadying him he falls back on to the deck. Oops.

  As I yank the steering wheel down to the left I realise now why he was being so premature; it’s not like speedboats have tread that grips to the tarmac – we continue to glide, burrowing deep in the water, giving me horrible visions of the two vessels smashing together and exploding. When we come to a sloppy halt with only a fraction of a millimetre to spare I am shaking inside and out. I can’t believe we didn’t collide. And judging by Alekos’ blanched face, neither can he.

  I know he wants to give me a verbal lashing but he’s obliged to bite his tongue in front of the customers. All he says is: ‘That would have been a very expensive mistake.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I brazen, determined not to let him know how utterly freaked out I am. ‘I would have just had you dress up in your uniform and charged holidaymakers five euros for a Polaroid; we’d have made the money back in no time.’

  I step jelly-legged from the boat and pretend to be busying myself at the desk until the rest of my body stops juddering. I wonder if I could sneak off to the taverna and down a quick shot of raki. It worked so well last night. But then being drunk on the job probably isn’t the way to restore Alekos’ faith in me.

  I expel a wobbly sigh. That’s the last speedboat I’m ever driving. Not that he’d let me near the controls again. It’s his fault really, I decide, poutily. He shouldn’t have got me so geed up, egging me on, ‘Faster! Faster!’I woul
d have been quite content with a steady putter; he’s the one who brought out the girl racer in me.

  I reach for my phone and fire off a few outraged texts to Jules when really I’m feeling slightly ashamed of myself – he told me to turn and I didn’t listen. I didn’t even apologise for nearly wrecking thousands of pounds’ worth of equipment, just gave him lip. I wonder if he’s going to have a proper go at me when the customers have gone. I feel queasy dread at the prospect. Alekos is not someone I’d care to get on the wrong side of – last night in Plaka it sounded like he was berating the waiter and all he was doing was placing the order; I can’t begin to think what a genuine Greek tirade would sound like. I might never recover.

  And another thing, I tap a third complaining message to Jules, this one reiterating what an exhibitionist Alekos is – he’s just this minute elected to change into his boardshorts without the aid of a concealing towel – dropping his trunks right here in full view! Not that this part of the beach is busy right now but he’s certainly given a passing middle-aged woman a thrill.

  ‘What?’ He catches my disapproving look.

  I go to ask him whether that was entirely necessary but catch myself deciding that a) I’m not really in any position to be critical and b) it’s possible that I’m the one with the problem. Maybe such things are considered a normal and natural part of island life? I certainly envy his lack of inhibition – can you imagine what life would be like with no body hang-ups? Oh the liberation!

  ‘I need to pick something up from my father, I’ll be back in half an hour,’ he gruffs as he heads off to the boat. But then he turns back – I suspect he’s going to tell me not to touch or break anything but instead says, ‘Call me if there are any problems,’ and holds his mobile aloft.

  I give a cursory nod and then take a moment to slump back in the chair – I need this time just to be dazed at the near-miss. How strange that both Jules and I are currently on a beach with a man, yet our situations couldn’t be more different. She’s about to start a new life; I nearly just ended mine.

  We to and fro a bit more, and I’m just chuckling at a particularly unfortunate error of predictive text when I realise a father and son are waiting for me to serve them.

  ‘Oh – sorry!’ I exclaim, jumping up. ‘I was in another world!’

  ‘You’re like my daughter.’ The dad grins. ‘Put her on the back of a jet ski and she’d still be texting her mates!’

  ‘You’re English!’ I almost cheer.

  ‘Essex,’ he confirms.

  ‘So what can I do you for?’

  ‘My son here wants to go windsurfing.’ He places his hand on the shoulder of the blond boy beside him. The family resemblance is quite striking – both have a thick mop of hair (though the father’s is tawnier), golden complexions and crystal blue eyes.

  ‘No problem,’ I tell them. ‘The instructor should be back in about ten minutes or so—’

  ‘No need – we don’t need lessons; my boy had dozens last year. He just needs to practise.’

  ‘Oh! Perfect! What size sail are you after?’

  ‘Four metres square please,’ he replies.

  ‘Okay,’ I say, realising I have no idea which one that would be. ‘Why don’t you go ahead and pick it out!’

  The father – who introduces himself as Mick – looks on proudly as his son moves the cumbersome item to the water’s edge.

  ‘You have to be careful of—’

  ‘The rocks, I know.’

  ‘Okay!’

  ‘He just loves being in that water,’ Mick beams, explaining that whereas his daughter Brooke is super-smart academically, his son Ben finds school more of a struggle. ‘This is his thing.’

  I can’t help but feel a little pang, so happy that he has found a passion. School takes up such a chunk of your young life and when it doesn’t accommodate any of your interests, it’s hard to feel motivated or good about yourself. I watched my sister go through a similar thing but at least she enjoyed athletics. And look at her now – stretching her legs in New Zealand!

  ‘What about you, what do you do?’

  ‘You’re looking at the chief toastie maker at the Olive Grove Apartments.’ He adjusts an imaginary collar. ‘I think I might have found my calling – two people ordered them yesterday and lived.’

  ‘New to the toastie-making trade are you?’ I grin.

  ‘Yesterday was my first day.’

  ‘And today?’

  ‘I’ve got the day off.’

  ‘After a day?’

  ‘Well, you don’t want to burn out – a talent like mine needs to be savoured.’

  It turns out that Mick has done a bit of everything workwise, even chauffeuring Barry White’s limo. ‘Not with him in it,’ he hastens to add. ‘I bought it after he died.’

  More amazing to me is the fact that he actually now lives here in Elounda – and daughter Brooke attends school via video link-up to her classroom back in England.

  We chatter on about the differences in lifestyle until I’m obliged to tend to some new customers – it’s a great booking: three families’ worth of kids all wanting to go out on the inflatables later this afternoon.

  ‘What are you looking so pleased about?’ Alekos enquires upon his return.

  I go to hand him the booking details and as I do so the piece of paper seemingly morphs into an olive branch.

  ‘I am so sorry about earlier,’ I find myself blurting, all former bravado instantly turning to remorse. ‘I was being reckless – I should have listened to you.’

  His jaw juts forward. ‘I do know best.’

  I purse my lips. Considering the circumstances, I’ll let that slide. ‘I can’t believe I could have obliterated half your brother’s business in under a minute.’ I slump. ‘I had visions of you yoking me to the inflatables and making me pull them around under my own steam.’

  ‘I didn’t realise you were such a strong swimmer . . .’ He near-twinkles.

  ‘I’m not,’ I sigh, frowning back at him. ‘You’re not mad at me?’ I can’t believe he’s not milking this.

  ‘I was’ – he looks up the coast in the direction of his father, as if to say, That’s why I took a breather – ‘but not any more.’

  ‘So there’s no chance you’re going to suddenly start yelling?’

  ‘Do you want me to?’

  ‘No, no, no!’ I insist.

  He gives a cross between a nod and a shrug and then sits on the edge of the desk to watch Ben and Mick at play.

  ‘Aren’t they great together?’ I smile. ‘The son was just giving his dad a windsurf lesson and Mick was all, “Did I do alright?” like he was seeking his son’s approval. Isn’t that sweet?’

  I continue to give Alekos their potted history and when I’m done he reaches over and gives my hair a tousle.

  ‘What’s that for?’

  ‘Nothing.’ He smiles. ‘You like chatting to the customers, don’t you?’

  ‘I know, I talk too much.’

  ‘No, it’s good. You’re good with them.’

  Apparently it’s just MSV he doesn’t like me yapping to.

  ‘Well, it’s all part of the service,’ I tell him.

  ‘Ah yes, I forgot you’re a professional. I should probably think about paying you more.’

  ‘I didn’t realise you were paying me at all!’

  ‘Don’t you worry,’ Alekos winks, ‘I’ll take care of you.’

  There it is again, one of those little heart dips when he says something nice. How is it possible that he can be so bristly one minute and so gentlemanly the next?

  ‘The boy is pretty good . . .’ Alekos’ attention has returned to Ben. ‘I wonder . . .’

  I study him. ‘What is your evil mind plotting now?’

  ‘He could be the extra pair of hands we need.’

  I blink at him. ‘You do realise he’s only twelve!’

  He shrugs, unfazed. ‘You say he’s really into watersports, it’s the summer so no school, he’d get
to use all the equipment – I think it could be a good arrangement.’

  ‘Am I about to be made redundant?’ I can’t help but sound a little forlorn.

  ‘Oh no!’ He grins. ‘My brother has been on the lookout for an assistant since the season began. And from next week things will get really busy.’

  I watch as Alekos wades over to approach Mick and Ben – the three of them talking business knee-deep in the sea. Alekos looks as intense as ever, the father receptive, the son a mixture of chuffed and embarrassed. I edge a little closer, curiosity getting the better of me.

  ‘So what do you think?’ I hear Alekos ask.

  ‘Up to you, son.’

  Ben gives an eyes-averted shrug. ‘Alright!’

  I can’t help but feel a surge of excitement for Ben – he’s just received his first vote of confidence from the working world! I look around me, wishing I had someone to squeeze, feeling like I may have just witnessed a formative moment – maybe it’s because I have stories in mind from my editing but already I’m flash-forwarding to September when this shy boy’s self-esteem has flourished to the point that he can foresee a bright future for himself!

  ‘Well, I think it’s ice creams all round!’ I cheer, setting off for the taverna fuelled by my premature sense of community. It must be all those years of having to make instant friends on the ship regardless of location or destination, I guess I’m more adaptable than I realised.

  ‘Yassou!’ I grin, using up fifty per cent of my Greek as I greet the young chap serving the Mr Whippy-style cones. ‘Four!’ I say, holding up the corresponding number of fingers.

  ‘Tessera,’ he educates me.

  ‘Tessera!’ I repeat. ‘Epharisto.’

  Yesterday I felt like a fish out of water – actually that’s a bad analogy; what I mean is that I felt an uncertain fit for this place, but now I am starting to understand my role and be less wary of Alekos. I can feel this parched environment growing on me. Even if it is so meltingly hot that by the time I rejoin the chaps I have milky rivulets down to my elbows.

  ‘Quick! Grab the ice creams!’

  Mick and Ben do so in a respectable manner but Alekos reaches for my arm and licks the overflow directly from my skin.