Out of the Blue

by Belinda Jones

  ‘Who is it?’ I call back.

  ‘Ma!’ he reads from the display.

  My mum calling from New Zealand! ‘Answer it! Answer it!’ I bleat, sploshing excitedly out of the water.

  I hear him exchange a few words and then, as he hands me the phone, he tells me he’s off to the doctor’s.

  ‘Okay!’ I wave him off, delighted that I’ll be able to speak freely. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Happy birthday, darling! Happy birthday, sis!’ Assorted voices come down the line to greet me.

  ‘Was that the sexy Greek?’ My sister wastes no time cutting to the chase. ‘Who is he and what’s with all the puppies?’

  I laugh out loud. ‘The puppies belong to his dad.’

  ‘So you’ve already met the parents! Things must be going well . . . Hold on, Betsy wants to say hello!’

  There’s a cutesy burbling down the phone. I feel a pang. I am so far behind in the family lark, will I ever be able to catch up?

  ‘Oh great, she just puked on my new suede shoes, I’m handing you back to Mum.’

  ‘So, darling, are you having a lovely day?’

  ‘So far it’s been perfect,’ I say. ‘And it looks like it’s going to stay that way!’ I cheer as Ben hands me an ice cream. ‘Thank you!’ I mouth to him as I listen to my mother explaining that she sent my card to Jules’ thinking I’d be there.

  ‘Well, that was the plan but she went to Mauritius to get married—’

  ‘Married?’ my mum gasps.

  ‘It’s all happening today. I’ve tried getting hold of her but I suppose she’s all tied up with beautifications.’

  ‘It won’t last.’

  ‘Mum!’ I squeak. ‘Don’t curse it before it even begins!’

  ‘I meant her looks. As many beauty treatments as she has, she can only rely on them for so long. She really should look into developing some other aspects of her personality.’

  My mouth opens and then closes. I don’t know what to say; Jules does seem to bring out the catty side in my mother. They only met once just before Mum emigrated but somehow Jules got her bristling within minutes. And apparently she’s not done yet: ‘I don’t hold out much hope for the marriage either, now you come to mention it.’

  ‘Why ever not?’ I ask.

  ‘You’ve interviewed enough golden anniversary couples to be able to spot the difference in traits, surely?’

  ‘Hard to tell.’ I shrug. ‘Jules is never that bothered, regardless of who she goes out with; I don’t think it’s any different with Dom.’

  ‘Precisely!’ she toots. ‘When you meet The One, it has to feel different, or how else would you know?’

  Well, it’s certainly different with Alekos, I decide. Maybe that’s a good thing after all. Seeing as my mother is feeling so forthcoming on potential unions, I can’t help but enquire: ‘So what did you think of him, Alekos . . . from speaking to him?’

  ‘Well, judging from the picture and the voice, I’d say things would never be dull around him.’

  ‘What do you mean by that? Do you think he’s giving me the runaround?’ Oh please say no! Say no!

  ‘I didn’t say that,’ she tuts. ‘Yes, there’s an element of mischief to him, but he does seem to genuinely care for you.’

  ‘Really? What makes you say that? What did he say?’

  ‘Well, we only exchanged a few words, it was more his tone . . .’

  I’m desperately scrabbling around for confirmation that I’m doing the right thing but of course, in love, there are no guarantees. I end up coming off the phone even more nervous. Now Team New Zealand have a vested interest in what’s going on. I should have at least waited until I saw how tonight went before getting their hopes up. I’ve long stopped referencing any men to my family, my encounters are always so fleeting that come the next time they enquire after Gustav or Pablo I would invariably have no idea who they were talking about. And that’s not good for a lady’s reputation. I would have made an exception and told them about the Norwegian if I hadn’t been completely out of signal range for those heady first weeks, but I’m glad I didn’t. It’s much easier to pretend nothing bad ever happened when no one else knows about it. What I’m finding now is how much harder it is to keep your mouth shut when you are excited about someone. I try Jules again. Still nothing. Perhaps she’s taking that step-pause, step-pause walk across a sand dune now.

  I know she has something old, new and borrowed, but I wonder if she has something blue yet? I could certainly supply that – switching my phone to the camera function, I turn and snap a half-and-half shot of the dazzling sapphire sea and cobalt sky. I press send and then lean back on the desk and look around me, imagining my own wedding on this very beach . . .

  I wonder if I’m allowing myself to think about those things in relation to Alekos because it is still so far-fetched it could never become a reality. As my mum says, there’s nothing dull about him. He’s not a pipe-and-slippers kind of guy. I don’t get that fear of getting trapped when I think of him. I would never have to be submissive to his rules. If this week is anything to go by, we’d make quite a team. Perhaps we’d spend our summers here at the beach and the winters cruising, him with ever more stripes on his epaulettes, me working as the highly in-demand guest speaker.

  Well, if I want that fantasy to become a reality, I’m going to have to work harder at getting my video presentation together. I look around. Ben has every-thing under control. Finally I can get out my laptop . . .

  I’m just experimenting with a sepia effect on the Egyptian couple I filmed in a desert setting when a body presses hard into my back and a familiar voice growls: ‘Guess which part of me is exposed!’

  ‘Aleko!’ I despair, though not without a thrill. But when I turn around to berate him, I find it’s his left arm that is laid bare. ‘I can’t believe it!’ I gasp. ‘You’re free!’

  ‘I am!’ he confirms. ‘And it works!’ He jiggles his pale fingers.

  I reach to touch the one part of him I haven’t been ogling these past few days. ‘Welcome back!’ I say as I lean forward and press my lips to his knuckles.

  Alekos looks amazed. As am I. Did I really just kiss his hand?

  ‘So, erm, we had three more kayaks go out but other than that, it’s been very quiet.’ I turn away, pretending to busy myself with some leaflets.

  Fortunately he doesn’t notice my awkwardness because he’s already shrugging off his sandals and shedding his shirt ready for his first official dip in the sea.

  ‘Finally!’ he cheers as he races into the water.

  My heart leaps for him as he dives in and then rises up euphoric. Must remember to drop Apollo a quick thank-you note when I get a moment.

  I stroll down to the water’s edge to get a closer look.

  ‘Did I ever do my crocodile impression for you?’ he asks, looking playful.

  ‘No . . .’ I reply, tentatively wondering if a ravaging is coming sooner than I think.

  But instead of surging towards me and nipping at my ankles, he simply submerges his hand and then slowly lets only his knuckles bump up to the surface. He holds them there for a second and then submerges them once more, before looking expectantly at me.

  ‘That’s it?’ I laugh.

  He grins, for once the picture of innocence, and then flips back and powers into the blue. I look on fondly and then realise I have exactly the same pose as the woman next to me watching her five-year-old revel in the water.

  When he finally emerges, the drip that falls from his face on to mine feels as personal as a kiss. I love him wet! His eyes seem greener than ever but it’s his body that is showing the greatest variation in colour, from the Alaskan white of his newly unbound hand to the nut-brown of his face and feet and, in between, an assortment of hues resulting from the varying cover-ups of boardshorts, T-shirts, etc. He looks like an amalgamation of body parts from different nationalities.

  ‘You might want to spend the afternoon working on that patchwork tan of yours!’ I tease. ‘
It’ll be like a science project trying to work out which SPF to put where . . .’

  ‘Oh no, I have a better idea. Now that my hand is better, you know what we can do?’

  I shake my head though in fact I’m just thinking how timely it is that he’s no longer physically restricted.

  He bites his lip, barely able to contain his excitement. ‘I’m going to take you octopus hunting!’

  14

  ‘One must not tie a ship to a single anchor, nor life to a single hope.’ – Epictetus

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ he whoops. ‘Grab your flippers and let’s go!’

  ‘Just give me a second to save my edits . . .’ I make busy-sounding faux clicks on my keyboard with my nail tips.

  I’m stalling partly in the hope that MSV will suddenly appear – didn’t I say he should experience something he’d never get the chance to at home? – and partly because I simply don’t want to go. Yes, I want to spend time alone with Alekos, but I’m thinking three’s a crowd with some slimy creature from the deep. Not to mention the whole issue of what they do to the octopus when they catch it. Ben was filling me in on that earlier. Suffice it to say that if I’d have had any breakfast this morning, I would surely have lost it.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t need me to stay here?’ I adopt my most self-sacrificing expression. ‘I understand if you’d rather take Ben . . .’

  ‘I’ll take him next time,’ he dismisses my offer. ‘Get that laptop shut down. The customers will be here any minute.’

  ‘Customers?’

  ‘Yeah, I took the booking from this English couple on my way back from the doctor’s. Don’t mention the octopus bit, though, it’s a surprise. I’m just going to prep the boat. Come straight over when they arrive.’

  I’m wondering if this makes things better or worse when I spy a minxy blonde with Heidi plaits, ‘man overboard!’ cleavage and scarlet shorts complete with ‘stripper zipper’ – a term I gleaned from the booze cruise. I’d expect her other half to be some tango-tanned wide boy but in fact he’s a tall, pale, bespectacled Englishman dressed as the male equivalent of me: i.e. entirely inappropriately for the beach in long trousers and a freshly pressed shirt.

  ‘Er, hello,’ he smiles awkwardly, offering me his hand, ‘I’m Graeme, this is Emily. We booked a boat trip?’

  He has the kindest faded-denim-blue eyes I ever saw and I find myself liking him instantly. And the fact that Emily has chosen a genuine sweetie, over all the good-time guys that must surely sleaze her way, makes me kind of like her too.

  ‘Won’t be long,’ I inform them. ‘He’s just topping up the petrol tank now.’

  Emily follows my line of vision to the jetty. ‘That’s the guy who’s taking us?’ Her face falls in dismay – not the typical female reaction to Alekos.

  ‘Something wrong?’ I enquire.

  She tugs her boyfriend to one side and hisses, ‘I don’t trust him.’

  ‘Join the club,’ I mutter as I file their euros in the appropriate drawer. And then it dawns on me – I actually very nearly do now.

  ‘Can’t we just get a pedalo?’ Emily, however, is still resisting.

  ‘Babe—’ He looks crestfallen.

  ‘It’s just that when you said a boat trip, I envisioned puttering around with some old walnut-skinned fisherman,’ she reasons, ‘not some hotshot that’ll have the boat vertical at the first vroom.’

  The boyfriend sighs patiently. ‘I’m sure he’s a very safe driver, isn’t he?’ He turns to me for reassurance.

  ‘Of course. Alekos is very experienced. And not nearly as reckless as he appears.’ That didn’t come out quite as placating as I intended, so I quickly add, ‘Also, I could ask him to go extra slow, if that would make you feel better?’ Like he’ll take a blind bit of notice of me. If only I knew the Greek god of little-old-lady driving . . .

  ‘Well, if you’re sure . . .’ She sounds utterly unconvinced as I escort them to the boat.

  ‘This may seem strange advice,’ I say as they hop down into the moulded frame. ‘But you might be better off with your back to the direction we’re headed – something about not seeing the nose of the boat repeatedly rearing up—’ I stop myself – once again I seem to be making things worse.

  ‘I’m going to have my eyes closed anyway so it doesn’t really matter,’ Emily informs me as she takes a seat.

  ‘Actually, if you start to feel seasick, you should stare at a fixed point on the horizon and sing loudly.’

  ‘I only sing for money,’ she mumbles, focussing intently on her toe-ring.

  ‘We’re in a cover band,’ Graeme addresses my quizzical look. ‘Wedding receptions, corporate dos, Legoland, whoever will hire us, basically.’

  ‘What do you play?’ I ask.

  ‘Keyboard,’ he replies.

  ‘He sings too,’ Emily adds, without looking up. ‘If he’s had enough to drink. My nan thinks he’s great – her very own Matt Monro! Whoah!’

  Alekos boards with too much vigour, setting the boat pitching from side to side. ‘Ready to have some fun?’ he says as he revs the outboard motor at the back of the boat.

  ‘Noooo!’ Emily grips the sides like we’re in the midst of a tempest.

  I can’t help but be amused – her body may be built for high-speed hedonism but she has a surprisingly cautious sensibility.

  ‘Just take it slow.’ I back her with as much gravitas as I can muster.

  ‘Well, I have to go a little bit fast or we’ll get smacked around by the waves,’ Alekos reasons, letting the shell of the boat bounce and bellyflop to make his point.

  ‘Oooh, I don’t like this,’ Emily quavers, looking ever more uncomfortable as he forges ahead.

  ‘You wanted to see Spinalonga up close,’ Graeme reminds her.

  ‘A postcard would have been fine,’ she mutters, body now rigid with tension.

  ‘You look good up there, Miss Emily,’ Alekos tries to loosen her up with a little flattery. ‘Like the figurehead on a ship.’

  ‘Just keep your eyes on the road,’ she snarls, clearly immune to his charms, making me like her even more.

  A full thirty seconds of shrill engine noise and hair-tangling breeze pass before she bleats, ‘Are we nearly there?’

  ‘I’m taking you to the other side of the island.’ Alekos nods ahead.

  ‘The other side?’ she despairs. ‘Can’t we just pull over here?’ She points to the nearest bit of land.

  ‘No, it’s much better where we are going. Right, Graeme?’

  ‘What?’ She looks further agitated. ‘What have you done?’ Her eyes bore into him like instruments of torture.

  ‘You’ll like it,’ he assures her. I believe him. He surely wouldn’t risk upsetting her this much for no good reason.

  We continue on with the occasional comedy bucket of water seemingly thrown over us by a stagehand.

  ‘Pah!’ Emily spits out a mouthful of seawater.

  ‘How are you feeling now?’ Alekos enquires.

  ‘So miserable I’m actually getting angry!’ she rages.

  ‘Really?’ he says, completely unaffected. ‘It’ll be worth it. You’re going to love it.’

  ‘No I’m not,’ she lashes back. ‘I’m not going to love anything until I’m back on dry land!’

  I wish there was something I could do to make her feel better. There’s still quite a way to go. Perhaps if I got her chatting on a non-nautical topic?

  ‘So, who was your last gig for before you came away?’ I venture.

  She and Graeme exchange a look. ‘Four hundred Wandsworth prison guards!’

  ‘Really?’ I hoot. ‘You played a gig in a prison? How very Johnny Cash!’

  ‘Actually, it was at the Hurlingham Club. Which does rather beg the question: who was guarding the prisoners . . . ?’

  I chuckle as she tells me about their Groovie Movie Band incarnation – with her dressed as Catwoman and Graeme in a furry Pink Panther costume.

  ‘Do you do “Kung Fu Figh
ting”?’ I ask, starting to get a feel for their repertoire.

  ‘Of course, and “It’s Not Unusual”, “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go”, “Hot Stuff ” . . .’ Rather like people count sheep to help them get to sleep, Emily appears to have found a new cure for her sailing phobia. ‘“Boogie Oogie Oogie”, “Love Train” . . .’ she continues as if in a trance.

  Alekos catches my eye, giving me an approving nod as if to say, ‘Good work.’

  I feel so proud. We really are an excellent team.

  But then, mid-recitation, the boat starts to slow.

  ‘Are we here?’ She looks around, suddenly remembering her dire circumstances. ‘Where’s the beach?’

  ‘That’s not what we’ve come for.’ Alekos cuts the motor beside some particularly craggy rocks.

  I can tell she’s on the verge of panic mode again but this time I don’t know what to say. Fortunately, Alekos does.

  ‘Emily, I need you to be Anchor Girl,’ he commands, nodding to the great thunk of metal beside her feet.

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes,’ he says, going straight into the instructions which, amazingly, she follows without debate. Chains unravelled and rope uncoiled, she is now in position at the front of the boat. ‘Good. Now on the count of three I want you to throw it overboard, feeding it through your hands until you start to feel it getting slack.’

  She nods, poised for duty.

  ‘Okay.’ He takes a breath. ‘One, two, three!’

  Over the edge it goes, and down and down, taking the heavy chains and rope with it. But mercifully not Emily.

  ‘Has the rope stopped pulling?’

  She nods affirmation.

  Alekos moves the boat away from the anchor so that it locks on to the seabed and then cheers, ‘Good work, Anchor Girl!’

  She looks pleased with herself. I’m pleased with him. He’s actually made her feel good about being on the boat. What an old pro.

  ‘So, seriously, what happens now?’

  ‘We dive for octopus.’

  Oh no, my eyes scrunch shut as I await the howls. I wait. And wait. But none are forthcoming. Is she in silent scream mode? Gingerly I open my wincing eyes, only to find Emily’s face lit with rapture and Graeme beaming proudly. The boy done good!