by Karen Swan
She thought about Poppy suddenly, knowing that she would have found this a breeze, sipping cocktails on a Greek island, entertaining him with a whip-crack stream of anecdotes and jokes, looking after her client, keeping him entertained, giving him the level of service he expected and was paying for . . . Instead, Joe was stuck with her: quiet, defensive, her world in ruins and using him to make her second intercontinental escape in six months. It was pathetic. She was pathetic.
‘. . . So.’
She looked up to find Joe watching her. She smiled.
‘Why don’t you tell me something about yourself,’ he said, shifting position as though settling in for the long haul. ‘I know you’ve got a strong whisky game and an ability to sleep through thunderstorms, landing planes and jet refuelling. What else?’
She gave a horrified laugh. ‘Oh God, there’s really not much to tell,’ she said quickly, tucking her hair nervously behind one ear.
‘That’s not true. I pride myself on being a good judge of character, and you strike me as . . . enigmatic; you’re like the moon, constantly slipping behind clouds.’
She didn’t know what to say; nobody had ever described her in such terms before. ‘. . . Well, what do you want to know?’ she shrugged.
‘Well, clearly you’re English. Why don’t you start by telling me what made you move to New York?’
Her mouth dropped open. It was an innocent enough enquiry, but of all the questions he could have asked!
‘. . . Or not,’ he said, after a long pause, seeing how she couldn’t get the words out.
‘Sorry,’ she stammered, staring into her glass.
‘No, my mistake,’ he said shortly and she couldn’t help but be struck by how different he was to Alexander; Alexander who needed to know and control before he could trust. ‘How about . . .’ he rooted, searching for something safer than the unexpectedly explosive bombshell of why she was living in a foreign country. ‘. . . Family. Have you got any brothers, sisters?’
‘Yes.’ She gave a relieved – and grateful – smile. ‘One sister, Kate. She’s four years older than me but you’d think it was fourteen the way she bosses me about.’
‘She adores you then?’
‘We’re very close. Although, she’s still in London so . . . not, not physically.’
‘No.’ He didn’t press her further but she could see he was assessing her every reaction. ‘And your parents?’
‘Living the good life in Northumberland, the north of England. I go back to see them as often as I can. They can’t get down to London very much as they have so many commitments – Mum is the local Guides leader and Dad’s very involved with the parish council, plus he coaches the little ones for football on Saturday mornings.’
A smile played at the corners of his mouth. ‘Have they come to visit you in New York?’
‘Not yet. But they will, soon, I’m sure. Going to London is a big enough deal for them so New York really is a huge ask.’
He nodded, still watching, the glass hanging loosely in his hand. ‘And you’re not married.’ It was more of a statement than a question, but before she could respond he pointed to her hand. ‘No ring.’
‘Oh, right, yes – I mean, no, not married.’
‘Boyfriend?’
‘Nope,’ she said cheerily. Too cheerily.
The sudden change in tone was marked and he didn’t reply for a moment. ‘Don’t tell me – that was the bad news you had last night, and you have terrible taste in men?’
She couldn’t help but grin. Hearing it put so baldly . . . She was a living cliché, it was tragic but true. ‘Yes. And yes. How did you guess?’
‘I’ve seen that thousand-yard stare many times before.’ He shook his head but he looked bemused. ‘Usually on women on a dinner date with me.’
This time she couldn’t help but laugh. Self-deprecation was something new to add to her list on him. ‘How about you?’ she asked, determining to take the heat off her.
‘Do I have terrible taste in men?’ he repeated, a light in his eyes.
She laughed again.
‘No. Single. The business has taken too much of my energy recently; I’ve barely had time for lunch, much less a relationship.’
‘Ah. That old chestnut.’ She took another sip.
There was another silence and she felt his gaze flit on and off her like a grasshopper. In the distance, they heard another cowbell, rising through the town.
‘So, what’s so terrible about your taste in men? . . . They all wear bow ties?’
She almost choked on the drink. Who knew he was so amusing? ‘Oh, you don’t want to hear about this, surely?’
‘What else are we going to do?’
She met his eyes. He was staring down at her and, for a moment, she could almost forget that he was her client, that this was a professional commitment and not simply her sitting on a rooftop under a darkening sky, having a drink with a handsome stranger.
Only for a moment though.
‘Those bow ties,’ she sighed eventually. ‘What can I tell you? I’m a sucker for them.’
It was his turn to smile but she saw him register the knock-back, the door being firmly shut and locked on shared confidences. She wasn’t Poppy, she couldn’t blur the boundaries the way she did; Joe was her client, not her friend, and she just needed to get him to sign off on the house and get back on the plane. The sooner he was gone, the sooner she could fall apart alone.
Turning her face away from him, she looked back out to sea, just in time to glimpse the last sliver of sun drop below the horizon. On the wall, her phone buzzed; she had turned it on to silent so as not to be disturbed by Tom’s incessant calling, but her heart still leapt at the sound of it anyway, and she still jumped to see the screen.
It dived again at the sight of Jack’s name.
‘Do you need to get that?’ Joe asked, watching as she resolutely didn’t answer it.
‘No, it’s fine. Just my boss.’
‘Oh. Just your boss,’ he repeated in a wry tone.
‘He probably just wants an update on how things are going out here. With you.’ He wanted to know where in the world she was, rather. Her brief email to Jack last night had simply told him she was accompanying Joe on a househunting trip, no mention of where; she didn’t want Tom to have any clue as to how to find her this time.
‘If I’m happy with the service, you mean?’ That faintly sarcastic note sounded in his voice again.
‘Yes, maybe.’
A moment later, the phone vibrated with a new text from him and she read it, her mouth dropping open. ‘Thought you’d want to know . . .’
‘What is it?’
She looked up at him with newly bright eyes, the first genuine smile of the day enlivening her face. ‘It’s Poppy,’ she gasped. ‘Oh God, I can’t believe it. She’s awake!’
Chapter Seventeen
‘Xan, it’s me,’ she whispered, sitting up in bed, her elbows on her knees. It was still dark outside, the jet lag keeping her on New York hours; 5 a.m. here, but only ten there. She knew he’d still be up.
‘Chlo! Where the hell are you?’ His voice was almost a shriek and she was forced to hold the phone away from her ear for a moment.
‘I’m in Greece.’
‘Greece?’ Another screech. ‘What the hell are you doing there?’
‘I’m with that client, Joe Lincoln.’
There was a pause. ‘The hot one?’
She rolled her eyes; why did everyone call him that? ‘Yes. Him. He wanted me to come and see the houses I found for him.’
‘Did he now? And there was no one else who could do that for him? Someone like, oh, I don’t know – a realtor?’
‘This is work, Xan.’
‘Yeah, right – come away to a Greek island with me, beautiful lady, and we shall tell no one.’
She couldn’t help but laugh. ‘It’s not like that.’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘No. Look, he came to the Basquiat show
and cornered me there – and yes, I’d had a few drinks so it seemed . . . not such a crazy idea at the time. But I’ll be back soon, I promise.’
‘Well you’d better, because management’s going bat-shit. Jack’s been tearing round the place like he’s Zeus, shooting bolts of thunder from his eyes, I goddam swear. I haven’t ever seen him like that before.’
‘Why?’
‘Search me. Seems he’s always flipping his lid about one thing or another at the moment.’
She closed her eyes, hating herself for what she was about to ask. ‘And Tom? How’s he being?’
‘Well, you know Tom – always the good cop, but he’s been off too. I swear to God he spent the entire day standing at the window whilst the rest of us were working for a living.’
‘Oh God, I’m sorry.’
‘What are you sorry for? It’s not your fault they keep fighting. Sandy in accounts was coming back from doing a matcha run earlier and she overheard them arguing in the elevators. She said that when the doors opened they were all smiles and floppy hair and “pass the tea, vicar”, you can imagine; but in the moments before the doors opened, she thought they were almost going to come to blows. Everyone in the lobby heard them. It was totally awkward.’
Chloe frowned. ‘But why are they fighting? They’re such old friends.’
‘Agh, the size of their dividends? Who cares?’ he tutted. ‘Listen, much more importantly – did you hear the good news?’
‘Poppy? Yes, that’s the reason I’m calling – she woke up? It’s actually true?’
‘Yeah! Isn’t it great? A chink of sunshine amidst the chaos and gloom.’
‘Have you been to see her?’
‘No, they’re still saying family only, although Jack got in somehow; he said she looks really bad – weighs practically nothing; vampire white – I mean completely bloodless, he said; she’s got black eyes; a fractured cheekbone; broken jaw that’s had to be wired shut, a broken arm, broken leg . . . Uh, what else did he say? . . . Oh, they had to shave some of her hair for the op too so that’s not helping either. She sounds like a mini-Frankenstein. I think she just sort of blinked at him.’ He took a breath, sounding worn down. ‘But he thought she recognized him, which is something. Poor guy, though, he looked pretty shaken when he got back.’
‘I guess that could account for his mood,’ Chloe said quietly. ‘He’s taken her accident really badly.’
‘Yeah, well – that’s another development and it’s not good news I’m afraid.’
‘Jeez, I’ve only been gone a day! What else has happened?’ She felt a bloom of dread in the pit of her stomach.
‘It turns out the accident wasn’t no accident after all; it was a deliberate hit and run. The cops are investigating it as attempted murder.’
His words sounded like they had an echo to them, ‘murder’ reverberating through her brain like a reflection in a hall of mirrors. So it was out in the open now. Had the police come to the office? Were they interviewing colleagues? Did they need to speak to her?
‘Chlo . . . ?’ Xan asked when she didn’t respond – or at least, not quickly enough. ‘Oh my God, did you know?’
‘I . . . uh . . .’
‘You did!’
‘Yeeaah, sorry – I found out at the weekend. I went to the hospital and spoke to her mum.’
‘Jesus, Chlo, and you didn’t think to tell me?’
‘I’m sorry! I wanted to but Jack asked me not to. He said he didn’t want it to get out in case it spooks the clients and lowers morale amongst the team even further.’ She bit her lip. ‘Do the police know any more?’
‘Well, they’ve been here and taken all her files, if that’s what you mean,’ he said tartly.
Chloe frowned. ‘Her files? But why would they need those?’
‘Well at a guess I’d say they’re investigating whether her attack was work-motivated.’ Sarcasm now, too, she noted. Great.
‘Xan, I’m sorry, okay?’ she said quietly. ‘I was trying to do the right thing.’
‘Yeah? And how is skipping the country with zero notice, leaving the rest of the team in the shit now we’re two men down, with a police investigation hanging over our heads, doing the right thing?’
She sighed. He had a point. ‘Tonight. I’ll get on a plane tonight and be with you by brunchtime tomorrow. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.’
‘It’s not me you need to make it up to. It’s everyone else who’s had to pick up the slack – you need to watch your back, Chloe; Serena’s all over your patch like a fly on shit. I came in to her talking to Rosaria Bertolotti this morning on your phone, chatting like they were old friends. God knows how long she’d been there. If I were you I’d get back here sooner than brunch or you might not have a job to come back to.’
Chloe stiffened at the mention of Serena’s name; that bloody woman was everywhere – all over her man and now her job too? ‘. . . I’ll do what I can.’
She narrowed her watering eyes as the RIB ploughed through the docile sea, hair swept back off her face by the wind. They had been going for hours now, zipping between the neighbouring islands of Poros, Agistri and Aegina too, trekking round the various different properties that all had something different to offer – spectacular sea views, acres of land, historic significance – but seemingly not one had everything he wanted.
Overhead, plane tracks criss-crossed the spotless sky and she wondered how many people were looking back down at them, seeing just white pinpricks and imagining their story – holidaymakers on a boat trip – with no conception of the complicated reality that had brought her here: a hit and run; a cheating lover; a mercurial businessman who didn’t like to wait.
Joe was sitting beside her, one arm across the back of the seat, his face tipped up to the sun. He had swapped his reading glasses for Wayfarers and she could tell the jet lag was getting to him from the way he was slumped; he’d been awake since dawn, just like her.
‘Right, back to Hydra. This is our last appointment, I’m afraid,’ she said, as the skipper threw a looped rope over a low bollard and they docked at a small tethered pier; they were on the far side of the island from the port. She had deliberately left this one till last. If splendid isolation was what he really wanted, splendid isolation was what he was going to get . . .
A rickety-looking set of wooden steps zigzagged up the rocks. ‘After you,’ she smiled, indicating for Joe to lead the way.
‘This is the only access point?’ he asked, a hand on the balustrade.
She made a point of looking at the boulders either side of them; it was clear the only way forward was up the cliff here. ‘By sea, yes. But there’s a rough path that comes over the hills if you need to get to town that way. It’s a very long walk though.’
He glanced back out to sea at the wide empty horizon and nodded. ‘Good.’
They climbed the steep staircase slowly – it was difficult to do otherwise in the fierce heat, their skin feeling scorched, their breath coming in shallow pants by the time they reached the sandy-soiled top. They looked around them, hands on hips, getting their breath back as they took in the aspect: there was scarcely a blade of grass to be seen; instead, jagged rocks littered the reddish, bare earth, ancient gnarled and bulbous olive trees throwing out wild Afro-canopies and scattering tangled shadows on the ground. The land sloped gently upwards, away from the sea, and with no clear path to follow they began to walk through the globes of dappled light, grateful for the fleeting shade. In the background, cicadas scratched and ticked, a butterfly flitted.
They walked through the vast grove, past the remains of an old crumbling well, before the landscape opened up and the remains of a terraced garden spread out before them, two old dry-stone walls with steps between them leading to an upper area. Joe stopped and looked around them again. The sea had dropped out of sight beyond the trees and from this vantage point, they could only just glimpse the top of a stubby chimneystack, the house still well out of sight. He nodded again, seeming pleased.
Clearly he wasn’t one for the topiaried grandeur of the French Riviera and she hoped he wasn’t after one of their pastel-frosted eighteenth-century villas either, because he wouldn’t find it in this part of the world.
Chloe didn’t say a word as they moved onwards, but she was watching his every move and she felt a thrill of success ripple up her skin as she saw him take in the sight of the house for the first time. His eyes lit up, his mouth opening with pleased astonishment. She looked back at it herself, wondering what it was that appealed to him so much. It wasn’t the grandest building they’d viewed today, far from it; nor would it be anywhere near the most expensive (once they established a price for it; the Athens contact had received word that although recently closed up, it wasn’t yet formally for sale). She had assumed that with an open budget, he would equate the best with being the most costly but this would be very much at the lower end of the table. Its remote position, with not another house in sight for miles, was a negative for most potential purchasers and it was in fact the reason the previous inhabitants had been forced to move, as – nearing their eighties – they needed to be in the port for their health care.
She looked at the property appraisingly as Joe loped up to it in long strides now. The roof sat low on the building like a slightly too big hat. It was solid-looking and rather classical, if not outright handsome. The old farmhouse had been standing empty only for a few months but it could have been a lot longer than that – a sense of feral permanence seemed to hang over the place, as though the house had always been here, as though the land surrounding it would never be tamed more than this. It was wide, low and squat and looked as settled in the landscape as a boulder that had rolled down a cliff and come to a final stop in the grass. Nothing would move it now – not wind nor rain nor snow nor drought. The walls were thick and dimpled white, the peg-tiles bleached a soft peach colour beneath the merciless Aegean sun; it had enormous arched windows and on the ground floor, shuttered but wide double doors led into rooms which may once have been stables for the livestock – some of the more rural properties had been built with the stables below the farmers’ living accommodation. Chloe could imagine that with the shutters thrown back, the space would be flooded with light.
