If her father found out—any of this, anything at all—she was dead. And of course, if she ended up pregnant, then he would find out. Her only chance was to not get pregnant.
Nico. His dark eyes, his smile . . . she wondered about his family, where they were. If he was working to support them—working to keep them fed because something prevented them working themselves. Or he might be an orphan, someone who had struggled all the time he’d been growing up, living on his wits, taking whatever job came along.
When they were married Scarlett would get a good job, as a translator or something like that—or she would be manager of a fashion shop in the market square, selling silks and furs to the tourists and telling them how fabulous they looked. Or she would write articles about being young and married and living in a foreign country, and sell them to the newspapers and magazines back in the U.K. And her parents would read the articles and regret their behavior toward her—and Cerys would read them and be insanely jealous of her new life with her handsome, gentle, caring husband.
Juliette moved, stretched out an arm, finally turned out the bedside light. Scarlett, her back to her in the twin bed, held her breath and waited, listening to Juliette’s breathing.
Now it was dark she realized how tired she was. Tired, and yet excited, so excited. It might happen tonight, after all, even though part of her was resolved to go no further than a kiss. Why rush? If he wanted her, if he wanted to be with her, he would wait. That was what she believed to be true: that her virginity was special and precious and not to be given to just anyone.
That was what her dad always said, wasn’t it?
Nico wasn’t just anyone. He was The One. She’d known him barely two days, talked to him for less than two hours, and yet she was as certain of it as she’d ever been about anything in her whole life. He would be the one to rescue her, to save her from the humiliating restrictions placed on her by her parents. In the darkness, her face turned to the blank white wall, she smiled and hugged herself.
Well, then. She would kiss him. That much was decided. She would see how she felt after that. What if he put his hands on her? The thought of that made her stop for a moment and reconsider. For that was what it was, after all. That was where it started. He would want to touch her. And he would probably want her to touch him. That was the middle ground between a kiss and having sex, the “sexual contact” made famous by the lie detector tests on the Jeremy Kyle Show.
She knew all about that.
Could she do it, with him? Could she actually bring herself to do something like that, through choice?
Wait and see, she thought. Wait and see how it goes.
Juliette was breathing deeply. She gave it another five minutes, counting down the snail’s pace minutes on the fluorescent minute hand on her wristwatch, and then, slowly, quietly, sat up and turned to look at her sister.
The breathing was regular, deep, the merest hint of a snore catching at the edges of it.
“Juliette?” she whispered.
No response, the breathing the same.
Right, then.
She stood up slowly, making sure the mattress didn’t creak beneath her, crept across the open-plan room to the bathroom, and shut the door carefully behind her. She had put some clothes into a fabric bag on the hook of the bathroom door, a cover story ready-prepared about it being full of laundry if Juliette asked—which she hadn’t. She got dressed in the dark, put her nightshirt into the bag and opened the door with infinite care. From the bed, she could hear Juliette’s breathing, unchanged.
The most dangerous part of the enterprise: opening the sliding patio door, and closing it behind her. She had no idea if her parents would still be up—they might be sitting on the patio next door, drinking beer or wine or whatever. The door always made a noise as it opened. If she was caught, she would say she wanted to go for a walk, didn’t want to disturb her sister—that it was too hot in the room, and she didn’t want to just open the door because if she’d gone back to bed she might have fallen asleep with the door open and they might have been burgled or robbed or murdered in their beds.
Nobody was there. The patio was empty. The bedroom next door was in darkness, the door closed, the air-conditioning unit on the roof humming.
Out here, the noise of the cicadas and the crickets buzzing and drilling was almost deafening. Sandals in hand, she skipped through the shadows to the gate which led to the road and the shops and the market square beyond. When she got out of earshot, she pulled her sandals on and skittered down the road, tugging her skirt a little lower.
It was so busy! She hadn’t expected that. So many people, so many drunk people—and the bars all noisy with a constant thud-thud of the Euro-pop beat that was everywhere. People staggering around her, seemingly oblivious—and pushing into her, knocking her off balance. Blokes shouting and swearing at each other, beer bottles being dropped, swung around, girls with their arms around each other for support or sitting in the gutter. One girl puking, on her side, on the ground, and then a distant wail of some kind of emergency vehicle heading toward them.
The darkness was disorientating. It was like a negative image of the town in the daytime, the tourist shops mostly closed and in darkness, the bars and restaurants lit up with neon of every color, flashing.
She had gone too far, skirted the market square somehow, because suddenly there was the Pirate Bay, transformed into a nightclub, the terrace outside heaving with people drinking and smoking and shouting to make themselves heard above the crashing beat.
How was she going to find him with all these people?
She pushed her way to the bar, conscious of her height and all these people and the fact that she was on her own. How was anyone going to believe she was eighteen? Behind the bar was a big Greek man along with all the other young bar staff who were dashing between customers, serving up beers and mixers and pitchers full of cocktails. He was sitting on a bar stool at the end, smoking a cigarette and with a newspaper spread out over his enormous thighs. This must be Nico’s boss—what was his name? Began with a V . . . Maybe Nico came on here after the pizza restaurant closed.
“Hey, Vasilis!” someone called out, and when the man looked up and raised his hand in an acknowledging wave Scarlett made a decision and approached him.
“Excuse me,” she said, and then louder when the man did not apparently hear her, “Excuse me! Vasilis!”
He looked at her with displeasure and then surprise and then amusement.
“Can you tell me where I can find Nico?”
“Who you want?”
“Nico. He works here.”
“I have no Nico work here.”
“Oh. Well—I don’t know . . .”
One of the other bar staff shouted something across to him in Greek and laughed, and Vasilis laughed, and said, “I know who you look for. He is at Leonardo.”
“Leonardo?”
“Is in the center. He work there on Tuesdays.”
“You mean the pizza place?”
“Yes, yes. Pizza.” He laughed, showing four yellow teeth.
The restaurant must stay open late, then. The Pirate Bay was about a hundred yards from the market square, she realized, navigating through the crowds of people. She was scared. All around her, men and women who were older and taller, and all of them drunk and loud, were pressing against her. A hand went around her middle and grabbed clumsily at her breast, and she shrieked and pulled away and looked around to see nobody in particular. Nobody looking at her, or paying her any attention.
And then suddenly the road opened up and she was in the market square, the fountain in the center, and hordes of people milling about. There were police officers, she noticed, or at least she assumed that was what they were—uniformed officers standing around the edges of the square, watching everyone.
She made her way to the pizza place where they’d eaten earlier. Chairs were stacked on tables and a young woman was wiping a mop up and down the tiled floor.
�
��Excuse me,” Scarlett said, and, as she had done with Vasilis, she had to ramp the volume up just to make herself heard. “Excuse me!”
The young woman stopped mopping and looked up. “We are closed,” she said.
“I’m looking for Nico,” Scarlett said.
“Who? Who you look for?”
“Nico. The guy who hands out the flyers?”
But the woman just gave an exaggerated shrug and shook her head, and repeated, “We are closed.”
Scarlett felt her eyes prickle. She walked away, but, turning back to the market square with all the streets leading off it, she couldn’t remember which one had brought her here. She walked around the perimeter looking for a landmark she recognized, but all the bars and tourist shops—some of them open, here—looked the same. She wondered about asking one of the uniformed officers for help—but what would they do? They might take her back to the apartment and insist on waking up her father and telling him where they had found her.
The only thing to do was to stand up straight and lift her head and act as if she was eighteen and enjoying herself. Blend in. She was used to that, after all, trying to blend in.
But, as she headed away from the market square down a road that she wasn’t sure was right because it was so full of people that she couldn’t even see the shops, there were tears pouring down her cheeks.
“Hey, hey!” A man grabbed at her, pulled her around, a strong grip on her upper arm.
“Leave me alone!” She pulled away and started to run, panicking now, pushing people aside and sobbing.
And then—it was so dramatic—he was there, in front of her. “Hey, Scarlett!”
She collapsed against him, taking deep, gulping, sobbing breaths, unable to speak. His arms went around her back and held her tightly. “It’s okay,” he was saying, and laughing. “What’s the matter?”
But then he pulled her away from the crowds of people, the shouting ones, the drunk ones who were staggering and lurching, into a side street. And he sat her down on a low wall. It was dark here; she could see her feet and didn’t want to raise her head. She was still afraid, even with Nico here next to her, his arm heavy across her shoulders. Tucking her head in against his chest, she felt herself trembling. This had been such a mistake, such a stupid idea . . . what had she been thinking?
“Did somebody hurt you? What happened?”
“I need to go back to the apartment,” she said at last, still the odd shuddering sigh taking her over.
“Why go back? You just got here. It’s okay. I’m here.”
She raised her head to look at him, wanting to say the words I’m fifteen, I’m only fifteen but not quite managing them. And instead of saying anything he bent his head and kissed her. As if he knew.
It felt so different, awkward, even though he was gentle. When his tongue started moving against hers she started to panic again and pulled away.
“Sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
His fingers stroked her upper arm. “Beautiful Scarlett,” he said, his voice quiet, the accent so sexy. And then, to her surprise, “Come. I take you back. Where do you stay? What hotel?”
“It’s the Aktira Studios. You know it?”
“I know.”
He stood up and held out his hand. She took it and got to her feet. He kept hold of her hand, tightly. “I don’t want you to be scared.”
“I’m not scared of you,” she said, as they started to walk back the way they had come. He was still holding her hand.
It was a lie. She was afraid of him, or, more specifically, she was afraid of how she felt when he was with her. She was afraid of the feelings deep inside, bubbling to the surface, where everyone could see.
And they walked down another side street, and another, and then they came out the other side of the market square and she realized she was nearly back up at the resort. There was the shop where she’d bought the moisturizing lotion for her mum—how had she not recognized it, earlier? And the throngs of drunk people were thinning out, and after another couple of hundred meters it was just the two of them, strolling hand in hand. She could hear the sound of the sea, the waves tumbling and sucking, now that the pounding of the music had died away.
He hadn’t spoken since they had left the side street, but there was no tension in his hand. He held her hand gently, casually, as though she might let it slip from his at any moment.
She could see the apartment block on the right hand side, the lights in the pool making a beautiful pale blue glow. Her steps were slowing.
“This is where I’m staying,” she said, quietly. “Thank you for walking me home.”
He turned toward her. “You are welcome. You don’t be scared anymore.”
He took her other hand in his, held both of them as though they were going to start dancing. The thought of this made her smile. The fear had subsided now, and she was feeling stupid. Why had she freaked out like that? Why hadn’t she stayed with him, in the town? They could have gone to a bar or something; they could be in a club. . .
She moved closer to him, wondering how to do this. It felt weird, but right. He smiled, a lazy, confident smile. And then put his hand on her cheek, stroked it tenderly, and pulled her close for another kiss. He was good at letting her set the pace. This time he didn’t open his mouth, so she did. Invited him in. It was gentle, tender.
“Goodnight,” he said, stepping back, his eyes on her, his hands pulling away.
She watched him go. He was dragging his heels, reluctant. She loved that, loved that he couldn’t bear to stop looking. When he turned away, at last, she called after him, “Wait!” Ran up to him and threw herself against him, into his open arms, and he swung her around and buried his face in her neck. They were both laughing. “I don’t want to go inside yet,” she said.
“It’s late,” he said.
“Come to the beach with me,” she said, astounded at her own audacity.
He didn’t answer straight away. Then he was pulling her arms gently away from his neck. “It’s late,” he said. “I will see you again, yes?”
She pouted. “Nico.”
And a big smile as he left her, walking away. A backward wave, and he blew her a kiss.
Minutes later, sliding the patio door open, Scarlett crept into the room as quietly as she could, sandals clutched in one hand.
She froze when she realized the light was on next to Juliette’s bed. Juliette, sitting up in bed, was reading her book again. Bizarrely, Scarlett felt the need to look at her watch—it was almost three in the morning.
There was an odd sort of silence. Juliette didn’t look up from her book or even acknowledge Scarlett’s return, and for a crazy moment Scarlett wondered if her sister had even noticed that the bed next to hers was empty. Who knew? It was entirely possible. Her sister was peculiar and, although it was the elephant in the room at every family occasion, she was getting more and more strange as the years passed.
Scarlett went into the bathroom and got back into her nightshirt, stuffing her clothes back into the bag hanging on the back of the door. When she came out, the light was still on. Juliette hadn’t moved. She got into bed and turned her back on her sister, her heart pounding. Part of her just wanted to go with it, assume that Juliette’s silence now indicated her intention to remain silent on this matter in the future also.
After a few moments she heard the sound of a page turning. If it was possible for the sound of a page turning to be loaded with unspoken meaning, it was exactly that.
Eventually Scarlett could stand it no longer. She gave a huge sigh and flopped over in bed to face her sister.
“Jul?”
No reaction, no acknowledgment. Another page was turned, slowly.
“Juliette!” The hushed whisper, getting louder.
“What?” came the reply, finally, but without looking up from her book.
“You won’t say anything, will you? To Dad, I mean?”
Silence again.
After a few moments, Scarl
ett turned her face back to the wall and closed her eyes. There was no point pursuing things. When Juliette didn’t want to talk, she didn’t. If she was reading, she wouldn’t talk. Scarlett was lucky to have had that single word out of her. She would try again in the morning.
And although she was tired, her eyes heavy, her heart was buzzing with the kiss. With the taste of him, the feel of his warm, strong arms around her. And tomorrow she would see him again.
LOU
Thursday 31 October 2013, 18:53
Lou had been expecting the Major Incident Room to be in darkness, but, when she keyed in the security code and opened the door, all the lights were on.
She headed past empty desks toward the goldfish bowl of an office at the end, and jumped half a mile when she heard a voice behind her. “Hey.”
“Jesus Christ! You made me jump . . .”
Jason put his arms around her waist, lowering his face into her neck and nuzzling her. She put her arms around him and hugged him tightly. “It’s good to see you. I missed you.”
And then she pulled back. She couldn’t let that go on, much as she wanted to.
“What are you doing here, anyway?”
“Sam let me in. She only went about ten minutes ago.”
Although Jason was vetted to the appropriate level to work on any of Lou’s jobs, it was on a strictly need-to-know basis. He wasn’t on any of her jobs currently—and so he was not supposed to be in here.
“I did that profile for you. I figured you wouldn’t want me to email it.”
There was something in his tone. She pulled away from him, out of the circle of his arms. “What did you find?”
“You should read it. It’s on your desk. I’ll go get you a coffee. Unless you want to go home now?”
He went to get her a coffee from the vending machine outside the canteen. She couldn’t take the profile out of the office, and, now that he’d indicated there was something in it that couldn’t be emailed, she needed to know what it was.
Behind Closed Doors Page 7
