intentionally. Perhaps his dick grazed her bottom, but it was the tide that pushed him; it’s impossible to balance on those slippery stones. Why was he hard, then? No. It did not happen. And yet the fact that no one registeredher struggle, that she’d managed to swim out so far, unnoticed, and that no one thought to look for her; that did happen.
Jenn watches Emma lean her head against his arm as they walk, and notes that he flinches a moment, before pecking her on the head. Emma faces him for a kiss. The way she looks up at him, God …
They share a joke about something. He has her head in a lock for a second, then he shoves her away, and slaps her bottom. Emma flips her head over her shoulder, laughing, as though the butt of their joke lies somewhere back here. They gradually increase their pace until it’s fait accompli that the four has become two. Greg is more cross than deflated.
‘What happened to the plan? We all agreed, didn’t we? Market; monastery; lunch?’
‘We’re not cool enough.’ Jenn smiles. She says it in jest, but she’s bruised by the reality all the same.
She lingers on it for a while, tuning out from Greg’s commentary as they amble down the town’s narrow streets, past blond stone houses towards the shadows of the monastery. She can hear the market, a low hum of chatter like an intermission between a play. The air is cooler here; Jenn’s disquiet calms. The cobblestones are waxy underfoot, centuries of footfall polishing them to a dangerous sheen. Greg extends an arm for her to holdon to. He casts her a look that is pure affection, his face creasing into a crinkly smile.
‘Never tire of this place, you know? Never.’
She strives for the appropriate degree of empathy.
‘Me neither.’
Greg is drawing himself up to make some grand philosophical pronouncement when he’s interrupted by his phone. It has rung off by the time he’s able to prise it out from his breast pocket.
‘Work again?’
He nods; stares at the screen.
‘Phone them back.’
‘I thought you said—’
The voice-mail clarion blares out. He juts his jaw from side to side, still staring at the screen. Jenn hooks an arm around his waist.
‘Look. Go and sit on that bench. Call work. Whatever it is, sort it out, then have a little wander. Soak it all up.’
She goes on tiptoe and kisses his cheek.
‘I’ll meet you back here in an hour.’
She turns and heads down a short flight of steps and goes into a trot, lest he call her back. In the distance, she can still pick out Nathan’s T-shirt.
The hippy market is busy with tourists, young folk, mainly, and a few wizened old men wearing sarongs and sandals. She feels out of place for a minute as she pauses at a stall whose sole output is wood-carved wind chimes. The young assistant with dreadlocks tells her they’re carved from the wood of ancient olive trees from the garden of Jaime I de Aragon . He says it with conviction, but it’s tinged with embarrassment, as though he understands how ridiculous he sounds, and yet how often it works. She nods her head, slowly, casting her eyes out to see where they went. They’re over by the jewellery stands, heading towards a stall specialising in tie-dyed tees, but there is something about the set of Emma’s shoulders that tells Jenn all is not okay. She tells the assistant she’ll give him ten euros for the wind chimes and when he laughs in her face she doesn’t hang around to barter; she positions herself at the next stall along, this one specialising in hand-woven rugs. She tucks herself behind a stripy kilim, almost identical to the ones that adorn the walls of the villa, and observes.
Nathan is holding up a T-shirt. Even from here she can tell that it’s made from the cheapest fabric possible, yet he’s handling it as though it were an object of beauty, holding it in front of him and nodding his appreciation. Emma stands a little way back from him, her arms wrapped around her ribcage, her face tilted
Jenn watches Emma lean her head against his arm as they walk, and notes that he flinches a moment, before pecking her on the head. Emma faces him for a kiss. The way she looks up at him, God …
They share a joke about something. He has her head in a lock for a second, then he shoves her away, and slaps her bottom. Emma flips her head over her shoulder, laughing, as though the butt of their joke lies somewhere back here. They gradually increase their pace until it’s fait accompli that the four has become two. Greg is more cross than deflated.
‘What happened to the plan? We all agreed, didn’t we? Market; monastery; lunch?’
‘We’re not cool enough.’ Jenn smiles. She says it in jest, but she’s bruised by the reality all the same.
She lingers on it for a while, tuning out from Greg’s commentary as they amble down the town’s narrow streets, past blond stone houses towards the shadows of the monastery. She can hear the market, a low hum of chatter like an intermission between a play. The air is cooler here; Jenn’s disquiet calms. The cobblestones are waxy underfoot, centuries of footfall polishing them to a dangerous sheen. Greg extends an arm for her to holdon to. He casts her a look that is pure affection, his face creasing into a crinkly smile.
‘Never tire of this place, you know? Never.’
She strives for the appropriate degree of empathy.
‘Me neither.’
Greg is drawing himself up to make some grand philosophical pronouncement when he’s interrupted by his phone. It has rung off by the time he’s able to prise it out from his breast pocket.
‘Work again?’
He nods; stares at the screen.
‘Phone them back.’
‘I thought you said—’
The voice-mail clarion blares out. He juts his jaw from side to side, still staring at the screen. Jenn hooks an arm around his waist.
‘Look. Go and sit on that bench. Call work. Whatever it is, sort it out, then have a little wander. Soak it all up.’
She goes on tiptoe and kisses his cheek.
‘I’ll meet you back here in an hour.’
She turns and heads down a short flight of steps and goes into a trot, lest he call her back. In the distance, she can still pick out Nathan’s T-shirt.
The hippy market is busy with tourists, young folk, mainly, and a few wizened old men wearing sarongs and sandals. She feels out of place for a minute as she pauses at a stall whose sole output is wood-carved wind chimes. The young assistant with dreadlocks tells her they’re carved from the wood of ancient olive trees from the garden of Jaime I de Aragon . He says it with conviction, but it’s tinged with embarrassment, as though he understands how ridiculous he sounds, and yet how often it works. She nods her head, slowly, casting her eyes out to see where they went. They’re over by the jewellery stands, heading towards a stall specialising in tie-dyed tees, but there is something about the set of Emma’s shoulders that tells Jenn all is not okay. She tells the assistant she’ll give him ten euros for the wind chimes and when he laughs in her face she doesn’t hang around to barter; she positions herself at the next stall along, this one specialising in hand-woven rugs. She tucks herself behind a stripy kilim, almost identical to the ones that adorn the walls of the villa, and observes.
Nathan is holding up a T-shirt. Even from here she can tell that it’s made from the cheapest fabric possible, yet he’s handling it as though it were an object of beauty, holding it in front of him and nodding his appreciation. Emma stands a little way back from him, her arms wrapped around her ribcage, her face tilted
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