After the Honeymoon (22 page)

Rosie felt a tremor of apprehension. This girl might only be thirteen but she acted much older. Maybe she ought to have a word with Jack and tell him to be careful. Girls nowadays could be so forward.

Then she stopped, appalled at the irony. Was that what Winston had thought? Had he considered her forward because she had so foolishly given herself to him? Was that why he hadn’t respected her enough to come back and do the decent thing?

Reaching for the corkscrew, Rosie opened a bottle of red and took a deep slug. Yannis was watching but she didn’t care. Normally she never had a drink until the guests were settled with a meal in front of them. But the events of the last few days had knocked her rules for six.

Jack was coming back through the door now. He had a bounce in his step, she noticed, and a slightly awkward air about him. ‘Everything all right?’ she enquired.

He nodded. ‘Sure.’

‘Who was on the phone?’

Jack looked as though he’d forgotten that he’d gone out to get it in the first place. ‘Someone for Winston.’

The headline from the
Globe
leaped into her head. ‘Who?’

‘Didn’t say.’ Jack was buttoning up his shirt, which seemed to have come undone during his brief absence. ‘Just wanted to speak to him.’

Rosie experienced a pang of alarm. ‘And what did you say?’

Jack flushed. ‘Alice was in reception and she said Winston had gone back to the room with her mother. So the woman at the other end said she’d ring back.’

Alice had found Jack then, which explained why he was looking so red and flustered. ‘I’ve told you before. You can’t give out details about guests without their permission.’

Jack’s face was shining with indignation. ‘That’s not fair. I didn’t tell them anything.’

Rosie began to slice another watermelon even though it wasn’t needed. ‘Yes, you did. You confirmed he was here.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Apparently he’s some keep-fit star in the UK.’

Jack shrugged. ‘I know, Alice told me, but so what? He might be a bigwig over there, but he’s hardly royalty. These people don’t know what it’s like to live real lives, like us, do they?’

At times, her son astounded her. He really was an old soul, as Cara used to say. Rosie would give anything for Cara to be with her right now. How she missed her wise advice. Still, that was the wonderful thing about this part of the world. Instead of ending up in an old people’s home, as so many did in the UK, your own family looked after you out here. Cara was being treated like a queen, according to her letters, by her extended family just outside Athens.

‘You’re right,’ she said slowly, laying down the watermelon knife. There was no point, she added to herself, in complicating things by telling Jack the truth. He would be hurt by Winston’s betrayal and he’d be upset by her lies as a teenager. Kids could be so judgmental.

As for the phone call, if it was a journalist – and something made her think it might be – then there was nothing she could do about it. That was Winston’s problem. Not hers.

Rosie began to lay the tables outside on the terrace, ready for dinner. Perhaps, she thought, placing the pretty green and pink salad bowls out on the crisp cream tablecloth, it was time for Winston to get his comeuppance. Indeed, the thought of her old flame getting his just deserts was surprisingly agreeable.

Just as long as it didn’t affect her and Jack.

Dinner went well that night, mainly thanks to Emma. Rosie loved it when her guests began to visibly relax after a few days. Cara used to say it was part of the villa’s magic, and she was right. Her heart was really beginning to warm to this pretty, unpretentious, plump blonde who had had just a bit too much to drink and was making them all roar with laughter.

‘So there we were in WH Smith and Gawain – he’s my four-year-old who never keeps still, bless him – was rushing round and I was trying to keep up with him as usual.’

There was an ‘I remember those days’ murmur from Melissa who was sitting, Rosie observed with a pang, on her husband’s knee. That had been
her
place, sixteen years ago …

Emma took another slug of wine and giggled. ‘Then I called out after him. I said “
Will
you hold my hand?” in a bit of a cross voice because, to be honest, I’d had enough.’

Melissa nodded enthusiastically. Winston’s smile, Rosie noticed with interest, looked decidedly forced.

Emma gave another little giggle. It was clear that the punchline was to follow. ‘So this voice said, “Hold your hand? Very well. If you insist!”’ Emma beamed around the table. ‘It was one of the staff. He was pretending that I was talking to him, you see, to make me feel better about yelling at my son! And he even pretended to take my hand!’

Melissa laughed delightedly but Winston definitely didn’t get it. Rosie could, however. Jack had been a little monkey when he’d learned to walk, always running here and there. The difference was that on the island, there was always someone to look after someone else’s child. No one got upset when a child played up in a shop. It was considered normal behaviour.

‘I do not see you as a woman who shouts at her children,’ observed Yannis, who was perched on the edge of the patio, smoking a cigarette.

Rosie always encouraged her staff to join the guests after cooking. It was something that Cara had taught her. Even so, she’d have to have a word with Yannis about the smoking later on. It was sometimes hard for the locals to understand that the British didn’t always care for the habit at table (or near it), even though dinner had finished.

‘I’m not.’ Emma blushed. Her burned pinkness had faded now; in its place, she’d developed a rather lovely sun-kissed look. Her fuller figure seemed more attractive in the floaty blue waistless dress she was wearing. In fact, she looked every inch the lovely bride – except that her husband still wasn’t with her. He’d gone to bed early, Emma had explained, rather too quickly. Still feeling a bit under the weather.

Did Yannis realise she was married? Rosie felt a catch of alarm in her throat. Her new chef certainly seemed rather interested in her guest, judging from the way his brown almond-shaped eyes were continually fixed on her.

‘Sometimes kids make you do things you shouldn’t,’ Emma explained, as Yannis passed her the carafe of rosé. She hesitated. ‘I cut down on my drinking after the kids.’

Yannis gave a wolfish grin. ‘But they’re not here now.’ He was pouring it for her. ‘Just one more won’t hurt.’

The new Mrs King had had too much to drink too: you could tell that from the way she was babbling on and from the high colour in her cheeks. ‘The other month, my two were having an awful argument in the car on the way to school so I pulled in to sort it out. We were all yelling at each other, so much that a man came down his drive to find out what the noise was about.’

Winston frowned. ‘Really? You were
all
yelling?’

He gave his bride a disappointed look and Rosie felt a quiet thrill of satisfaction.

‘It’s not easy shtaying calm when you have kids,’ said Emma, who was beginning to slur her words. Oh dear, thought Rosie. Perhaps she ought to have intervened earlier before Emma had had another top-up. Still, her guests were grown-ups; not children …

‘By the way, Rosie, I’m loving the art class, I really am. I mean, I’m no good, but it’s so nice to do something for myshelf for a change.’

Rosie buzzed with the compliment. The art class had been something she’d wanted to get off the ground for a long time. Then an Italian watercolourist had moved into town and Rosie had persuaded her to give some lessons. It all helped to make the Villa Rosa a little different.

‘I mean, I mish my kids, I really do. But I’d forgotten whash it’s like to be me again, without them.’

‘Isn’t that sweet!’ Melissa was grabbing Emma’s hands in maternal solidarity. ‘I must say, I am rather enjoying having mine here. I hate being away from them, don’t I, Winston? But it won’t be long, Em, until you’re back home with them.’

Her new husband’s lips tightened. Interesting! It wasn’t the first time Rosie had suspected that he wasn’t that keen on having his stepchildren on honeymoon with them.

‘D’you want to see shome pictures of my two from the wedding?’

Emma was passing round her phone now and there were various ‘ahhs’, even from the French couple, who’d been unable to keep their hands off each other, both below and above the table.

‘He’s very cute,’ gushed Melissa, passing the phone over.

Rosie gazed at Gawain in his pageboy outfit and blond curls. He was, too. In fact, he reminded her of Jack at that age. So winsome. So sweet. So fatherless.

Suddenly she wanted them all to leave. Jumping up, she began to clear the table, gesticulating to Yannis that he could give a hand. Jack had disappeared, even though he was meant to be on duty. Was he with Alice, who had also disappeared, leaving her brother to play with one of the ginger cats, scouring the patio for leftovers? Too late, she realised she should have kept her eye on him.

‘Let me take this,’ she said, reaching over for Melissa’s plate and then Winston’s. As she did so, his hand went up to help. Their skin touched and she almost fell over with the heat that surged through her.

At the same time, she felt a pair of arms around her waist. ‘So, you are still here?’

Greco’s body was behind her, claiming possession and attracting curious looks from around the table. Rosie blushed. She’d already warned him that they mustn’t be intimate in front of the guests. It didn’t look professional.

But Greco had seen her hand brush Winston’s. She was pretty sure of that from the way his eyes were shooting daggers. Rosie’s mind went back to the Skype conversation with Gemma earlier when Greco had overheard too much for comfort.

‘You are on your honeymoon, yes?’

Rosie froze as Greco addressed Winston directly across the table.

Winston gave a curt nod.

Don’t mention that he is famous, prayed Rosie, trying to remember exactly what she had told Gemma when Greco had been on the other side of the door. That had been confidential.

‘Rosie here, she tell me …’

No. No.

‘She tell me that some people, they would like to go on a fishing trip.’

Phew! Rosie almost audibly exhaled with relief.

Greco was leaning against the patio wall now, his arm firmly around her shoulder in case there should be any remaining doubt about their relationship. Embarrassed, she pretended to pick one of the purple flowers growing in between the bricks. ‘We do not have long left,’ continued Greco meaningfully, looking round at them all.

There was a nod from all but the French couple, who were staying another week.

Greco leaped up and clapped his hands high in the air, as though he was a performer rather than a fisherman. He had, Rosie was forced to admit, real presence with that aristocratic-looking hooked nose and olive skin. He was also wearing a crisp new white cotton shirt that suited him. ‘Then we go on Saturday night, yes? We fish by the light of the moon.’ He winked at Rosie. ‘Very romantic, I think.’

Melissa was swaying slightly. ‘What about my children?’ she was saying. ‘Can they go too?’

Greco was nodding, probably totting up the extra euros in his head, thought Rosie. ‘Why not?’

Winston’s face almost made her laugh. He was muttering something as he went past. It sounded like ‘Great’.

‘I want them to come,’ Melissa was saying, tugging at his shirt.

So! They were beginning to have marital disagreements already! Rosie felt another quiet thrill of satisfaction.

‘You like him.’ Greco jerked his head towards Winston as the couple made their way across the cobbled stones towards Rosie’s old room. His upper lip curled in a slight snarl. ‘If I am not mistaken, you are still in love with him.’

Rosie looked around sharply to see if anyone was listening. Only the French couple – who had started pawing each other again. Everyone else had gone, including Yannis. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I knew him a long time ago. That was all.’

Greco gave her a searching look. ‘Do not play games with me, Rosie. I heard you on the phone, remember? That man Winston, he is Jack’s father.’

She gasped at his indiscretion. ‘You mustn’t say that out loud. Do you hear me?’

‘I am surprised the idiot has not recognised you.’ He ran his right index finger slowly against her cheek. ‘I would not have forgotten someone as lovely as you.’

Flushing, she turned to one side. ‘I was different then. My hair … everything about me.’

‘Hah!’ Greco was snorting like a proud stallion. ‘It is because he has had so many women since, I think. He looks like that type of man.’

Takes one to know one, she almost said.

‘He is like Jack too, is he not? Your son, he has your eyes. But his forehead and his frown, it belongs to his father.’

So
he’d
noticed that too.

‘Do not worry.’ Greco made to gather her into his arms. ‘I will not say anything. But I need your word on something, Rosie. You have to tell me if you still have feelings for this man.’

Niftily, she stepped backwards. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve told you, I was no more than a teenager then.’

As she spoke, something caught her eye, down on the beach. It was a light – a motorbike light. But it wasn’t moving. Next to it, was a couple kissing. A young couple. Jack and Alice? It was impossible to tell from here. Impossible, but not out of the question.

‘So he means nothing to you now?’ repeated Greco, coming even closer. Very deliberately, he placed a finger under her chin so she was forced to face him once more.

It was hard to lie when you were looking at someone.

But not impossible.

‘Nothing at all,’ she murmured. ‘I promise.’

The actual word ‘honeymoon’ gets its origins in sixteenth-century English literature, and it did not start out as an encouraging phrase. The author Richard Huloet referred to the period after a marriage as a ‘hony mone’ to represent the waning of the feeling of true love as the moon shifts from one phase to the next.

EMMA