The Lost Swimmer (19 page)

‘How bad?' I called. ‘Be careful!' A large campervan coming from the opposite direction missed him by inches. ‘Get back in, please? Now.' It was becoming a nightmare.

The youths were already a distance away, still reversing, until another car came up behind them and they were forced to stop.

‘I'll wait for them,' said Stephen.

‘Get in!' My voice tightened with fear.

Stephen looked between me and the youths who were approaching as slowly as they could, the car behind them now honking, and quickly joined by another. A trail of scooters zoomed up and sailed past them all.

‘I'm begging you,' I said. ‘We're insured, just get their number plate.'

Finally Stephen climbed in and I moved off as quickly as was safe, tooting loudly and praying no one was coming the other way.

‘It's a chicken run,' I breathed.

‘Kamikaze.' Stephen pulled out his phone and took photos of the youths' car when it came around the bend. ‘We'll get them when we can stop somewhere. Our back's completely stoved in.'

‘That's all we need.'

‘I'll demand the driver's name and licence.'

Good luck
, I thought, and before I could speak another bus appeared around the upcoming bend. It stopped, roared, reversed and disappeared, then swung again, its rear hanging over the tiny wall that separated it from oblivion. I crawled to a stop and waited while it shrieked back and forth like a tangled rhinoceros. The youths behind stopped well away, and the stream of cars now behind them set up a cacophony of horns.

‘Not so bold now,' Stephen said. ‘I feel like sprinting back to them.'

‘You're going nowhere.' I grabbed him, just as the bus roared close. In the nick of time I leaned out and pulled in my side-view mirror, whipping my hand back as the bus came so close I thought it would touch us. It had huge dents right up its side. The tourists inside looked ill with fright.

Just as I was about to take my turn in the Russian roulette around the cliff, the youths shot past. They were quiet, no obscene gestures or hanging out windows. Stephen took more photographs. I prayed the idiots wouldn't crash into an oncoming vehicle that was as yet unseen. But there was no sound other than their receding engine. I carefully followed around the blind corner and the road ahead was clear. I sighed, exhausted, but nevertheless exhilarated. I was finally conquering this extraordinary terrain.

‘Got their plate and make of car. Let's hope that's enough.' Stephen put his phone away. ‘How much longer can this be?'

And then, around the next turn, a hotel perched over the cliff at a ridiculous angle came into sight.
Della Mare
. It was ours. And it was in the middle of nowhere. There wasn't even a path at the side of the road.

Stephen followed my shocked gaze. ‘Don't tell me this is it?'

I turned into the tiny space for cars by the wall. Beyond, the sun broke through and the sea twinkled a rich blue, dancing in the light.

‘It's just a cliff!' said Stephen.

‘Sorry. I think I stuffed up.'

Stephen shook his head. ‘Well, I'm not going anywhere. I don't plan to be on this road ever again.'

‘Look, there's a ceramics shop and little cafe at the top.'

Stephen, dismayed, glanced at the colourful building that had seen better days, and then gazed around. There was no way in or out except for the sliver of road. Opposite, the hill was brown and bald. No sweet groves of citrus grew there. Below us was nothing but a spine-tingling drop to the sea.

‘I thought this was in Amalfi,' I groaned. ‘Anyway, I don't mind driving, that's the good news. I'm quite happy to take us anywhere. I haven't felt this alive in years. Where shall we go tomorrow?' I added.

‘Let's just check in and have a drink,' Stephen replied gruffly. ‘And I mean it – I'm not going on that road apart from when we leave.' With difficulty he forced the smashed boot open and grabbed both bags, almost getting hit as a massive tourist bus trundled past.

‘Careful!' I called, alarmed.

He wheeled the luggage into the ceramics shop, which was lined with shelves of garishly painted bowls and jugs, and garden ornaments in startling blue and yellow. ‘We're looking for the hotel check-in,' he said to an unusually handsome man in his late twenties who, lithe and tanned like a panther, leaned against the marble counter sipping a fresh orange juice. His eyes were dark liquid, his slim body toned in the peak of youth.

‘Let me take those. I'm Marco Romano, your host. Welcome,' he drawled in a soft accent.

Stephen introduced us and Marco took my hand, giving my fingers the lightest squeeze.

‘What a lovely place,' I said, confident and buoyed from having driven the road.

‘We'll go to reception,' he purred. ‘I'll get these later.' We had no choice but to leave our luggage in the empty shop, vulnerably unattended. ‘It will be all right,' said Marco as he guided me into a stone passageway where steps funnelled us down into the belly of the cliff. ‘So, you're the hero who drove?'

‘Of course.' My smile split from ear to ear.

‘You must be tired?'

‘Exhausted,' said Stephen. ‘Do you have a bar?'

‘Precisely,' replied Marco. ‘But first, your room.'

My stomach rumbled and it hit me we hadn't eaten all day, except the gelato in Positano. I glanced at my watch.

‘You're not too late for lunch,' said Marco, reading my thoughts. ‘I can fix you something in our restaurant. There's a beautiful sea bass on the menu today. You will love it.'

His old blue jeans clung in all the right places, his fine cotton shirt the colour of the ocean billowed lightly, and when we came into the blasting sunshine of reception, situated by a terrace that looked across the sea for miles, the silhouette of his torso through the fine cloth sensually matched the mood.

‘You made it!' A tall, raven-haired woman, Italian to the core but with an upper-class English accent, came shooting from behind a desk and hugged us as if we'd been friends for years. ‘And your eyes are dry! You know the famous John Steinbeck wept in his wife's arms as he was driven along the Amalfi coast. You two must be bravehearts!'

‘That makes me feel a lot better,' said Stephen and the woman laughed, even though he hadn't been joking. I did indeed feel like a victorious warrior.

‘Thank you for bringing our delightful guests,' she said to Marco. ‘Leave them with me.'

‘I will see you in the restaurant,' Marco said, giving a little bow as he left.

The woman announced dramatically that she was Adriana. ‘Later I will get you to fill in the registration. But for now, your passports, please?'

She held out a long, olive-skinned hand. Stephen obeyed, placing his blue booklet into her palm. I dug into my bag and retrieved mine, and she slapped both onto the desk.

‘Perfetto! Now we go.'

She led us down a long corridor, leaving the passports sitting alone near a display of sightseeing brochures. Stephen and I both flinched at the passports being left in the open, but neither of us dared raise it with Adriana.

She stopped by a lift and stood aside for us to enter. ‘You start your stay with us in Paradise!'

Do not use elevator if broken
, a sign in the tiny space announced nonsensically. Stephen and I both stifled a smile.

‘Don't let the sign frighten you. It rarely happens.' Adriana flicked her thick hair to one side and pressed a button, sending us whooshing down into the bowels of the mountain. When the doors opened, she led us along a cold, gloomy corridor and finally stopped at door 37, which she flung open dramatically without using a key. ‘Pronto!'

The immaculately decorated room, ochre walls, white-tiled floor and spotless white furniture was framed by a dazzling azure sea that dashed away to meet the watery sky. As we stepped out onto a huge balcony, replete with padded lounges and a little table with two tall glasses, ice and a jug of freshly squeezed orange juice, Capri floated on the horizon, beckoning us again.

Adriana clapped her hands like an excited schoolgirl. ‘Yes, that's Capri,' she said, as if seeing it for the first time. ‘A millionaire's view, just for you. And now, I leave you to enjoy. Please ask for anything, anything at all, that your heart desires.'

Stephen tried to slip her a tip but she waved him away. ‘We are family!' she cried, shutting the door gently behind her.

Stephen turned away from the view. ‘I'm going to have to finish my paper or that island will haunt me. It's like it's hunting me down,' he chuckled, wrapping his arms about me, lowering us onto the vast expanse of the bed. His skin glowed against the pearly sheets as he kissed me softly. My fingertips burned as I ran them over his shoulders and dug in, massaging, feeling the tautness evaporate. Stephen groaned and tipped over, ‘Keep going, Bec. Don't stop.' I straddled him, pummelling his flesh, fighting off my fears about him. After all, I was a road conqueror. I could feel Dad's pride. Surely, then, I could vanquish any threat to our marriage? ‘Ouch, not that hard!' cried Stephen.

‘Sorry.' I lightened my strokes; I'd made his skin glow red.

He rolled over, grabbed me, and flipped me onto my back, where we lay cuddling in the mellow heat until, after a brisk rap on the door, Adriana barged in with our luggage.

•  •  •

Marco brought the plate of sizzling fish and a huge bowl of salad to our table, perched on the cliff-face above a mighty drop to the diamond sea below. Uncorking a bottle, he poured pale-straw liquid into our glasses. ‘Buon appetito.' His torso swayed sensuously as he headed back inside and we drank the wine.

Stephen cursed. ‘I just remembered we have to report the car.' He rose, taking his phone from his pocket.

‘But eat first, darling?'

‘I don't want trouble because we waited too long.' He perched on the squat stone wall that separated us from the drop to infinity.

‘Careful!' I cried. Stephen smiled but didn't move.

‘What's the name of the company again?' he called.

‘Speedi.' Stephen rolled his eyes and looked up the number. When the phone finally answered he spoke quickly, flapping his hand at me to start eating.

The sea bass was sweet and salty, as fresh as the ocean. I could taste the tidal currents and for a moment felt panic as I envisaged the sea floor and its treachery. I washed it down with more wine.

‘Flavia says we must report it to the police.' Stephen sat down heavily, reaching for his knife and fork, slashing a huge piece off the fish and lifting it deftly onto his plate. ‘Such a bore. It's going to mess up the rest of the afternoon.'

Marco appeared with a jug of sparkling water. ‘Everything all right?' he asked and Stephen explained our predicament. ‘Ah, you'll have to drive to Amalfi or Positano.' Marco shrugged. ‘Positano is further but it's probably the best. But, please, you must do it today.'

‘We can't, we've both been drinking,' Stephen said. ‘The police will have to come to us.'

Marco replied softly. ‘There are not many. They can't. What if someone needs them?'

‘But
we
need them.' Ice crept into Stephen's voice. ‘The boy hit us. We're not at fault in any way.'

‘I have an idea.' Marco's eyes lit up. ‘I can drive. In your car, of course, so they can see the damage.'

‘Marco, you're a godsend,' I said.

‘Thanks,' Stephen said, after a long pause. ‘I guess you know the road pretty well?'

‘Usually I go by boat. But not today.' Marco grinned, a perfect set of teeth flashing in the sunlight. He was the essence of summer. The wine had gone to my head.

‘That was delicious.' I pushed my plate away. ‘I'll need a walk after all that food.'

Stephen snorted. ‘What, along the road?'

‘You can go down to our beach,' said Marco excitedly. ‘And then when you get back, I'll be ready and we can go.'

In our room we put on walking shoes. ‘Honey, I can go and report it with Marco, if you like. You could stay here?'

Stephen tapped my arm gratefully. ‘Thanks, but I'll cope.'

My phone bleeped. I hurried out onto the balcony and flicked up the text.

In Athens already. Sofia had the day free, so we changed our flight. Await further news! Love Burton. PS: Hope you're managing to relax in spite of all this.

I smiled as I deleted his words. For a brief moment the Amalfi coast had taken me further from my worries than I'd been since my troubles began. This area was fabled to be the home of the sirens. I could hear their sweet songs serenading as Stephen and I left the room and made our way along a tiny path that zigzagged down the cliff-face.

I pushed the alleged fraud far away as we moved among wizened olive trees, groaning in unnatural shapes from fierce storms and the rigours of age. Cicadas screeched in the heat. The breeze smelled of fresh rosemary, lemons and salt. Suddenly a high, rusty gate cut off the path. Locked, barring our way. Beyond and below, the sea was turning a deep blue, fringed with clear, bright emerald.

‘Damn,' Stephen said. ‘I want to see this beach.'

‘I can't imagine where it will be. It all looks so rocky,' I muttered.

‘Come on, I'll give you a leg over.' Stephen grabbed me playfully, lifting me off the ground. I was worried how my ribs would cope but I was feeling mellow from the wine and bold from conquering the road.

‘When you reach the top, just drop down,' said Stephen.

The top of the gate wedged into my chest and I hung suspended like a fish on a hook, then Stephen gently pushed my legs and I toppled over onto the other side, where I lay laughing in the soft dirt, amazed my body didn't even hurt. Stephen hoisted himself up, scrabbled like a mad ant and flung down beside me. We kissed like teenagers and I caught a furtive look in his eyes.