Swimming with Sharks Page 3

  She ventures in.

  It feels awkward to sit on the toilet without solid walls to protect her. She can only hope that flushing won’t wake up the neighbours. The water from the cold tap is colder than the air. She will be having cold showers – after dark, only after dark. Now is a good time. First, the razor.

  The hairs fall off, twirl around the plug and travel down, out of sight, carried by the lukewarm water from the shower’s cold tap. She has to sit down and spread her legs wide to reach deep between the folds and crevices of her most intimate areas, places she does not visit often. It is a painstaking exercise, but at last all is smooth and much, much cooler. It may be a bit decadent, but she moisturises the whole area with her face cream. That is all she has. It is a strange feeling – but not unpleasant – to touch that very soft skin, hairless and softer than her fingertips. It responds to the touch. It tingles. Nicola shudders.

  She looks into the full body-length mirror on the bathroom wall. Her nakedness seems even more indecent for the lack of hair. She washes her hands again, splashes water on her face and goes back into her room, back into the sobering coolness.

  In her pyjamas, she feels more in control. It is business as usual. Nicola takes out her laptop and installs it on the table, next to the TV. She keys in the wireless code the receptionist scribbled down on the map he gave her. Facebook remembers her password even in this distant corner of the world. She skims through her friends’ pages, but has no energy to message anyone individually. She goes to her own page and writes: Arrived on Itsouru. It is hot – hot as hell!

  She shuts down the computer and rolls under the thin sheets. She is out within seconds.

  Day Two

  The ebb and flow of sleep comes to a standstill: she is awake. The air conditioning is blowing full blast, but she is perspiring sticky sweat. She rolls from the bed, looks at the time. It is 10.08 a.m. She has overslept. Missed breakfast.

  A residue of dreams weighs on her eyelids. Nicola has not dreamt in years. She is too disciplined to allow dreams to infiltrate her conscience. Dreams could easily corrupt her mind. She cannot let that happen so she always gets up at 6 a.m.; she doesn’t need an alarm clock. She ups and goes. Not today. It is the first time since she was a teenager that she has missed her waking hour. It must be due to the different time zone and her journey halfway around the globe. Her body is confused; her mind, more so. Dreams have sneaked in. They creep back into her head: an image of an enormous shell with smooth curvy tunnels polished by the constant flow of whispering water. Nicola slips and slides down a twisting canal: round and down she whizzes – a downward spiral. Echoes bounce from the walls. There is an exit at the narrow far end. She sees a bright light, but she is afraid to come out. She tries to cling onto the smooth walls, but her fingers find nothing to hold on to; she gathers speed – down, down. The humming of flowing water perforates her ears. It transforms into the whizz of a rotating fan. It is right above her head and it is the first thing she sees when she opens her eyes. The fan is unstoppable. The swishing noise gets to her. It’s a form of Chinese torture – she turns it off. It quietens down, its pulse slowing until the blade halts and remains still. Heat pours into the room. It is suffocating. She pours a glass of water, and gulps it down in one go. She is hungry; raids the mini-bar. A bag of nuts will have to do. She cannot bring herself to start the day on a chocolate bar. She could go out, find a bar and buy a sandwich – except she can’t. She simply cannot open the front door and step out; she cannot leave the safety of this room. She might get lost again if she does.

  Nicola unpacks her suitcase. Books find their way to the table. She lines them up in a straight row, propping one against the other. Ambitiously, she brought Anna Karenina, in Russian. She will start with that. She stretches on a settee, piles up cushions under her back, feet on a glass coffee-table, nuts in the cup of her hand. She does not have to go out at all. She can spend the entire seven days in her room, reading, sleeping and eating nuts and chocolates.

  She wakes up an hour later, a dribble of saliva tickling her neck. Her arm is folded awkwardly under her ribs, her body folded in half like a penknife, her cheek resting on a remote control. She must have pressed the power button, for the TV is on. Exchange rates flash at the bottom of the screen; a weather presenter is talking about the scorching temperature of 38°C as if it were something ordinary. Perhaps it is.

  She drinks more water – what’s left in the bottle. She is thirsty. She will have to get out from time to time, if only to get more water and food. Her neck aches. She must have slept awkwardly. Swaying her head from side to side makes it worse. She gets up, looks in a mirror. She has the pattern of the keypad from the remote control etched on her left cheek. Her eyes are puffy. She needs air.

  When she opens the curtains she is instantly compelled to open the door, too. The world behind the glass cannot possibly be malignant: it is calm and blue, its tranquillity complimented by the warmth of yellow sand. She steps outside.

  The heat surprises her once again. It sits on her shoulders, her face and her back. It is omnipresent. Her muscles go flaccid. The sun – which does not occupy a clear spot but is spread thinly across the sky as if someone has tried to bleach it out – dazzles her. Its rays bounce off the sand crystals and fly into Nicola’s eyes. She puts her hand to her brow and scans the horizon.

  The sublime blueness is broken in a few places: a stilted hut with a rowing boat moored to it; a long pier with a succession of thatched chalets reaching into the ocean; a palm tree leaning towards the water like a teenage girl’s long neck. A couple of white yachts are motionless in the far distance. Everything is true to form – picture perfect. She saw many photographs in glossy brochures which resembled this scene, but this is better. This is real. She stands on the deck of her chalet and takes it all in. This will be the best holiday ever.

  The ocean licks the land, and retreats; and comes back for more. It is like a children’s story book: full of goodness and sunshine. Nicola steps down onto the burning hot sand and jogs towards the water. Her feet sink in. She feels the warm and moist tongue of the sea on her soles. She sees a fish pass by, just a few steps away. You could reach out and pull that fish out with your bare hands, but who would do such a thing?

  Nicola has taken hundreds of photographs: panoramic landscapes but also small things – the broken glass of vacated shells strewn under the pier; a root that has abandoned the ground and climbed up the invisible ladder of air to freeze into a coil, like a snake; a clay pot with a ladle, dry and cracked, wood turning to white bone.

  She intended to circumnavigate the entire island, but only managed to get to the other end, the end where the Reception hut is, and the bar with a palm tree impersonating Christmas. The place looks less intimidating in broad daylight. Guests camp on deckchairs, surrounded by beach towels, water bottles, sun creams, iPads, sandals, baseball caps and the rich tapestry of summer dresses rippling out of straw totes. An air of lazy indifference hangs low and heavy.

  Nicola finds a table where she unpacks the contents of her canvas bag: her phone, towel and Anna Karenina, in Russian. A waiter (Boy-skipper’s first cousin, no doubt) has materialised in front of her with a tray propped lightly on the fingertips of his right hand, held above shoulder height. He is standing between Nicola and the sun, his silhouette a black hole in the daylight.

  ‘Good morning. Would madam wish for a drink?’

  Nicola, indeed, wishes for a drink – a whole two-litre bottleful of water, please. With ice – a glass full of ice. She drinks greedily when the water arrives; crushes ice cubes between her teeth and presses the misted glass against her chest. She rolls it from shoulder to shoulder, over the bumps of her breasts; droplets of water mix with her sweat.

  She tries to read, but her brain is cooked. She leaves Anna Karenina on the table and ventures into the pool. She does twenty lengths; her body unfolds from the compact ball of tension it has been rolled into during her journey to the island. She wades into the spa c
orner of the pool for a rest. She won’t leave the pool – not yet. It is cool and refreshing.

  A child dives in; water splashes. It is an instinct for Nicola to raise her arm protectively over her head. She doesn’t mind the water. It is the noise that she objects to, and the taunting laughter. ‘Petya, Petya, smatriy!’ Look, Petya! The diver rolls forward and soon his feet wriggle upside down. Petya grabs hold of the feet; he is preventing his friend from coming back to the surface. There is a scuffle; water boils. At last, the diver emerges, his mouth gasping for air. ‘Nu, pagadi!’ Just you wait! He leaps at Petya. They wrestle like a pair of eels. Petya escapes and swims to the other side of the pool. There they make up without words: just a pat on the back, a nudge in the ribs, more laughs. They are leaning on the wall of the pool, panting – staring at Nicola. They are both tanned to a crisp: deep brown. They must have been on the island for weeks. They act as if they own it.

  She is sure they are staring at her. If she recognised those two, then they remembered her too. From last night. Are they whispering? Laughter: rah-tah-tah, rah-tah-tah … They laugh like circus seals, never taking their eyes off Nicola. Her stomach sinks. What if they tell on her? They will tell their parents that she has been spying on them. Which she wasn’t, but no one will believe her. You have to be a freak to go on a honeymoon alone. She is a freak!

  ‘They’re such a nuisance.’ A young woman is sitting on the underwater spa shelf opposite her. Nicola has not noticed her come. Her lean tanned arms are resting on the side of the pool, over her head. She is wearing sunglasses – in the water. Judging by her toned arms and tight skin she cannot be more than thirty. Her hair is blonde and cropped short. She resembles a matchstick.

  ‘Do you mean those boys?’

  ‘Yes. This island’s not a place for kids. It’s a retreat. They disturb the peace.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘I do – and so do you, going by your expression,’ the woman chuckles.

  ‘My expression?’

  ‘You’re scowling.’

  ‘Good God, is it that obvious?’

  The woman nods. ‘Afraid so.’

  And this is where Nicola has been so many times before – she doesn’t know what to say next. This is where most of her conversations end, when she hurries to say that she must be going somewhere extremely important, she’ll see you later (or, preferably, never), cheerio, she is gone. When did it start, her being afraid of company? When did she become socially awkward? Earlier than she can remember. As a little girl she used to crawl under the kitchen table at night, the white tablecloth hiding her from view, and listen to adults’ conversations without them knowing she was there. She didn’t understand any of it, she just liked the droning of their suppressed voices, the comforting sensation of their closeness. If discovered, she would cry and be sent to her room, and would slump with her ear to the door to listen some more, until, so comforted, she would close her eyes and slide into sleep. They would find her in the morning, the weight of her small body blocking the door, the corner of her blanket in her mouth, chewed like a pig’s ear.

  She’s been caught again. She looks away from the chatty woman. ‘They’re just kids,’ she says. She has to chill. She is on holiday, basking in the sun, soaking in a pool; free of worries.

  The Russian boys are climbing out of the pool. They have forgotten about her. They run back to their parents, their feet wet flippers, water dripping from their chins and noses. They are screaming for ice cream. Their father is a larger version of them: compact like a body builder, with arms and legs puffed up and shiny. He has the round, chubby face of a boy, but he must be in his mid-forties. There is something Asiatic about him. His wife, on the other hand, is blonde and petite, her stomach flat and sunken between her hips. She doesn’t look much older than the boys. Perhaps she is not their mother, or perhaps she is just good for her age.

  ‘They’re gone.’

  Nicola says it just to break the silence, just to say something. The chatty woman smiles at her and raises her glass in mock salute. She is not afraid of them – they are only kids. But they bother Nicola. They’ve got under her skin. If she could make a second entry onto this island, she would do it differently: she would not be caught with her knickers down by a pair of freckled brats.

  ‘Do you want a drink?’ The woman is asking her while at the same time waving to the smiling waiter. Boy-skipper has a large family – to Nicola, the waiter is yet another clone of him. She has to start paying more attention to people’s faces. ‘Can we have two cocktails, Greyhound for me with plenty of ice, and you?’

  Nicola cannot pretend she knows the names, never mind contents, of any of those tropical beverages. ‘Just water, thanks.’

  The woman pulls a sympathetic face. ‘You’ve just arrived.’

  ‘Easy to tell?’

  ‘Yes. You’re white as a lily.’

  ‘Always,’ Nicola relaxes. ‘You, on the other hand, you’ve got a beautiful tan.’

  ‘Thanks. I like it here, would come here every year if I could. This is my second time – my second honeymoon.’

  ‘Second? Wow! Congratulations?’ Nicola does not know if that is the right thing to say to a serial honeymooner.

  ‘You’re alone, couldn’t help noticing. Is your … someone joining you?’ This is a sharp and unwelcome turn in the conversation. The woman has strayed into the joys of spinsterhood and loneliness, and the stupidity of people who suddenly come into money and choose to spend it unwisely by coming to places where they have no business being. Nicola feels ashamed: of herself, of being alone and of her persistent blushing. She hopes that the sun in her face will somehow belie the burning cheeks and give her a better excuse for blushing than a teenage girl’s embarrassment. ‘No. I just felt like coming here. Alone. My great-aunt died and left me …’ She has to wonder how that’s relevant.

  ‘Ah … I see … You must join us. If you feel like company, that is.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to intrude.’

  ‘Don’t worry, you wouldn’t. We’ve been together for years, only got married last week – again!’ the woman chuckles. ‘We’re bored to our back teeth with just each other. It’d be nice to make friends with new, interesting people, like you.’

  Nicola smiles. Actually, why not? It is a woman – not a man – who is making the offer. It’s innocent. She cannot be accused of stealing someone’s husband. She is just making a friend – a girl friend. ‘Well, thanks. That’s really nice of you. I might take you up on the offer.’

  ‘Please do.’ The woman stands up. She is perfectly formed, if slight. ‘Shall we go for a swim? We’d better take our chances before the Russians are back. They virtually take over this pool, like it’s theirs.’

  ‘It’s odd. I never expected to see so many Russians in one place …’

  ‘In this sort of place, you mean? Oh yeah, they’re the ones with money, aren’t they? Look there.’ She points towards the horizon where a couple of luxury yachts are bobbing on the tide. ‘They come by sea. Come and go as they please.’

  ‘Nice!’ Nicola tries to sound dismissive. It should make her appear worldly, she hopes, even though she is just an awe-inspired little mouse with her mouth gaping and her knickers in a twist.

  ‘So, about that swim?’ The woman pulls the elastic of her bikini bottom and re-arranges it on her narrow hips.

  ‘Yeah, sure!’

  ‘I’m Amy!’ She plunges into the pool. Nicola laughs when water droplets splatter on her head and face. She dives in and swims after her, trying to catch up. Things are looking up – she’s made a friend. She wonders if they live far away from each other in England. Maybe they could meet up from time to time for a coffee. Maybe they could visit each other. It’d be nice to keep in touch.

  Another woman is standing on the edge of the pool, her hands on her hips. She is wearing a funny straw hat with frayed rim that looks too small for her, and no sunglasses. She looks like a mother of five: round, earthy. ‘Amy, come on, let’
s go!’ She is looking hard at Nicola though she is speaking to Amy.

  Amy pops out of water like a buoy. ‘You’re not coming in?’

  Mother-of-Five shakes her head and points to her wrist. ‘Lunchtime!’

  Amy climbs out. ‘This is Nicola,’ she tells her companion.

  ‘Hi, Nicola,’ the other’s tone is dry. ‘Nice to meet you. I’m Sarah.’

  Nicola squints and hopes the squint can pass for a smile.

  ‘We got chatting.’ Amy says.

  ‘Great. Let’s go.’

  Amy springs out of the pool and lets Sarah throw a protective towel over her shoulders. They walk away; Amy waves back to Nicola, the towel sliding off her back. ‘See you later!’

  Nicola waves back and sinks into the pool. She has obviously come between two gay women. She would have to laugh if it weren’t so embarrassing. It was too good to be true: just a friendly chat with a fellow holidaymaker. They were really getting on. Or was Amy chatting her up? Did she actually find Nicola attractive? That would be the day!

  Nicola is back at her table now, wrapped in her beach towel like a chrysalis, pondering her potential as a lesbian. Perhaps that is what she is. This would explain why she has never succeeded at normal heterosexual relationships. Maybe it is genetic – maybe Great-aunt Eunice was gay; that’s why she never married. In her time, one didn’t reveal such leanings to the world, not if one happened to be a school headmistress. But Nicola … What’s to stop her?

  She waves at the waiter with the same frivolous wriggling of fingers as Amy did a few moments ago. He notices her, grins and instantly wonders what he can get for her.

  ‘Greyhound, please. Lots of ice.’

  There is a glint in Nicola’s eye. Thank God no one here knows her.