Swimming with Sharks Read online

  Sarah is sipping her wine slowly while Amy goes on, and on. She tells Nicola about their first wedding. ‘That was a wedding to remember, wasn’t it? We had forty guests, including my parents. Sarah’s family didn’t come. Well, your daughter did – kind of …’

  ‘She did. She came to the ceremony, but not the wedding reception. Didn’t want to upset her dad.’

  ‘Supercilious prick! And he kept Matthew at home!’

  ‘That was five years ago. Things have changed since then. Matthew can make his own mind up now.’

  ‘I thought you got married last week.’

  ‘Yes, correct. Married being the key word,’ Sarah looks hard at Nicola. She either doesn’t like her or thinks her stupid. Nicola frowns, trying to take in the importance of the key word. She wishes she could leave now. She has had enough of food, of wine, of attention and of Sarah’s disapproval.

  Amy is pouring more wine. ‘Five years ago we did the civil partnership thing. It wasn’t the same, Sarah says. Me? I don’t mind. I don’t need formalities to know how I feel.’

  ‘It’s not that.’

  ‘Blah, blah …’ Amy laughs loudly. ‘Sarah can be such a prude!’

  Sarah turns to Nicola. ‘You’re not married?’ There is admonition in her tone, perhaps a touch of insecurity.

  ‘No.’

  ‘So what brings you here, if you don’t mind me asking?’

  Stupidity, Nicola thinks.

  ‘You must tell us about yourself, will you? I like your type. I like the veil of mystery. There is mystery about her, isn’t there, Sarah? Do you think?’ Amy squeezes Nicola’s hand. Sarah glares. Nicola feels like apologising. There is no mystery. There is no story. There is nothing but stupidity.

  ‘Stop pestering her, Amy.’

  ‘I’m not pestering her. Am I pestering you, Nicky?’ Her hand is still on Nicola’s hand. ‘Tell me I’m not pestering you! I’m just curious.’

  ‘You are pestering her.’

  ‘I’d … I’d better be going,’ Nicola gets up. Her legs feel like they belong to someone else. ‘I’ve never drunk so much wine in my life. I think I need to go to bed.’

  ‘You’ll sleep like a baby.’ Amy gets to her feet. She stretches her neck and kisses Nicola on the cheek. She loses her balance for a split second and leans on Nicola for support. Her breath is hot, her lips brush against Nicola’s ear. It was just meant to be a friendly and meaningless peck on the cheek, but Nicola dreads to think what Sarah will make of it. Amy whispers in her ear, ‘Don’t mind Sarah. She takes time to warm up to people. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  ‘See you,’ Sarah says louder than it is necessary. ‘Sorry about Amy.’

  ‘It’s OK.’

  ‘No, it isn’t.’

  The warm, humid night does very little to sober her up. She feels tingly all over her body. Her brain seems numbed; it swivels in her skull. Tensing her muscles to keep a steady pace has the opposite effect: she staggers. Shelled creatures scurry away from under her feet, but to Nicola it feels as if the sand shifts underfoot. Steady, girl, she tells herself. It can’t be too far to her chalet. Only a few more steps and she will shut the door behind her and hide under the table. Was Amy holding her hand? Did she kiss her? When was the last time someone kissed her? Amy’s lips were soft and moist. Nicola rubs her cheek. For God’s sake, it was only a peck on a cheek! It didn’t look like that to Sarah. And all those people watching them. They were watching … Nicola felt their eyes drill into the back of her head. Why does she care so much! They don’t know her. She’ll never see them again in her life.

  She is hurrying to the safety of her chalet, hopeful she is heading in the right direction. It has only been two days and she has already made a fool of herself twice. Once a day – what a score! Yesterday it was her manoeuvres in the bushes where she was found out by a couple of kids; tonight it was a liaison with a newlywed lesbian. Her foot catches in a stray root and she trips. A few quick, mangled steps and, just in time, just before falling down on her face, she manages to regain her balance. She looks nervously around. Did anyone witness her drunken antics? Before she can answer the question, a high-pitch squeal fills the air and a pair of flying objects emerges from the bushes. Nicola’s thin balance is lost. She tumbles to the dusty ground, clutching her chest. It’s an automatic response to her heart’s attempt at breaking out through her ribcage.

  It takes a few seconds to establish that the two flying objects are her old and well-hated tormentors: the two Russian boys, playing fighter planes with their arms spread out like wings and their throats expelling squeals of menace. Even they are momentarily taken aback by their own success at bringing Nicola down to her knees. They stare at her for a while, furtive at first, then bursting into peals of laughter. From the corner of her eye she can see the stocky figure of their father behind the trees dimly lit by the soft light from his chalet. He is standing on the deck, doing nothing to help. The blinking scoundrels are having a field day with Nicola. They are like the biblical locusts – they won’t go away until she is torn to shreds. They’re laughing their little hearts out, slapping themselves on the thighs, the rah-tah-tah of their laughter like a machine gun.

  Nicola hides her face in her hands and bursts into tears. She doesn’t care how old she is and how young they are. She is humiliated. She wants to go home. She can’t move. She is stuck on the ground, her legs are useless and her eyes shut tight. She doesn’t want to see her own disgrace.

  The boys stop laughing. Someone has stopped them. A male voice is shouting at them in Russian. She can tell it is in Russian, but her mind is too frayed to decipher a single word of what the man is saying to them. All that matters is that they have stopped laughing and are running away. She thinks it is the boys’ father. She looks up towards him, but he is silent. Angrily, he takes a few steps towards the path, towards where the voice is coming from, but halts in his tracks. The fury in his face fades away. He cocks his head – he is intrigued. Stealthily he steps behind a tree. With a deep and still focus, he is watching the man who scolded his kids but he does nothing to confront him. Meanwhile, that man approaches Nicola. He leans over her, takes her by the elbows, helps her up.

  ‘Are you all right? Can you walk?’

  It is Count Karenin.

  He takes her to her chalet. He knows exactly where she is staying. ‘We are neighbours,’ he tells her. ‘I am next door, on that side,’ he points to the left. ‘We came two days ago, you arrived last night. We will be neighbours for a few days, I hope.’

  ‘Oh dear! I tried to be as quiet as a mouse, but with the bathroom outside … Did I wake you up?’

  ‘No, you didn’t wake me,’ he flashes his teeth at her in a wide grin. ‘You don’t remember, do you?’

  Nicola fears she has experienced some kind of blackout. What is she supposed to remember?

  ‘You sort of dropped in my lap the day you arrived.’ He is laughing.

  Nicola’s eyes round in horror. ‘It wasn’t you, was it?’

  ‘I’m afraid it was.’

  ‘I’m so sorry …’

  ‘Why? It was the highlight of my day!’ He stretches his hand out to her. ‘You’ve got the key?’

  She hands over the key without hesitation. Inside, he sits on her bed while she is standing hapless and alien in the middle of the room. ‘Those shoes, they are uncomfortable? Hot? Are they?’ he points to her trainers. Nicola gawps at her feet and views them with disbelief. Do they really belong to her? She is an ugly duckling, which wouldn’t be that bad except that she has little hope of turning into a beautiful swan. A bit too late.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she is speaking to her feet, though she means it for Count Karenin. She is sorry he had to witness her humiliation – twice! She is sorry he had to come to her rescue, sorry she is wearing inappropriate footwear. ‘I’m so sorry!’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘I mean … thank you.’

  ‘Those boys deserve a smack on the ear. I’ve been keeping an eye on th
em – and on you since the first night we met … I saw them follow you from the restaurant. I knew they were up to no good.’ His broad, singing accent aside, his English is perfect. ‘They must have scared you witless. Sit down, they’re gone.’ He pats the side of the bed to his right. It is an innocent gesture though to Nicola the thought of the man’s close proximity is both unsettling and exhilarating. She can’t make up her mind whether to run or to take those dreadful trainers off and join the man on the bed. This is the man she named Karenin! Close up and personal he looks even stronger and more assertive than from a distance. His weight has made a dent in the bed; the white sheets have crumbled like broken icing. She does need to sit down. She needs to sit down desperately, before her legs go to jelly.

  ‘Drink?’ He is up heading for the fridge as soon as she lowers herself next to him. Clearly he doesn’t have any untoward intentions. Nicola is disappointed and, at the same time, relieved. She nods. Yes, please, she wants to say, Greyhound with ice. But she says nothing and the nod gets her a glass of plain water.

  He watches her as she drinks greedily. Smiles. ‘Well, I would take off those shoes if I were you.’

  Nicola kicks off one of her trainers. Wriggles her toes.

  ‘I had better go,’ he says. ‘Shout if you need anything. I am just over the wall.’

  ‘Thank you again.’ She passes an empty glass back to him. He takes it, puts it on the table. ‘May I have another glass, before you go?’ She doesn’t want to be left alone. Not by him. His presence reassures her. She needs plenty of reassurance. She needs a man’s hands to hold her together.

  She is drinking the second glass as slowly as she possibly can. He sits next to her. He smells of aftershave. She could never tell the brand. The scent is exotic and manly.

  ‘How about the other shoe?’ He is smiling again. It’s a boyish smile, like there is a prank somewhere behind it. She would’ve never suspected a Russian man to be so childlike. Carefree. She has always thought them somewhat severe.

  ‘I don’t know why I’m telling you this, but I don’t want you to go. It’s a very wrong thing of me to say, but –’ She starts crying. The tears haven’t really gone away. They have been welling up ever since she arrived here.

  He puts his arms around her. ‘Don’t cry. I can stay for a bit if that makes you feel better. Don’t worry about those boys – they won’t come near you. They know I’m watching over you and I’m just that much bigger than them!’ His smile is wide and open, laughter lines shoot out like fireworks. Nicola sniffles and presses herself hard against his chest. She clings on to him, her fingers digging into his back. She is too strung up to remember who kisses whom first, but they are kissing, more hunger on her part than his. She isn’t even surprised that she knows how to kiss a man. Everything flows naturally; everything that happens seems preordained. His hand slides under her dress and parts her thighs. His fingers are cold and moist from the glass of iced water he took out of her hand and put on the floor by the bed. She wants to be closer to him, skin on skin. She eases herself out of her dress. No shame. No propriety. No hesitation. She is drunk. She does not know what she is doing.

  Day Three

  The morning finds Nicola’s nakedness wrapped up in the sheets. Her heart is thumping in her temples. It’s the hangover. She crawls out of bed in search of water. On her way to the fridge, she knocks over a glass – the glass. Karenin put it there last night after he had taken it out of her hand and before they made love. She picks the glass up and examines it. It is real. It is here. It must have happened.

  She uses the same glass to quench her raging thirst. As she is drinking, she catches herself in the mirror. It is the upper part of her body, from the point where her hips narrow into her waist and open up towards her breasts underlined with sinuous curves that travel to her upper arms. She looks herself in the eye. There is something settled and satisfied in her face, something she hasn’t seen before. She smiles at herself, raises her glass and says, ‘Good morning, Miss Eagles. And how are we today?’

  ‘Couldn’t be better,’ she replies. ‘Haven’t been better. Last night I had sex with a stranger. Well … I had sex, full stop.’ She drinks to it.

  She feels her inner thighs. They are sticky; it could be sweat, it could be something else. There is also dried blood. There are blood stains on the bed sheets, too – she has only just noticed. It is her blood. She is no longer a forty-year-old virgin. She is a woman.

  She pulls the sheet off the bed, rolls it up and hides it in the wardrobe. Nobody needs to see it, nobody needs to know. It is her sweet secret. Nicola doesn’t see that there is blood on the other sheets too, a couple of small patches that soaked through in the night.

  In her newly acquired boldness, she pulls up the curtains while still stark naked. Why should she care? She is a worldly woman, experienced in the arcane arts of sex, drugs and rock ’n’ roll.

  The ocean is tranquil, the sky bears no clouds. A figure is wading out of the water: tall, muscular, familiar. It’s him: Karenin! Nicola’s heart misses a beat. To her surprise she discovers that it is not just a manner of speech; her heart truly stumbles over itself, misses a beat.

  Her camera-phone must be somewhere. She fumbles through her bottomless beach bag. There! She is holding it in her hand in triumph. Before it all becomes a myth, a figment of an old spinster’s imagination, she will capture him on camera. She will have proof that it has all really happened.

  By the time she gets back to the window, he is already crossing the strip of sandy beach, heading for his chalet next door. Didn’t he say he was her neighbour? Nicola zooms on him and presses the button. She has him! He stops, looks to one side – she takes another picture. After that it is too late; he is too close not to notice her naked in the door. She scampers to her laptop. Her hands are shaking as she thrusts the memory card into her laptop and uploads her two most precious photographs onto her Facebook wall. With her trembling fingers she can only manage a two-word caption: Count Karenin.

  Sitting in front of her laptop, she is gazing at the photos. This is the man I made love to last night, she wants to add. I don’t even know his real name, but I am head over heels in love with him.

  She does not type any such thing, but she is thinking it. Her hands are trembling. Oh my God, my God! What have I done! A married man … How incredibly bad! How amazing! Oh my God! I seduced him. I begged him to stay. What will he think of me? What will his wife think of it? He won’t tell her … Surely … Oh my God! Her thoughts are as shaky as her hands. Though she should worry – ought to be ashamed of herself – she is walking on air. And her hands shake because of the high. The thrill of her crime.

  She cannot go to breakfast with blood caked on her thighs and the smell of sex on her skin, though if she could she would carry it around like a badge of honour. Regrettably, she has to wash. She ventures into her outdoor bathroom. It feels like the heat hasn’t ebbed in the night. It assaults her with vengeance. Before she turns on the shower, she hears voices: a man and a woman.

  ‘Mishka, gatovyi?’ Nicola translates in her head: Are you ready, Mishka?

  ‘Niet, niey gatovyi, Matushka. Ya budu bystrah. Uhadee.’ No, Mum. I’ll be quick. Go without me.

  Could this be Karenin? Nicola is almost sure she recognises his voice, but maybe she just wishes it was his voice. Did he call the woman matushka? Mother? Not a wife after all? A wave of relief washes over Nicola. And it washes away her guilt. Not that she has been feeling particularly guilty; not that she gave a second thought to the man’s wife when they made love last night … But it would be nice if he wasn’t married to that woman, or to any other woman on this planet.

  Nicola has to make sure. She can hear him whistling a plaintive little tune, just there over the high wall that separates their bathrooms. A towel drier is attached to the wall on her side. It looks robust. Nicola must see for herself if her Russian neighbour is indeed the man she gave herself to last night – at the drop of a hat – for a glass of wate
r. She starts climbing the frame, reaches out to the top of the wall to pull herself just that little bit higher, so she will be able to peek over to the other side. Something gives, her foot or the frame. Nicola screams as she plummets to the ground.

  His face hovers over hers, only inches away. He smiles his mischievous boyish smile when she frowns at him, trying to focus her vision. The wrinkles around his eyes are deep, but benevolent. The smile deepens them. He has short stubble, only a day old, greying. His eyes are pale. His hair falls over his face, still wet from his morning swim.

  ‘What happened? You fainted?’

  Nicola nods. What is she supposed to say? That she fell from her makeshift ladder while spying on him?

  ‘You hit your head. Nasty bruise. Here, put it over your head.’ He gives her a wet towel. It’s pleasantly cold.

  ‘Thank you. You saved me again.’

  ‘I carried you to bed, I hope you don’t mind. You didn’t have any clothes on.’

  ‘I don’t mind anything.’ Nicola has never been this bold. That’s what love does to you, she ponders: it emboldens you.

  ‘Good. I think that’s good,’ he looks relieved. ‘Is there anything else I can do for you? Now that I am in the habit –’ His eyes rest on the red blotches of blood on the sheets. ‘Are you bleeding? Have you cut yourself?’

  ‘No. That’s from last night.’

  ‘I haven’t hurt you, have I?’

  ‘Oh no! Not at all. It’s a …’ What does she call it? What does she say now? She has no name for it.

  ‘Is it your period?’

  ‘No. Yes! I mean, yes!’

  His eyes sweep over her body and stop on her thighs where the blood has dried. ‘You’re not bleeding now …’ He knows. Something changes in his face. He touches her thigh gently, tenderly. ‘It is not your period.’

  Nicola is a rubbish liar so she doesn’t try. She nods, puts her hand on his and pushes it into her thigh, manoeuvres it higher and presses it in to stop the throbbing. ‘No, it isn’t.’ She should be feeling exposed and powerless, here with a man ogling her nakedness and demanding most intimate confessions, but she feels liberated. Her only anxiety is about him leaving her. Once again she wants him to stay. ‘Is someone waiting for you … in your room? Next door?’