How to Kill Men and Get Away With It(49)

Our butler brings our evening meal to our suite at 7pm but the vegan memo obviously didn’t get as far as the kitchen. The trolley he wheels in is stuffed with seafood – giant prawns with spidery-legs and eyes that look like tiny black beads, amputated crab and lobster limbs, miniature octopus corpses. It was an ocean massacre on a bed of ice shavings. I snap a quick shot of the gore with my phone and post it to Insta.

‘Death in Paradise: Veganism has yet to reach the Greek isles #MurderInMykynos #SaveOurSeas #Vegan #SoNotVegan’

Tor laughs at my horrified face and starts singing ‘Like a Vegan’, her hilarious version of the Madonna classic. She begins to tuck into the aquatic graveyard while I attempt to call reception and explain my predicament. Eventually the butler arrives again, apologising profusely in Greek and delivering some salad, olives, feta (for goodness sake), bread and oil. I’ve got so used to the UK having vegan menus pretty much everywhere now that I’m quite disappointed. I feel my mood begin to dip again and pour myself some wine to put the brakes on it.

‘I wish I didn’t love eating animals so much,’ Tor says as she rips the head off a prawn before pulling its legs and shell off. ‘You’re a much better person than me, caring about life so much. Plus it keeps you skinny as fuck.’

The various eating disorders of our friendship group are unspoken not-very-secret secrets. Tor and I both know that in about twenty minutes, she will excuse herself and go to the bathroom where she’ll use the end of her toothbrush to make herself puke all this into the loo. I’ve even known her to purposely drink tap water abroad to make herself throw up more. Then there’s Hen who is very much a signed-up member of the Coke Diet Break, which is kind of like the Diet Coke Break but with Class As. She claims that nothing in the world suppresses the appetite like some good old coke of cane. Shame it also suppresses emotional stability and the ability not to be a total grumpy bitch. Maisie pays through the nose – no actual pun intended here – to have a private doctor come and give her an injection every two weeks, which apparently makes her not want to eat. Which is wonderful and everything, apart from the fact the side effects include the smelliest, eggiest belches I’ve ever had the misfortune to be around, and spontaneous projectile vomiting. But over the years I’ve seen them try everything from eating food with baby cutlery to surviving on nothing apart from meat and cream.

‘I’m not a vegan for vanity, Tor,’ I tell her for the gazillionth time. ‘I’ve seen what happens to animals when they’re killed for food. It’s not the sort of thing that makes you crave a juicy burger after a night out, trust me.’

‘Yeah, but this stuff isn’t cute little baa-baa sheep.’ She’s drunk already. ‘Like who even cares if I do this?’ She rips the head off another shrimp.

‘Tor, stop it now. Please.’

She pouts at me, a little girl reprimanded. ‘I’m sorry. Anyway, what do you want to do tonight? Shall we go out for a drink? Or shall we get an in-room spa treatment?’

‘I quite like the idea of a massage and a movie?’ I say as I throw a tablecloth over the seafood festival of the dead and wheel it outside to be collected. By the time I get back in, Tor has disappeared into the en suite of her room and I’m sure I can hear faint gagging sounds.

Half an hour later, we’re lying facedown on some massage beds that have magically appeared from some cupboard in the suite. Two beautiful Greek women are rubbing oils into us. It’s bliss and I can feel every bit of the stalker, Charlie and the police being kneaded out of me. Tor has fallen asleep and her mouth is hanging half open as she snores gently. I’m overcome with a surge of affection for her. No matter what other shit is going on in my life, I know I can count on her, Hen and Maisie. They’re my constants. The family I was able to choose.

The next morning, the kitchen more than makes up for the previous night’s horror show with a fresh fruit platter that arrives along with ground coffee, an array of milk substitutes and a selection of breads.

Tor is almost as happy as me. ‘This is amazing,’ she says, as she dollops butter and cheese on her bread. ‘I can’t believe we slept in so late,’ she adds between mouthfuls. ‘I think I’m jet-lagged.’

‘You know there’s only a two-hour time difference, right?’

She laughs and shrugs my words off. ‘If I’m saying I’m jet-lagged, I’m jet-lagged, okay?’

‘Okay.’

We munch away in the kind of silence you can comfortably have only with someone you’ve known for years.

‘What shall we do today?’ Tor asks after her third coffee. ‘Do you actually want to do tourist stuff or just chill?’

‘I’m happy just to chill,’ I say. ‘I mean it doesn’t really get much better than this, does it?’

We both stare at the view, the floating beds that look out over that gorgeous sea, the hazy horizon that could very well be the edge of the world.

‘Great spot for some Insta shots too,’ Tor says.

We spend the day lolling around on the pool beds, swimming, tanning and draining the minibar. At lunchtime the butler wheels in an array of cold cuts of meat, which makes Tor squeal, hummus, dolmades, salads that are greener and redder than I can ever remember British produce being, a gorgeous rice pilaf, and handmade Greek pitta breads with a fava bean spread. We wash it down with a pomegranate sangria, which is possibly the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted in my life.