ONE DAY(30)

In the late afternoon they returned to the room, tired and sticky and tingling from the sun, and there it was again: the bed. They stepped around it and walked out onto the balcony that overlooked the sea, hazy now as the sky shaded from blue into the pink of the evening.

‘So. Who wants first shower?’

‘You go ahead. I’m going to sit out here and read.’

She lay on the faded sun-lounger in the evening shade, listening to the sound of the running water and trying to concentrate on the tiny typeface of her Russian novel, which seemed to be getting smaller with each page. She stood suddenly and crossed to the small fridge that they’d filled with water and beer, took a can and noticed that the bathroom door had swung open.

There was no shower curtain, and she could see Dexter standing side on beneath the cold water, eyes closed against the spray, head back, arms raised. She noticed his shoulder blades, the long brown back, the two hollows at the base of his spine above the small white bottom. But oh God, he was turning now, and the can of beer slipped through her hand and exploded, fizzing and foaming, propelling itself noisily around the floor. She threw a towel over it as if capturing some wild rodent, then looked up to see Dexter, her platonic friend, naked except for his clothes held loosely in front of him. ‘Slipped out of my hand!’ she said, stamping the beer foam into the towel and thinking eight more days and nights of this and I will self-combust.

Then it was her turn to shower. She closed the door, washed the beer from her hands then contorted herself as she struggled to undress in the tiny, humid bathroom that still smelt of his aftershave.

Rule Four required that Dexter go and stand on the balcony while she dried herself and got dressed but after some experimentation he found that if he kept his sunglasses on and turned his head just so, he could see her reflection in the glass door as she struggled to rub lotion onto the low parabola of her newly tanned back. He watched the wriggle of her hips as she pulled on her underwear, the concave curve of her back and arch of shoulder blades as she fastened her bra, the raised arms and the blue summer dress coming down like a curtain.

She joined him on the balcony.

‘Maybe we should just stay here,’ he said. ‘Instead of island-hopping, hang out here for a week, then back to Rhodes then home.’

She smiled. ‘Okay. Maybe.’

‘Don’t think you’d get bored?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Happy then?’

‘Well my face feels like a grilled tomato, but apart from that—’

‘Let me see.’

Closing her eyes she turned towards him and lifted her chin, her hair still wet and combed back off her face, which was shiny and scrubbed clean. It was Emma, but all new. She glowed, and he thought of the words sun-kissed, then thought kiss her, take hold of her face and kiss her.

She opened her eyes suddenly. ‘What now?’ she said.

‘Whatever you want.’

‘Game of Scrabble?’

‘I have my limits.’

‘Okay, how about dinner. Apparently they have this thing called Greek Salad.’

The restaurants in the small town were remarkable for being all identical. The air hung smoky with burning lamb, and they sat in a quiet place at the end of the harbour where the crescent of the beach began and drank wine that tasted of pine.

‘Christmas trees,’ said Dexter.

‘Disinfectant,’ said Emma.

Music played from speakers concealed in the plastic vines, Madonna’s ‘Get into the Groove’ performed on the zither. They ate stale bread rolls, burnt lamb, salad soused in acetic acid, all of which tasted just fine. After a while even the wine became delicious, like some interesting mouthwash, and soon Emma felt ready to break Rule Two. No flirting.

She had never been a proficient flirt. Her spasms of kittenish behaviour were graceless and inept, like normal conversation on roller skates. But the combination of the retsina and sun made Emma feel sentimental and light-headed. She reached for her roller skates.

‘I’ve got an idea.’

‘Go on.’

‘Well if we’re going to stay here for eight days we’re going to run out of things to talk about, right?’

‘Not necessarily.’

‘But to be on the safe side.’ She leant forward, put her hand on his wrist. ‘I think we should tell each other something that the other person doesn’t know.’

‘What, like a secret?’

‘Exactly, a secret, something surprising, one a night every night for the rest of the holiday.’

‘Sort of like spin-the-bottle?’ His eyes widened. Dexter considered himself a world-class spin-the-bottle player. ‘Okay. You first.’

‘No, you first.’

‘Why me first?’

‘You’ve got more to choose from.’

And it was true, he had an almost bottomless supply of secrets. He could tell her that he’d watched her getting dressed that night, or that he’d left the bathroom door open on purpose when he showered. He could tell her that he’d smoked heroin with Naomi, or that just before Christmas he’d had fast, unhappy sex with Emma’s flatmate Tilly Killick; a foot massage that had spun horribly out of control while Emma was at Woolworths buying fairy lights for the tree. But perhaps it would be better to go for something that didn’t reveal him as shallow or seedy, duplicitous or conceited.