impossible. Why do you love to torture yourself with such thoughts? You’re like Doubting Thomas with your finger in your own wound!’
I shuddered again. ‘Please can we not talk about wounds. They are not a suitable topic of discussion for a romantic swim. Let’s talk about . . .’ I broke off, letting my legs float up and around him.
‘Let’s talk about . . . this,’ he suggested, pulling me tighter around him. He had a burgeoning erection.
‘Do you want to go up to the room?’ Christos gave a half-smile.
Suddenly I felt exhausted, as if the adrenaline that had flooded my body in panic over the imaginary octopus had drained me of all my desire. What was wrong with me, why did I feel so out of sorts? ‘Yes.’ I said. ‘I’m tired. I need a nap.’
When I woke up a couple of hours later I was determined to be in a better mood. Even if the whole issue of Christos moving out was still dragging at my mood, we were here now. I needed to appreciate the treat and put the hurt to bed, so to speak. We couldn’t afford any more discord.
I decided to wear my new white dress for dinner. It had a gathered peasant-style bodice and full skirt and I knew that Christos would appreciate it.
He came out of the bathroom, a white towel wrapped around his waist. ‘Ooh, be careful!’ I warned him. ‘You’re very provocative to me with that tan. That tan against the towel.’
He grinned as he came over to where I stood in front of the mirror, kissed my neck, then murmured, ‘Can I watch you do your make-up?’
I patted his backside. ‘Of course.’
Christos had a thing about watching me paint my face. I wouldn’t have called it a fetish. More a fixation. Mainly, he loved watching me apply mascara. I didn’t wear a lot of make-up in Greece, but tonight I applied a blue mascara Christos had bought me to accentuate my green eyes.
‘Why do you like watching?’ I asked him.
‘I don’t know. It’s just mesmerising.’
‘The French don’t call it
maquillage
for nothing.’
‘Ha,’ said Christos, stroking my neck again. ‘Yes. French for deception. Camouflage.’
‘Did you wear camouflage paint in the army, Christos?’ I was teasing him, but I felt odd. When did this bantering with my boyfriend become so self-conscious?
‘No, Nichi. But I wore camouflage pants. And dog tags. And boots. And no shirt. And a nice, wide, well-polished leather belt.’
‘Speaking of your belt, why didn’t you hurry up and put it on, Sergeant? This almost birthday girl wants dinner.’
That evening we dined on the hotel’s terrace and chatted about our previous trips to Greece. ‘Do you remember the first birthday I spent here, Christos? We had wine that night. You got me drunk, and then the next day we had to have lunch with your grandparents and it was so, so hot, and I was hung-over and trying to show your mum and sister I appreciated the dress they had bought me by wearing it over my jeans . . .’
‘The dress that was meant for an English autumn, not a Greek summer,’ Christos interjected.
‘Yes – exactly – and halfway through, your dad leant across the table, winked at me, and slipped me some paracetamol.’
Even now I buried my head in my hands at the memory, but Christos just laughed, and before long I was giggling, too. This felt better. This was more like the kind of dinner we were used to enjoying before the matter of the PhD had sullied things.
When we got back to our room Christos took his shirt off, then his shoes, then stepped out on to the balcony and lit a cigarette.
I stood at the other side of the glass for a moment, admiring him: his virile physique, the way he blew smoke out artfully across the water between his bounteous lips.
He caught me looking at him and grinned. ‘Are you perving on me, Nichi
mou
? Just because I’m smoking with my shirt off?’
‘Precisely because you’re smoking with your shirt off.’ I grinned back.
I went out to join him. He slung his arm around my
I shuddered again. ‘Please can we not talk about wounds. They are not a suitable topic of discussion for a romantic swim. Let’s talk about . . .’ I broke off, letting my legs float up and around him.
‘Let’s talk about . . . this,’ he suggested, pulling me tighter around him. He had a burgeoning erection.
‘Do you want to go up to the room?’ Christos gave a half-smile.
Suddenly I felt exhausted, as if the adrenaline that had flooded my body in panic over the imaginary octopus had drained me of all my desire. What was wrong with me, why did I feel so out of sorts? ‘Yes.’ I said. ‘I’m tired. I need a nap.’
When I woke up a couple of hours later I was determined to be in a better mood. Even if the whole issue of Christos moving out was still dragging at my mood, we were here now. I needed to appreciate the treat and put the hurt to bed, so to speak. We couldn’t afford any more discord.
I decided to wear my new white dress for dinner. It had a gathered peasant-style bodice and full skirt and I knew that Christos would appreciate it.
He came out of the bathroom, a white towel wrapped around his waist. ‘Ooh, be careful!’ I warned him. ‘You’re very provocative to me with that tan. That tan against the towel.’
He grinned as he came over to where I stood in front of the mirror, kissed my neck, then murmured, ‘Can I watch you do your make-up?’
I patted his backside. ‘Of course.’
Christos had a thing about watching me paint my face. I wouldn’t have called it a fetish. More a fixation. Mainly, he loved watching me apply mascara. I didn’t wear a lot of make-up in Greece, but tonight I applied a blue mascara Christos had bought me to accentuate my green eyes.
‘Why do you like watching?’ I asked him.
‘I don’t know. It’s just mesmerising.’
‘The French don’t call it
maquillage
for nothing.’
‘Ha,’ said Christos, stroking my neck again. ‘Yes. French for deception. Camouflage.’
‘Did you wear camouflage paint in the army, Christos?’ I was teasing him, but I felt odd. When did this bantering with my boyfriend become so self-conscious?
‘No, Nichi. But I wore camouflage pants. And dog tags. And boots. And no shirt. And a nice, wide, well-polished leather belt.’
‘Speaking of your belt, why didn’t you hurry up and put it on, Sergeant? This almost birthday girl wants dinner.’
That evening we dined on the hotel’s terrace and chatted about our previous trips to Greece. ‘Do you remember the first birthday I spent here, Christos? We had wine that night. You got me drunk, and then the next day we had to have lunch with your grandparents and it was so, so hot, and I was hung-over and trying to show your mum and sister I appreciated the dress they had bought me by wearing it over my jeans . . .’
‘The dress that was meant for an English autumn, not a Greek summer,’ Christos interjected.
‘Yes – exactly – and halfway through, your dad leant across the table, winked at me, and slipped me some paracetamol.’
Even now I buried my head in my hands at the memory, but Christos just laughed, and before long I was giggling, too. This felt better. This was more like the kind of dinner we were used to enjoying before the matter of the PhD had sullied things.
When we got back to our room Christos took his shirt off, then his shoes, then stepped out on to the balcony and lit a cigarette.
I stood at the other side of the glass for a moment, admiring him: his virile physique, the way he blew smoke out artfully across the water between his bounteous lips.
He caught me looking at him and grinned. ‘Are you perving on me, Nichi
mou
? Just because I’m smoking with my shirt off?’
‘Precisely because you’re smoking with your shirt off.’ I grinned back.
I went out to join him. He slung his arm around my
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