outwards, turning the revelation over in her head. So Nathan saw her topless. How long had he stood there? Why had no one said anything? The more she dwells on it, the more obvious it becomes. Nathan has only ever seen pictures of Villa Ana. The first thing he’d want to do, a boy of his age, would be to check out the pool. She picks up speed, if only to put distance between herself and the thought of him, but it slides back through her with the spray. She pictures his shoulders, the tight yoke of muscle. Child’s skin stretched over his man’s frame. She pictures his hands, the veins on his wrists; the feather of hair that trails from his navel to the trim waistline of his shorts. She swims on, curving her path back towards Deià Platja to avoid the flotsamdrifting in on the tide. She can see the hippy girl shinning that shank of rock again. The sun glazes her. She looks like a goddess – mythic and burnished. Jenn turns onto her back to watch her, tarantula-like, scuttling up the cliff face. Gentle waves lap Jenn’s earlobes, warming her clavicle, her armpits, as she lies back and looks up at the azure sky and lets the lilting tide carry her away.
The water gets choppy; colder. She flips herself over and she’s shocked at how far she’s drifted from the shore. She slides into a measured breaststroke, eyes on the distant pinprick of the beach café, the green flag billowing easily by the rocks – but her lungs have tuned in to her unease. Her windpipe is starting to tighten, her wheezing becoming more pronounced as she ploughs on. She thinks the people in the beach restaurant can probably see her, an illusion tossed among the waves. They throng the small terrace, their heads like little bobbing pearls on a necklace, but she’s too far out to shout. She hasn’t the breath to shout out anyway, and now her arms are too leaden to wave. She rolls herself onto her back again and slowly advances back to shore – listens to the squiggling sound waves of underwater thermals in her eardrums.
The water is warm again. She dips her toes down; the water is still too deep to stand. Back on the beach lies her tatty leather bag; in it, her lifeline – her iron lung. One blast and she’ll be fine. She pushes on. Rocks are visible deep below her, seaweed and anemones writhing in the crags. She lets a foot dangle down and, this time, she finds a wobbling rocky dais. She lets the water take her weight as she tries to balance on the loose stone slab, crouches low at first then, as the next wave propels her forward, she gets herself up, and onto the next big stone. There’s a slight drop, but then it’s shingle. She’s made it; she’s back. She wades slowly through the water. She’s coming in at the furthest end of the cove, but she’s still waist-deep and doesn’t have the energy to steer herself left. She lets the tide take her down the path of least resistance. She can barely lift her legs, when two firm hands take hold of her hips from behind.
‘Jenn! You okay?’
Fleetingly, the tide-swell drives his groin into her buttocks. She nods but her face must tell a different story. She turns to face him. He’s standing there, knee-deep, his eyes all over her. He smiles deferentially and offers a hand.
‘You sure?’
‘Am fine. Asthma attack,’ she manages. ‘Soon as I get my inhaler.’
He nods and bends to the task, moving in front of her and draping his arms out behind himself to pull her along. The water pushes on her thighs like a solid mass of silt. She focuses on the sea salt drying to a crust on his biceps. She can no longer feel the shell grit underfoot. Only the fingers squeezing around hers and the thumb kicking out to move across her wrist every so often keeps her anchored to the ground.
7
The sky is still low and the tips of the mountains shrouded in cloud as the car strains up the hill. Deià is deserted at this hour. As they pass through the village, Jenn nods at Jaume’s shuttered frontage.
‘We
The water gets choppy; colder. She flips herself over and she’s shocked at how far she’s drifted from the shore. She slides into a measured breaststroke, eyes on the distant pinprick of the beach café, the green flag billowing easily by the rocks – but her lungs have tuned in to her unease. Her windpipe is starting to tighten, her wheezing becoming more pronounced as she ploughs on. She thinks the people in the beach restaurant can probably see her, an illusion tossed among the waves. They throng the small terrace, their heads like little bobbing pearls on a necklace, but she’s too far out to shout. She hasn’t the breath to shout out anyway, and now her arms are too leaden to wave. She rolls herself onto her back again and slowly advances back to shore – listens to the squiggling sound waves of underwater thermals in her eardrums.
The water is warm again. She dips her toes down; the water is still too deep to stand. Back on the beach lies her tatty leather bag; in it, her lifeline – her iron lung. One blast and she’ll be fine. She pushes on. Rocks are visible deep below her, seaweed and anemones writhing in the crags. She lets a foot dangle down and, this time, she finds a wobbling rocky dais. She lets the water take her weight as she tries to balance on the loose stone slab, crouches low at first then, as the next wave propels her forward, she gets herself up, and onto the next big stone. There’s a slight drop, but then it’s shingle. She’s made it; she’s back. She wades slowly through the water. She’s coming in at the furthest end of the cove, but she’s still waist-deep and doesn’t have the energy to steer herself left. She lets the tide take her down the path of least resistance. She can barely lift her legs, when two firm hands take hold of her hips from behind.
‘Jenn! You okay?’
Fleetingly, the tide-swell drives his groin into her buttocks. She nods but her face must tell a different story. She turns to face him. He’s standing there, knee-deep, his eyes all over her. He smiles deferentially and offers a hand.
‘You sure?’
‘Am fine. Asthma attack,’ she manages. ‘Soon as I get my inhaler.’
He nods and bends to the task, moving in front of her and draping his arms out behind himself to pull her along. The water pushes on her thighs like a solid mass of silt. She focuses on the sea salt drying to a crust on his biceps. She can no longer feel the shell grit underfoot. Only the fingers squeezing around hers and the thumb kicking out to move across her wrist every so often keeps her anchored to the ground.
7
The sky is still low and the tips of the mountains shrouded in cloud as the car strains up the hill. Deià is deserted at this hour. As they pass through the village, Jenn nods at Jaume’s shuttered frontage.
‘We
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