they’d left the pair of them safely locked away.
He arrives and taps lightly three
times with the tip of the key. He pauses for a couple of seconds before
letting himself in. The door admits into a short hallway with the
bathroom on the right, open wardrobes and shelves on the left; beyond is the
spacious main room – dominated on the right by their king-sized bed,
which faces mirrored vanity units and an offset wall-mounted tv. It’s
playing quietly on a music channel. The Greek girl is lying on the bed,
stretching her arms above her head; he thinks she’s probably just stirred from
dozing. Her hair is a little dishevelled and her already-short skirt has
rucked up high on her smooth russet thighs. In a contrast emphasized by
her neat pink-painted toenails, her feet and legs seem shockingly naked.
Drawn by these shapely lines to their point of convergence he catches a glimpse
of the white satiny band of her narrow briefs. She seems unaware, or
unperturbed, but he averts his eyes before she might feel ogled.
‘Sorry - I just came to check
Camille.’ He says this apologetically, and indicates in the direction of
her bedroom.
The girl smiles and nods.
‘Sure. She is very good. She sleep now.’
He creeps through the thick dark
heat; the suite lacks air-conditioning. Camille’s regular breathing
instantly tells him all is well. He’s half expecting the girl to follow
him, in the proprietorial manner of a regular babysitter, to make sure the
ham-fisted parent doesn’t undo her hard-won handiwork, or at least to
demonstrate her proficiency with a sweeping gesture of the arm towards her
sleeping charge; but she remains behind in silence. Adam leans over the
cot that the hotel has installed (much to Camille’s exaggerated chagrin –
and probable secret regressive pleasure). He strokes her hair, repositions
her soft-toy and drapes her slumbering form with the light topsheet she’s
kicked off. He backs out and quietly closes the door.
The Greek girl is still
prone. She has tidied the strands of hair from her face – she must
be able to see her reflection – but not the skirt. He’d been struck
how facially attractive she was when he first glimpsed her at reception –
the full Loren-like lips, prominent cheekbones, pale penetrating eyes framed by
characteristic sunstreaked Hellenic blonde-yet-unblonde shoulder-length tresses
– but now her animal form eclipses such attributes: set free from its
daytime enclosure of the chest-high counter and crisp censorial uniform staff
blouse, its twin breasts spill, off duty, into an accommodating, revealing
vest-top, narrow shoulder straps intertwining with the gossamer counterparts of
her bra, accentuating the smooth curves of her shoulders with g-string-like
mimicry of … well. Distractedly, Adam parts the curtains that shield the
balcony door, and rattles the handle.
‘I am a prisoner, yes?’
He swivels round. She’s
laughing. Once more she stretches, this time he feels more brazenly as if
to offer her wrists to be handcuffed to the bedstead above her head.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘It is safe. Your baby girl
is safe. This island – it is very good. No problems.’
‘Oh… yeah. Sorry.
Yes, I think so. Very nice people here. Thank you.’
‘You are welcome. And how
is your meal? Is good?’
‘Great. Just how I like
it.’ He pauses, wondering how to say the service is really slow and make
it sound like the compliment he intends. ‘You have a top chef.’
‘Thank you. My uncle.
I tell him.’
‘Look…’ He realises he
doesn’t know her name. Now it feels too late to ask. Monique had
made all the arrangements. ‘Have you had a drink?’
The girl shakes her head and
raises her palms as if about to protest.
‘You should just help yourself
– I meant to say earlier, but we were a bit late for the reception.
Sorry. Let me get you something from the mini-bar. A coke,
He arrives and taps lightly three
times with the tip of the key. He pauses for a couple of seconds before
letting himself in. The door admits into a short hallway with the
bathroom on the right, open wardrobes and shelves on the left; beyond is the
spacious main room – dominated on the right by their king-sized bed,
which faces mirrored vanity units and an offset wall-mounted tv. It’s
playing quietly on a music channel. The Greek girl is lying on the bed,
stretching her arms above her head; he thinks she’s probably just stirred from
dozing. Her hair is a little dishevelled and her already-short skirt has
rucked up high on her smooth russet thighs. In a contrast emphasized by
her neat pink-painted toenails, her feet and legs seem shockingly naked.
Drawn by these shapely lines to their point of convergence he catches a glimpse
of the white satiny band of her narrow briefs. She seems unaware, or
unperturbed, but he averts his eyes before she might feel ogled.
‘Sorry - I just came to check
Camille.’ He says this apologetically, and indicates in the direction of
her bedroom.
The girl smiles and nods.
‘Sure. She is very good. She sleep now.’
He creeps through the thick dark
heat; the suite lacks air-conditioning. Camille’s regular breathing
instantly tells him all is well. He’s half expecting the girl to follow
him, in the proprietorial manner of a regular babysitter, to make sure the
ham-fisted parent doesn’t undo her hard-won handiwork, or at least to
demonstrate her proficiency with a sweeping gesture of the arm towards her
sleeping charge; but she remains behind in silence. Adam leans over the
cot that the hotel has installed (much to Camille’s exaggerated chagrin –
and probable secret regressive pleasure). He strokes her hair, repositions
her soft-toy and drapes her slumbering form with the light topsheet she’s
kicked off. He backs out and quietly closes the door.
The Greek girl is still
prone. She has tidied the strands of hair from her face – she must
be able to see her reflection – but not the skirt. He’d been struck
how facially attractive she was when he first glimpsed her at reception –
the full Loren-like lips, prominent cheekbones, pale penetrating eyes framed by
characteristic sunstreaked Hellenic blonde-yet-unblonde shoulder-length tresses
– but now her animal form eclipses such attributes: set free from its
daytime enclosure of the chest-high counter and crisp censorial uniform staff
blouse, its twin breasts spill, off duty, into an accommodating, revealing
vest-top, narrow shoulder straps intertwining with the gossamer counterparts of
her bra, accentuating the smooth curves of her shoulders with g-string-like
mimicry of … well. Distractedly, Adam parts the curtains that shield the
balcony door, and rattles the handle.
‘I am a prisoner, yes?’
He swivels round. She’s
laughing. Once more she stretches, this time he feels more brazenly as if
to offer her wrists to be handcuffed to the bedstead above her head.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘It is safe. Your baby girl
is safe. This island – it is very good. No problems.’
‘Oh… yeah. Sorry.
Yes, I think so. Very nice people here. Thank you.’
‘You are welcome. And how
is your meal? Is good?’
‘Great. Just how I like
it.’ He pauses, wondering how to say the service is really slow and make
it sound like the compliment he intends. ‘You have a top chef.’
‘Thank you. My uncle.
I tell him.’
‘Look…’ He realises he
doesn’t know her name. Now it feels too late to ask. Monique had
made all the arrangements. ‘Have you had a drink?’
The girl shakes her head and
raises her palms as if about to protest.
‘You should just help yourself
– I meant to say earlier, but we were a bit late for the reception.
Sorry. Let me get you something from the mini-bar. A coke,
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