The sky was deepest blue, the beach, about a mile of it, empty, and the white hillside village so blindingly bright in the morning sunlight that, without sunglasses, it hurt the eyes.
Down in the courtyard I could see Dawn slicing watermelon. Lou and Lucy were playing with three kittens.
‘Look, Dad, there’s three cats!’ Lou said excitedly when he saw me.
‘There’s actually even more,’ Dawn said. ‘They keep coming and going all the time.’
‘We think they’re hungry,’ Lou told me.
‘We’re going to get cat food,’ Dawn added, smiling up at me.
‘Aren’t we leaving?’ I asked. ‘Or did I miss something?’
‘No!’ Lou said, ‘Don’t be stupid. We’re going to the beach!’
Those two weeks were bloody amazing.
The owner, a sun-dried farmer, brought us fresh produce every day. He’d ride up on his moped at about nine, and hand over a box with watermelon and tomatoes and cucumbers. Sometimes there would be bread, or fish, or cheese, and if we requested anything – sun lotion, a rubber ring, or ketchup – he’d bring it the next day, without fail.
We’d eat a breakfast of bread and local honey and then walk to the beach, where the kids were happy to spend the whole day.
Mid-morning, a couple of biker/hippy types would arrive on motorbikes and open the awning of a VW van parked on the beach, turning it into a bar. They played brilliant music all day, of all genres, from reggae to rock to techno. They served cocktails and beer, sandwiches and burgers, ice creams, iced coffees and chips.
Some evenings the bar got livelier and on others, unpredictably, it didn’t. When that happened, when it was quiet, the owners would close shop and we’d sit on our rooftop and play cards, the gentle sea breeze welcome after the sweltering heat of the day.
One night – I think it was about day four – the kids asked if they could go for an evening walk along the beach. The waves were strangely fluorescent in the moonlight and they wanted to skim stones. As we could see most of the beach from our rooftop and were pleased that they wanted to do something together, we agreed.
Once they were gone, the clicking of their flip-flops fading into the distance, we sat sipping wine, staring out at the view.
‘The holiday is doing them good,’ Dawn said, nodding towards the kids, now making their way down the rocky staircase leading to the beach. ‘Who would have thought it?’
‘It’s doing us all good, isn’t it?’ I asked, sending her a wink.
She nodded but, because I thought I’d seen a shadow crossing her features, I asked a question that had often crossed my mind. I’m not sure why I said it out loud at that moment – it just sort of slipped out. ‘You don’t regret it all, do you?’
‘Regret what?’ she asked, surprised. ‘You mean this holiday?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘All of it. Us. Me.Choosingme. Or rather, letting yourself get convinced.’
‘Oh,’ Dawn said, ‘that.’ Momentarily I saw that regrettingall of itwas a far less unreasonable proposition for her than regretting the holiday itself.
‘Not at all!’ she added suddenly, having realised she was spending too long considering the question. ‘Don’t be silly.’
‘Sometimes I think you do,’ I said, softly. ‘Sometimes I worry I’m too…’
‘Too what?’ Dawn asked.
‘Tooordinary?’ I suggested.
Dawn snorted gently at this and for a moment I thought this too was something she was going to have to consider. Instead, she said, ‘You’re notordinary, Rob. You’re not ordinary at all.’
‘OK,’ I said. ‘But—’
‘Look, I’m not sure where this is coming from,’ she interrupted. ‘But don’t let’s spoil this moment, eh? It’s gorgeous here, hon. It’s so beautiful. It’s amazing. The kids are having a good time. I’m having a good time.We’rehaving a good time, aren’t we?’
I nodded and forced a smile.
‘So enjoy it, Rob. I am. Frankly, I’m loving it. I’mlovingbeing here with you.’
