‘OK, wait,’ Kostas said, bending and putting a hand on her shoulder for support.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Taking off my trainers. So we are equal with our feet in the sea.’
‘You don’t have to do that,’ Faye said.
‘I only do things I want to,’ he replied, unlacing his trainers. ‘Like you.’
As he pulled his trainers off, his fingers brushed the scar that tracked up from his heel for almost four inches. It still showed. Would always show, as it had been opened up more than once. It was a reminder of everything he had lost, but, in interviews, he told the press it was a reminder of hard work, dedication, a medal of honour to his years in the sport. You only ever told people what they wanted to know.
‘Is that… You had an operation?’ Faye asked.
She had seen the scar. ‘Yes, my Achilles tendon. They say it will continue to fade, but, you know, I still wait.’
‘Is it still painful?’
‘I am Greek, remember?’
‘Oh OK, we’re playing that game.’
‘What?’
‘Hiding everything behind Balkan bravado.’
He laughed. ‘Balkan bravado.’
She closed her eyes then. ‘I have a scar right across my lower belly where they took my daughter out. Still sometimes I get nerve twinges.’
And now he was thinking about Faye’s lower belly and that was honestly spiking his libido into intense territory. He had to do something…
‘Sometimes it hurts. I tore the ligament twice and the second time, well, they also broke my foot.’
‘They?’
‘I was… attacked in Athens. Just some guys on the street.’
‘Kosta.’
‘Yeah, but it’s in the past now,’ he said dismissively, not wanting to be drawn on the subject. ‘But, you know, salt water is great for healing, right?’
He sunk his feet in the water then and, on instinct, he closed his eyes. How long had it been since he had had his feet in the sea? Then a memory started to come back to him. Not of the last time he had been in the water but here at Kerasia, when he was younger, bare feet in the stones, eyes scouring for the best skimming ones, his grandmother yelling unnecessary instructions from a fold-up beach seat under a parasol with two broken spokes. He opened his eyes then, looked at the stones nearby. There was a good one. And there, another.
‘What are you doing?’ Faye asked him.
‘Have you skimmed stones before?’ There was another flat stone. He plucked it from the seabed.
‘Yes,’ Faye said. ‘I thought I was quite good, but the ex-husband who I haven’t killed always proved he was better.’
‘OK,’ Kostas said. ‘Let us see what you have.’
‘Well, just so you know, I can sometimes get four skips. I mean, four skips is the best I’ve done.’
‘Four skips is good.’
‘No promises. If I get it right.’ She bent down and picked up a stone.
‘And your husband?’
