Wish You Were Here (26 page)

Unwilling (or unable) to start thinking too deeply yet, I climbed out of bed and quietly got dressed in my usual holiday attire of shorts and T-shirt. Grabbing my sunglasses and the keys for the hire car, I made my way from the bedroom into the kitchen. Tom stirred briefly on the sofa-bed but soon fell back asleep, so opening the front door as quietly as I could I stepped into the bright morning light and made my way downstairs.

The big question on my mind was where to go. The beach seemed like the most obvious place. It became less appealing, however, once I imagined it filled with its usual clientele flirting with each other against a backdrop of loud club music. Of course, now I had transport I could go anywhere I pleased. And so without thinking about my eventual destination, I made my way to the car, started it up and pulled into a break in the traffic in the direction of the Malia crossroad.

With only a handful of road signs for guidance, I knew I had to make a decision. Amongst the signs for nearby villages and the motorway, there was one with the symbol for a tourist attraction next to it that said ‘The Palace of Malia: 3km'. I had no idea what The Palace of Malia might be given that I was having a hard time imagining that Malia, even in ancient times, had been anything other than the alfresco night club that it is today. Whatever it was, I reasoned that it was as good a destination as anywhere else and so followed the road signs in that direction.

It took no time at all to get there. As I climbed out of the car the first thing I noticed was the intensity of the sun. Despite it being relatively early, the temperature was already so hot that the car park tarmac had begun to melt and felt sticky underfoot.

I locked the car and made my way along a path to the entrance where a sign said: ‘Welcome to the Palace of Malia – a Minoan treasure.' Looking over the fence I could make out various huge lumps of sandstone. Next to the sign was an elderly woman wearing a straw hat who was sitting in a chair reading a book. I asked how much it was to come in and she said something in Greek and pointed towards a doorway a few yards away.

Inside the room along with some literature about the Palace, there was a small ticket booth. As no one was there, I pressed a buzzer mounted on the top of the counter. A small woman with a cheery smile arrived almost immediately and sold me a ticket, which I then handed to the woman in the chair outside. As I gave her my ticket, she muttered something in Greek and then pointed me in the direction of a building behind her.

The building was part of a permanent exhibition that told the story of the palace's excavation. Large black and white photos from the 1900s were mounted on the wall, and reading from the panels underneath them I learned that the first palace of Malia had been built by the Minoans in 1900 BC only to be destroyed some two hundred years later. It was later rebuilt and destroyed again and then in 1450 BC they rebuilt one last time.

This final version must have been the most impressive, because when I followed the exhibition trail through an archway into an interconnected room, I found a scale model of the palace on a table, under a large glass case. It looked like those models of planned shopping centres and housing developments that I used to see at work before everything became computer generated. I stood for quite a long time, imagining miniature Minoans going about their daily lives. It was sad thinking that all the people who had lived in the palace were no longer alive. And it was a stern reminder of how much things can change in a relatively short space of time.

More knowledgeable about the Minoans than when I'd entered the exhibition, I made my way to the exit, stepped outside and began to pour with sweat. In the short time that I'd been out of the sun the outside temperature had sky-rocketed to unbearable proportions. With the realisation that I might die of dehydration, I wiped the sheen of sweat from my forehead and began looking around the ruins of the palace in earnest. I looked around the remains of courtyards and cellars. I ventured around workshops and dwelling rooms. And somewhere around the court of the tower I decided that it might be time to take a look at the ruination of my own life.

Coming to a huge lump of sandstone that was probably of great archaeological significance, I took the opportunity to take the weight off my feet and sat down. As the sun beat down on my scalp, I took a deep breath and, with much relief, finally let the guilt bottled up inside me run its course.

The kiss on the balcony. That was where it had begun. But it had ended somewhere entirely different. Though we had stopped speaking by this point, there had been no doubt in my mind about how far we intended to go. Guilt didn't even get a look in as we negotiated the short distance from the balcony to my bed and I knew that unless Andy returned any time soon, nothing short of a miracle would stop my betrayal.

Everything that happened once we reached our destination was lost in the blur of sensory overload. (Although later that night as Lisa and Andy slept peacefully in their bed next to my own, I could recall perfectly the sense of urgency that had gripped me at that moment; the actions it inspired however had faded too swiftly to make a lasting impression. It was a moment within a moment. It was everything and then it was nothing.)

Afterwards, as we disentangled our bodies and readjusted our clothing, I found myself waiting expectantly for the arrival of some sort of sense of regret. After all I had just slept with my best friend's girlfriend. But there was nothing. And the longer I thought about it the more I began to wonder whether this was down to the simple fact that I wasn't sorry. Whatever the reason, the deed was done. Events had been set in motion. And no matter what we did to cover up our actions, something fundamental had changed about the world we both inhabited and could never be changed back, no matter how much we adjusted the sheets of my bed, straightened our clothes and wiped away smeared make-up.

The tension was unbearable. Every knock, creak, scrape or groan of the infrastructure of the apartment building set my heart racing even once we were ready for Andy's return. And as the minutes passed, and the distance between our shared moment and our current state of readiness grew, we became more tense rather than less. I was almost more desperate for him to return and sense that something had gone on than I was to wait for his arrival and escape the consequences of my actions. What I didn't want – what I couldn't stand – was the waiting. It was the not knowing if my betrayal would be exposed that was the real torture.

When Andy finally called to let us know he was back I was convinced that if his senses hadn't been dulled by the raki then he would have guessed straight away that something was wrong. Through my now sober eyes it was as though everything that had been witness to my actions and Lisa's was emitting a steady fog of guilt that only the sober could see. The whole apartment seemed eerily sinister, like the scene of a murder long after the body had been removed.

‘Victorious,' said Andy, holding up not one but two bottles of raki. ‘Sorry I took so long, kids. On the way back from the mini-market I bumped into Steve-the-barman downstairs and we got talking and so I bought him a beer.' Andy set down the bottles, arranged our mugs in a huddle, poured out a double shot into each one and handed them out. ‘Here's to hot summer nights,' he said raising his mug in the air. ‘May there be many more of them.'

The three of us stayed out on the balcony for another hour or so, during which time I amazed myself by remaining calm in such a chaotic situation. I made jokes at Andy's expense, I chatted with Lisa about the everyday stuff of life and I breathed calmly at every opportunity. In short I acted as though nothing had happened. But as the night progressed I realised that my ability to fool Andy had less to do with innate acting skills than my fear of being discovered. I just couldn't let that happen. I had betrayed my best friend in the cruellest way possible. So if it meant I had to crack jokes, if it meant I had to make small talk with Lisa, if it meant that I had to callously act as though I hadn't just committed the crime of the century, then that was exactly what I would do.

For the most part, however, as we whiled our way through to the early hours, my mind was focused on two questions: why had Lisa done what she had done? And more importantly, where would we go from here?

No one batted an eyelid on my return to the apartment following my sojourn to The Palace of Malia. Tom and Lisa were out on the balcony, while Andy was in the bathroom taking a shower. They all assumed I'd gone down to the beach for a morning constitutional and as it seemed as good an excuse as any I didn't correct them.

Fear of being discovered aside, my biggest worry about the day ahead was centred on how Lisa might act around me in the cold harsh light of day. In my more egotistical moments I'd been imagining that she might be in need of some form of reassurance that last night had meant as much to me as it had done to her. I imagined a whole day of longing looks and secret smiles. Perhaps even a few unexplained tears and temper tantrums. Lisa, however, was as far from giving the game away as possible. From the moment of my return all she did was laugh, joke and be her usual effervescent self. And that was even when Andy wasn't there. As we made our way down to Stars and Bars, Andy told an anecdote about an anti-student loans demonstration we'd gone on in a bid to chat up a couple of girls we both fancied; I tried desperately to catch Lisa's eye as if to say, ‘Last night was real wasn't it?' but when I did, though she held my gaze unflinchingly, there wasn't even the faintest flicker of guilt or recognition. It was as though she had wiped the memory from her mind. And without her corroboration to back up my version of events it began to feel as if last night hadn't happened at all.

‘That was excellent,' said Andy lighting up a post-breakfast cigarette following our usual Stars and Bars breakfast. ‘I'd suggest that we get the waiter to give our compliments to the chef but I'm guessing he'd think we were being clever.' He yawned and stretched his arms in the air. ‘So what are we going to do tonight, boys and girls? It's our last night of freedom. After tonight there's just a plane ride between us and another twelve months of day-to-day grind.'

‘Very poetic,' teased Lisa. ‘Is that what life is like with me?'

‘Of course not,' grinned Andy. ‘It's much worse.'

‘Well . . . though I'll hate myself for saying it, given last night's excesses,' began Tom, ‘I think we sort of owe it to ourselves to head out in Malia tonight.'

‘Did Tom just suggest that we have a bit of fun?' asked Andy doing a comedy double take. ‘I tell you what, Charlie, he's more fun than you these days.' He paused and took a drag on his cigarette. ‘So Malia it is then,' he continued. ‘There are still loads of bars that we haven't been in that look like a right laugh . . . in fact there's a club I read about that's throwing a “foam party” tonight.' Andy looked at us all expectantly but we all looked equally nonplussed. He reached into the back pocket of his shorts and pulled out a page torn from a magazine. It was an advert for the Camelot Club featuring a series of photos of young (mainly female) clubbers waist deep in white foam as if an industrial washing machine had exploded only moments before the pictures had been taken.

‘Now that,' said Andy waving the advert, ‘is a foam party. Tell me that doesn't look like fun.'

‘When you say “fun”,' said Lisa drily, ‘I take it you mean, “Largely populated by twenty-one-year-old girls in bikini tops and cut-off denim shorts?”'

‘Not at all, but if there are girls like that around, then that can't exactly be a bad thing for our friend here.' Andy gave my shoulders a squeeze – his physical shorthand for sincerity. ‘Come on, babe,' he continued, ‘have a heart will you? Let's not forget that Charlie here – the only single person amongst us – has yet to get any action this holiday. We have to go to this party . . . for his sake.'

‘Thanks and all that,' I said to Andy in a more determined voice than usual, ‘but it really doesn't sound like my thing. Let's just go out, have a few beers and a laugh, okay?'

‘You say that now,' replied Andy, ‘but when the foam's flying—'

‘I'm not interested, honestly.'

‘You will be. Trust me.'

‘Trust
me
,' I replied as my exasperation edged its way into my voice, ‘I won't.'

‘Come on, Andy,' intervened Lisa on my behalf. ‘If Charlie said he's not interested then you shouldn't force him.'

Andy rubbed the top of my head patronisingly. ‘See this guy here? This is my mate Charlie Mansell and there's not a single thing in this world that I wouldn't do for him. Not a single thing. So that's why we're going to the Camelot Club tonight. And that's why we'll have a good time. And that's why I'll make sure that whatever happens he won't leave that party alone.'

It was mid-to-late-afternoon, the sun was marginally less intense than it had been all day (which meant that you could still probably just about fry an egg on the sand) and the four of us were lying on our sun-loungers. Lisa had yet to drop a single hint about the events of the previous night, despite my giving her various opportunities to do so. After leaving Stars and Bars I'd deliberately lingered behind Tom and Andy so that Lisa and I could walk down to the beach together without arousing any suspicion. But before she had noticed me she had playfully called out to Tom and asked for a piggyback as far as the mini-market. At the mini-market I announced that I was going to buy a couple of bottles of water and might need a hand. Although Lisa could've easily volunteered, Tom was forced to come to my aid because Andy had simply ignored my request and Lisa took the opportunity to reapply some suncream on her shoulders. Once we were settled on the loungers, I'd asked if anyone was interested in going for a walk – knowing full well that Tom was too engrossed in his
Rough Guide
and Andy too lazy to stand up – but again she declined preferring to have Andy undo the strings to her bikini, douse her back in suncream and vigorously massage it into her skin. By the time I returned from my walk Lisa was dozing in the sun with one hand resting gently on Andy's arm and the two of them looked like the perfect picture of togetherness.