Ten, and she took her hands from the top of his head and let him bounce up. He was laughing, shaking the water from his hair and eyes and she laughed too, a rigid ha ha ha.
‘I take it that’s a no then,’ he said eventually, pinching the sea-water from his nose.
‘I think so. I think our moment passed some time ago.’
‘Oh. Really. Are you sure? Because I think we’d feel much better if we got it out of the way.’
‘Got it out of the way?’
‘I just think we’d feel closer. As friends.’
‘You’re worried that
‘I’m not expressing myself very well—’
‘Dexter, I understand you perfectly, that’s the problem—’
‘If you’re scared of Ingrid—’
‘I’m not scared of her, I’m just not going to
But he was peering past her, eyes narrowed, towards the beach, and she turned towards the shore just in time to see a small, slim figure hurtling at great speed along the sand, carrying something over his head in triumph like a captured flag: a shirt, a pair of trousers.
‘OIIIIIIIIIII!’ shouted Dexter, barrelling towards the shore now, yelling through mouthfuls of water, then taking startling high-kneed strides up the beach, pounding after the thief who had stolen all his clothes.
By the time he made it back to Emma, breathless and fuming, she was sitting on the beach fully dressed and sober once again.
‘Any sign of them?’
‘Nope! Gone!’ he said tragically. ‘Just completely fucked off and gone’ and it took a light breeze to remind him that he was naked, and he angrily cupped one hand between his legs.
‘Did he take your wallet?’ she asked, her face fixed in an earnest rictus.
‘No, just some cash, I don’t know, ten, fifteen quids’ worth, little bastard.’
‘Well I suppose that’s just one of the perils of skinny-dipping,’ she mumbled, the corners of her mouth twitching.
‘It’s the trousers that wind me up. They were Helmut Lang! The underpants were Prada. Thirty bloody quid a go, those underpants. What’s up with you?’ But Emma couldn’t speak for laughter, ‘It’s not funny Em! I’ve been robbed!’
‘I know, I’m sorry—’
‘They were Helmut Lang, Em!’
‘I know! It’s just you. . so angry, and. . no clothes. .’ She crouched over, her fists and forehead pressed into the sand before keeling over sideways.
‘Pack it in, Em. It’s not funny. Emma? Emma! That’s enough!’
When she could stand again they spent a while walking up the beach in silence, Dexter suddenly very cold and coy, Emma walking discreetly ahead, looking at the sand and trying to contain herself. ‘What kind of little bastard steals someone’s underpants?’ muttered Dexter. ‘Know how I’m going to find the little sod? I’m going to look for the only well-dressed bastard on the whole bloody island!’ and Emma collapsed onto the sand once more, head between her knees.
When the search proved fruitless, they beachcombed for emergency clothing. Emma found a heavy-duty sack in blue plastic. Dexter held it daintily round his waist like a mini-skirt while Emma suggested that they cut slits and make it into a pinafore dress, then collapsed once more.
The route home took them along the harbour front. ‘It’s a lot busier than I expected,’ said Emma. Dexter adjusted his face into an expression of larky self-deprecation and marched on past the pavement taverna, eyes fixed forward, ignoring the wolf-whistles. They headed into the town, and coming up a narrow alley they suddenly found themselves facing the couple from the beach, red-faced with booze and sun, clinging to each other drunkenly as they tottered down the steps towards the harbour. They stared, bemused, at Dexter’s blue sacking mini-skirt.
‘Someone stole my clothes,’ he explained curtly.
The couple nodded sympathetically and squeezed past them, the girl pausing to turn and shout after them—
‘Nice sack.’
‘It’s Helmut Lang,’ said Emma and Dexter narrowed his eyes at her treachery.
The sulk lasted all the long way home and by the time they were back in the room, the fact of the shared bed had somehow lost its significance. Emma went into the bathroom to change into an old grey t-shirt. When she came out, the blue plastic coal-sack lay on the floor at the foot of the bed. ‘You should hang this up,’ she said, nudging the sack with her toe. ‘It’ll get creased.’
‘Ha,’ he said, lying on the bed, in new underwear.
‘So is that them?’
‘What?’
‘The famous thirty-quid underpants. What are they, lined with ermine?’
‘Let’s just go to sleep, shall we? So — which side?’
‘This one.’
They lay on their backs in parallel, Emma relishing the sensation of the cold white sheets against tender skin.
‘Nice day,’ she said.
‘Til that last bit,’ he mumbled.
She turned to look at him, his face in profile, staring petulantly at the ceiling. She nudged his foot with hers. ‘S’only trousers and a pair of pants. I’ll buy you some nice new ones. Three-pack of cotton briefs.’ Dexter sniffed and she took his hand beneath the sheet, squeezed it hard until he turned his head to look at her. ‘Seriously, Dex,’ she smiled. ‘I’m really pleased to be here. I’m having a really nice time.’
‘Yeah. Me too,’ he mumbled.
‘Eight more days,’ she said.
‘Eight more days.’
‘Think you can hack it?’
‘Who knows?’ He smiled affectionately and, for good or ill, everything was just as it had been before. ‘So how many Rules did we break tonight?’
She thought for a moment. ‘One, Two and Four.’
‘Well at least we didn’t play Scrabble.’
‘There’s always tomorrow.’ She reached above her head, turned the light off, then lay on her side with her back to him. Everything was just how it had been before, and she was unsure how she felt about this. For a moment she worried that she might not be able to sleep for dwelling on the day, but to her relief she soon found herself overcome with weariness, sleep creeping through her veins like anaesthetic.
Dexter lay for a while looking at the ceiling in the blue light, feeling that he had not been at his best tonight. Being with Emma demanded a certain level of behaviour, and he was not always up to the mark. Glancing over at Emma, her hair falling away from the nape of her neck, the newly tanned skin dark against the white sheets, he contemplated touching her shoulder to apologise.
‘Night, Dex,’ she murmured while she could still speak.
‘Night, Em,’ he replied, but she was already gone.
Eight days to go, he thought, eight whole days. Almost anything could happen in eight days.
Part Two
