I felt a small hand in mine.
‘Mummy, can I have a snack?’ Nate asked. He’d been as good as gold on the flight, watching a film on my iPad before falling asleep, his head in Stuart’s lap. I spent the three-hour flight working on winter menu ideas. It was crazy to be thinking about venison cassoulets and potato-topped fish pies in the middle of June, but I wanted to make a start so I could run my ideas past Bill while we were at the villa.
‘Of course you can, darling. Ask Niamh.’
Nate skipped over to Niamh, who stopped and scrabbled through the contents of her backpack. She handed Nate a box of raisins and a packet of rice cakes.
‘Thanks, Niamh,’ I said.
‘It’s no problem, Mrs Cooper.’
‘Please, it’s Cleo. If you call me Mrs Cooper all week, I’ll think I’m still at work.’
‘Sorry, Cleo.’ A flush crept up her neck, suffusing her pale face with colour. She was going to have to use factor fifty, or she’d burn to a crisp. I was about to say as much before I stopped myself. It wasn’t my job to mother her. She was here to look after my son.
‘This way,’ Stuart said, striding towards the arrivals hall.
‘What’s the rush?’ I grumbled, adjusting the bag on my shoulder and following him.
‘There’s a beer at the villa with my name on it, and the sooner I have it in my sticky paws the better.’
I’d been hesitant when Bill and Melanie first suggested we join them for a week’s holiday at Bill’s parents’ villa in the pretty fishing village of Agios Stefanos on Corfu’s north-east coast.
We’d been on holiday together, the four of us, a handful of times over the years, and we’d always had a laugh. But since we’d had Nate, I’d found excuse after excuse not to join them, because holidays with small children didn’t involve eating, drinking and lazing on the beach or by the pool buried inside the pages of the latest blockbuster.
Holidays with small children meant the meticulous adherence to meal and nap times, hours spent locating local play areas, the endless application of sunscreen and steering clear of too much booze because dealing with a toddler with heatstroke was no fun with a raging hangover.
No, holidays with small children were basically hard work away from home, and I didn’t think it fair to inflict that on Bill and Melanie, even if they were Nate’s godparents.
Having Niamh on the scene changed everything. If we took her with us, she could look after Nate during the day and babysit while we went out for dinner with Bill and Melanie.
‘You can’t take the piss,’ Stuart said when I mooted the idea. ‘She’s an au pair, not a nanny. She’s supposed to be part of the family, not your skivvy.’
‘Rubbish. She’ll be getting a week’s free holiday in a beautiful villa in Corfu, the kind of place she’d never afford to stay at otherwise,’ I countered. ‘Let me at least ask her, OK? If she’s not keen, I’ll tell Bill we can’t go.’
But Niamh had grinned and said she’d love to come, as I predicted she would. What eighteen-year-old girl wouldn’t jump at the chance of an all-expenses paid holiday to Greece? If she didn’t realise she’d still be minding Nate while we were away, then that was her mistake, not mine.
Our luggage loaded into the hire car, we headed up the coast road towards Agios Stefanos. I pointed out the resorts of Ipsos, Barbati and Nissaki to Nate as we passed them, and we all laughed as he rolled the unfamiliar words around his mouth.
‘This is going to be good for us,’ I said, resting my hand on Stuart’s leg as he negotiated a tight bend in the road. I let my fingers creep up his thigh towards his crotch. It was the heat. It always made me horny.
‘Cleo,’ he mumbled, shaking his head and pushing my hand away.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Not in front of Niamh,’ he said out of the corner of his mouth.
‘You’re no fun,’ I muttered, folding my arms across my chest and staring out of the window, halfway to a full-on sulk. But the sight of raspberry-pink bougainvillea trailing over white-washed, blue-shuttered buildings, the frequent glimpses of the sparkling Ionian Sea to the east and the hills of olive groves and cypress trees to the west diffused my pique. It would be a waste to be miserable in this paradise.
‘Have you stayed at the villa before?’ Niamh asked from the back seat.
Stuart smiled into the rear-view mirror. ‘Once, about six years ago.’
‘What’s it like?’
‘Stunning. Six bedrooms, an infinity pool and a beautiful terrace overlooking Albania.’
‘Albania?’ Niamh said, eyes wide.
‘The west coast of Albania is just over a mile away,’ Stuart told her. ‘People used to swim across to Corfu to escape the communist regime.’
She leaned forwards in her seat. ‘They did?’
Stuart nodded, warming to his theme. ‘Albania was cut off from the rest of the world for over forty years after the Second World War. It was known as the North Korea of Europe.’
‘How d’you know all this?’
‘I’ve got one of those brains that retains useless bits of information.’ Stuart gave a self-deprecating shrug. ‘It’s a pity I can’t remember what I had for breakfast.’
‘Bran flakes with a chopped banana and a black coffee, one sugar,’ Niamh said promptly. ‘Same as you do every morning.’
I raised my eyebrows and was about to pass comment when we turned off the main highway onto the narrow road - little more than a lane - that wound its way through the olive groves to Agios Stefanos. The village was in a secluded bay surrounded by hills
