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  They’d met just after Christmas at a party thrown by the director of the kids’ show – a bash at his Manchester loft-conversation just a week before the show was axed. Richie had been immediately attracted to the short, vivacious fair-haired woman in her early thirties who introduced herself and said that she loved his work. He suspected at the time, and found out for certain later, that it was not his scripts she admired so much as his position on the writing team: Marsha was an aspiring screenwriter, with a degree in film studies, and assumed mistakenly that he might be a way into the profession. He should have realised this and advised her to bed the director – for all the good it would have done her, given what happened to the show.

  Something else he should have realised, early on, was that the mutual attraction was purely physical and destined to end in tears. They had little in common, and Marsha liked nothing more than ridiculing what she called his wishy-washy liberal leftism.

  He recalled that they’d spoken hardly a word to each other on the first day of the holiday, and the following day Marsha had told him that their relationship was over and had moved to an apartment along the coast in Rethymnon. As soon as they’d returned to Yorkshire, she’d packed her possessions and left.

  Two days after arriving in Crete, he’d met Emmi Takala; she’d seduced him – there was no other way to describe it – and he’d enjoyed a blissful holiday romance. It had been the start, he told himself, of the improvement in his fortunes that year: he’d landed a job writing Morgan’s Café and sold a string of radio plays to the Beeb, allowing him to pay Digby back the five thousand by Christmas.

  He wondered how long he might have here, this time, before he was shunted off again?

  The period between jumps had increased. One year, then three, and this one, the third, five… If they continued at that rate, how long before he came to his senses as a new-born?

  Of course, there was always the explanation that this wasn’t really happening to him, and he was going mad.

  He glanced through the window. The wing, stretching out for thirty feet, seemed to be vibrating dangerously. He heard a clunk as the landing gear unfolded: it all seemed very industrial to him. Far below he caught a glimpse of a green coastline, shimmering in the afternoon sun. Their destination was in sight.

  Marsha woke up and made a show of casually flipping through the in-flight magazine while he gripped the arms of his seat, sweated, and endured the bumpy landing.

  She maintained an icy silence throughout disembarkation and the passport check, and Richie tried to recall the reason. They’d had so many set-tos over the past week, over no doubt trivial things, that he had no hope of remembering what had set her off this time. No doubt Digby would have said it was all his fault.

  A six-seater taxi carried them from Iraklion Airport to a village nestling in the hills. Their sprawling stone-built villa, over a hundred years old, stood on a rise just above the village which boasted, according to Digby, three good tavernas and several bars. The villa was owned by a writer friend of Digby’s, who rented it out at a peppercorn fee to friends and acquaintances. He’d even left the keys of an old Volkswagen Beetle for their use.

  “This is idyllic!” Caroline declared, dropping her case on the patio and admiring the view down to the coast.

  Richie stared at her. She was, he realised, now in her early forties and very attractive. She had yet to put on the weight that would later make her matronly, and there was not a grey hair on her head.

  “How about we freshen ourselves up,” Digby said as they entered the villa, “relax a while, then mosey on down into the village for a drink before dinner? Apparently, there’s a taverna called Spiro’s that does excellent food.”

  Digby was a svelte, slimmed-down version of the manhe’d last seen in 2013. His stomach was flat and the bald patch at the front of his head was not as established; he wore his dark hair long and sported a Zapatamoustache which rather suited him.

  They entered the villa.

  “And then,” Digby said, “we must find somewhere with a TV.”

  Caroline made a show of raising her eyes to the heavens.

  “What?” Digby said, mock-surprised. “Cut the boys a little slack. Holland play Russia in the quarter-finals tonight. We have the rest of the holiday to do the cultural things.”

  “Sounds like an idea to me,” Richie said. He glanced at Marsha. Under her breath she hissed, “Typical!”

  “I’m sure we’ll find a nice bar to enjoy ourselves in, won’t we, Marsha?” Caroline said.

  Richie watched Marsha pick up her case and move off through the villa, selecting a bedroom and closing the door behind her. Digby made a face in her direction, questioning Richie; Richie just smiled and shrugged.

  He recalled that he’d shared a bedroom with Marsha on that first night. Well, he would spare himself the pain, this time. He carried his case across the open-plan ground floor, up a short flight of stairs, and found a room overlooking the village.

  He was unpacking when the door burst open.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  Marsha stood on the threshold, staring at him with murder in her eyes.

  “If you’re going to shout,” he said patiently, “then please come in and close the door behind you.”

  He found that the best way to counter Marsha’s intemperance was to assume an air of unruffled calm: it also had the pleasing effect of infuriating her.

  She slammed the door. “Well?”

  “Well?” He continued transferring his clothes from the case to the chest of drawers.

  “I’ve found us a lovely double room with a view over the mountains, and what do you do?”

  This conversation, of course, had never happened the first time; back then he had followed her to the bedroom and unpacked in uneasy silence.

  “After today’s behaviour, alternating between silence and blazing invective, what did you expect me to do?”

  She looked incredulous. She really was at her most striking when angry; she was slim, with bountiful ragged-cut hair, fierce green eyes and an expressive mouth.

  “My behaviour? It’s you who’ve been ignoring me for the past week. Ever since the party…”

  “The party?” He must have looked stupidly vague.

  “Christ, don’t be so dense! The do at Nigel’s last Saturday. Is this all about Jonathan?”

  He cast his mind back over the years and tried to recall the party that, for Marsha, had occurred just last week. Jonathan was a chunky, good-looking farm-hand popular with certain married women in the village. He recalled that he’d seen Marsha flirting with him; she’d flattered herself, at the time, that Richie had cared a damn.

  “Jonathan? Oh, the Young Tory farmer you find so fascinating? Marsha, let’s be grown up about this… If you want to rediscover your long-lost youth chasing farm labourers, I have no desire to stop you.” That wasn’t in the script, either. “I chose this bedroom for the simple reason that I’d rather sleep alone, if you don’t mind.”

  “You bastard!” she said.

  She stormed from the room and slammed the door behind her.

  He was unpacking, a little later, when he heard a tap at the door, then Digby enquiring, “You okay, Ed?”

  “Come in.”

  Digby slipped into the room and leaned against the door. “Are you two – ?”

  Richie interrupted. “It’s over between Marsha and me.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not. I’m fine. I should never have…” He shook his head. “Anyway, I intend to enjoy the holiday.”

  “That’s the spirit.”

  “I’m sure I’ll meet someone.”

  Digby laughed. “You’re incorrigible! Come on, I need a drink. Did I tell you that Caroline’s had me on a diet – not a drop of alcohol for the past week, in preparation for the next two.”

  “Well, you look good on it, Diggers. Maybe you should abstain a little more.”

  “You’re beginning to sound l
ike Caroline,” Digby said, and led the way from the room.

  They wandered down to the village, Marsha lagging behind with Caroline. They dined at Spiro’s, sitting around a table in a raised courtyard overlooking the hillside that tumbled down towards the coast. The sun was slipping into the sea, turning the horizon molten, and the thrum of cicadas was a constant accompaniment. They ate grilled swordfish caught that morning, with fava beans and Greek salad, washed down with bitter retsina. Marsha maintained an obdurate silence during the meal, making a point of finding the view more interesting than the conversation. Richie tried to draw her out a couple of times, asking her about a screenplay she was writing, but she replied in monosyllables and, when she did deign to speak, addressed herself exclusively to Digby and Caroline. His friends affected not to be fazed by the icy atmosphere at the table.

  Towards the end of the meal, Richie sat back and looked along the hillside. Beyond their own villa was the tumbledown farmhouse where Emmi Takala lived and worked, a rough outline of grey bricks in the moonlight. He recalled that he’d met Emmi one morning when he’d taken himself off for a long walk. A slight blonde woman in a brilliant white cheesecloth dress had been painting at the side of the road. He’d stopped to admire the view, told her that her painting was wonderful, and their conversation had flowed as naturally as if he’d known the woman for years. He’d suggested they meet for a drink, and for the rest of the holiday they’d been inseparable.

  Now Richie sat up. A slim figure had appeared on the cart-track below the level of the patio. He watched Emmi Takala stroll, with casual elegance, past the taverna and towards the village. She was wearing the cheesecloth dress, which set off her slightness and emphasized the golden tan of her arms and legs. He looked away, aware that he had broken out in a sweat.

  Digby glanced at his watch. “The match starts in ten minutes. According to a brochure back at the villa, there’s a TV in a bar just down the road. Do you girls want to come along?”

  Caroline said, “I think we’re fine here for a while. We’ll have another drink or two and then come to find you. Is that okay, Marsha?”

  “I could stay here all night,” she said, directing an acid smile at Richie.

  They escaped.

  Richie thought back to the first night of the holiday. They had dined at Spiro’s as they had tonight, though Marsha had been a little more amenable. He was sure he’d not seen Emmi – he would have remembered doing so. He tried to recall if Caroline and Marsha had joined them at the bar later that evening, and thought that perhaps they had. He hoped they didn’t bother, this time.

  He recalled the match because it had been an excellent end-to-end affair, and because Digby, who’d been following Holland throughout the tournament – as England had failed to qualify – had bet Richie a fiver that his team would beat Russia. Richie, who had enjoyed Russia’s open, attacking football in the tournament so far, had taken him up on the bet, and won.

  As they approached the bar Richie said, “Still fancy Holland to go all the way?”

  “Why not? They’re one of the best teams in the tournament.”

  “A tenner says Russia beat them tonight.”

  “You’re on.”

  They shook on it and entered the bar.

  A gallery of gnarled Greeks, clutching walking sticks planted between their boots, lined the walls and stared at the television, tiny glasses of raki on the tables before them. Richie ordered two Amstel lagers and carried them back to the table by the door. Greek bars reminded him of open garages, with wide doors to admit the breeze on hot summer evenings; he was rather pleased with this arrangement, as it allowed him to scan whoever should pass by outside. He hoped to see Emmi again before the night was over.

  The game kicked off and Richie took a long drink of ice cold beer. “Another tenner on whoever guesses the correct score, or gets closest to it?” he said.

  “You’re on. Holland’ll hammer the Ruskies three-nil.”

  “And I say it’ll be three-one to Russia,” he said. “After extra time.”

  “In your dreams.”

  For the next hour, Richie forgot the strange phenomenon that gave him foreknowledge of the match’s result and enjoyed a succession of beers with his best friend. The bar filled up with a mixture of local Greeks and mainly German tourists.

  It was nil-nil at half time, with all to play for. There was no sign yet of Caroline and Marsha.

  “I’m sorry you and Marsha haven’t hit it off,” Digby said. “I sometimes wonder if you’ll ever settle down.”

  “As I said earlier, I’m not in the least bit sorry. I should have known better. What could I have been thinking about, chasing a Tory?”

  “The tyranny of biology over common-sense.”

  Richie raised his glass. “You said it.”

  “You’ve had a tough year, Ed.”

  “The tide is turning. There’s that possible opening on the soap, and I have a few ideas with the Beeb’s drama department. I’m sure something will turn up. But I couldn’t have gone on without the loan.”

  “What the hell are friends for?”

  “I’ll be able to pay you back by the end of the year.”

  “Don’t worry about it. There’s no hurry.”

  “Five grand, plus interest, before Christmas, okay?”

  “Forget the interest, Ed, for pity’s sake.”

  Richie smiled across at Digby. “Thanks.”

  “Get another round in,” Digby said. “They’re about to kick off.”

  The second half panned out as he knew it would. Russia scored ten minutes after the break and he nudged Digby. “That’s the first, Diggers.”

  “And the last,” Digby said.

  “We’ll see about that,” Richie scoffed. “Holland will equalise with just minutes to go, and Russia will score two in extra time. Arshavin will get the last one.”

  On cue, with four minutes to go until full time, Holland equalised and the game went to extra time.

  Fifteen minutes later, Caroline and Marsha turned up. Richie, more than a little drunk by now, offered his seat to Marsha with what she took to be sarcastic gallantry. “I’ll stand at the bar,” she snapped.

  Caroline joined her and ordered beer.

  Digby whispered, “You’re in for an earful in the morning, old boy.”

  “I’m past caring.” He nudged his friend and said, “Here it comes.”

  He recognised the Russian build up down the right wing. The cross came in and the forward prodded it home. Two-one.

  Digby held his head in his hands.

  Richie patted his back. “Just one more to go, then your agony will be over.”

  “Holland will get back into it. Still ten minutes to go.”

  “Just time for Arshavin to make it three, mark my word.”

  Right on cue, with just four minutes to go before the whistle, the forward slotted the ball home from a tight angle and Richie punched the air.

  The final whistle went and Digby, muttering, made a show of reluctantly pulling a handful of euros from his pocket and throwing it across the table.

  “Take the filthy lucre. Any other predictions?”

  “Yes, how about Spain to beat Germany one-nil in the final? Oh, and I’ll have a fling with a Finnish artist called Emmi Takala before a few days are out.”

  Digby squinted at him. “That… that’s rather definite,” he hiccuped.

  “I’m feeling lucky.”

  Digby shook his head. “I don’t know how you do it.”

  “A lucky guess.”

  “No, you bloody fool. All those women falling at your feet, one after the other. It’d tire me out. Give me one dependable, loving woman, any day.” He gazed across the bar to where Caroline was laughing with Marsha and a group of German tourists. “She’s bloody wonderful, isn’t she?”

  Richie nodded. “She’s a fine woman, Digby,” he said. “Don’t you take her for granted, okay?”

  Digby smiled. “As if I’d ever do that.”
/>   “No…”

  Richie looked up, through the wide door of the bar, and was amazed to see a vision in a white cheesecloth dress stroll past the bar and up the hill.

  “Jesus…” he said. “Diggers, be a pal and cover for me, okay? Keep the girls talking while I sneak out.”

  “What the – ?”

  Richie pointed. “Emmi, the Finnish angel.”

  Digby muttered, “You’ll get me hung,drawn, and…” but he moved to the bar and asked the women what they were drinking as Richie slipped out and hurried up the hill after Emmi.

  She was ten yards ahead of him, a distinctive figure amidst the gaggle of promenading tourists and locals. She wore delicate sandals bound with leather thongs in helices around her slim golden calves, and Richie recalled the first time he’d made love to her, almost nine subjective years ago.

  He wondered what compulsion was drawing him to her; their affair had been nothing more than a holiday fling, sensual and fulfilling though it was; so why did he feel the overwhelming urge to reacquaint himself with her now? Was it solely because he knew that their affair was predestined, or was he simply driven by the need to prove something to himself?

  Am I really that shallow, he wondered?

  She turned into a bar at the top of the hill and, taking a breath, Richie followed her.

  The room was long and low, and opened at the far end onto a patio overlooking the hillside and the distant sea. Emmi leaned against the bar and ordered a drink. Richie stood a little way from her and ordered an ouzo with ice; he caught her eye and smiled.

  He feigned surprise. “Emmi Takala, isn’t it?”

  He recalled her smile from all those years ago, cool yet amused. “It might be. And you are?”

  “I’m sorry. I’m Edward Richie. I was admiring your work in the gallery down the hill earlier today, and this evening my friend pointed you out. I hope you don’t mind my saying that I love your paintings.”

  “That’s kind of you, Edward.”

  “You capture the essence of the landscape,” he went on. “I don’t know how you do it, but you manage to convey the heat of the place.”