best for FICTION
‘Wine, Clare?’ ‘Rude not to!’ I grin at Ali.The boat rocks gently as I let the sun work its magic.
Ali takes the lounger next to me and drops her sarong. She’s tall and bronzed. I don’t really go brown. I move from pink to burnt like over-grilled chicken.
‘I’m guessing we’ve got at least an hour of peace,’ I say.
Our husbands have gone snorkelling. We’ve hired a boat from the hotel and dropped anchor near a tiny uninhabited island, where the fish are apparently amazing.
The four of us have been taking an annual trip together since the kids were small. Now they’ve all left home, we’ve gone from self-catering villas to fancy hotels. The Greek islands have been a good choice.
‘You and Matt getting on OK?’ Ali asks, and I feel a familiar niggle.
I sit up and pull on my sun hat. ‘I guess so.’
Matt has been –distant? Distracted? ‘It came to a head last week but he insists it’s nothing. Maybe we just need a week away. With the kids gone, we’re spending less time at home – less time together.’
I’d dropped the issue into the silence of last Sunday morning, which had led to a row. He’d glanced at his phone halfway through me talking and I’d felt hollow. We’ve been married for twenty-five years. I know there’s something wrong like I know it’s raining because I’m wet through.
I’d lost it, telling him I was sick of him not listening to me. He’d gone out to play golf.
I lie back, closing my eyes. ‘Since the kids left home he gets more irritated with me. Small things. I’m forgetful. I forgot to pick up the dry cleaning he’d needed for a meeting.’ ‘Oh, love. We all adjust once the kids leave.’
I worry it’s more than that. We mark time during the week like there’s nothing amiss. We go to work, eat dinner. He tells me about stressful meetings and I tell him about my teaching woes. Sometimes I wonder if…
But no. Not Matt.
***
‘It’s getting late.’ Ali looks over the bow of the boat, one hand shades the sun, the blue of the sky still vivid.
I look at my watch. ‘You’re right,they’re late. It’s gone six.’ I stare out over the flat ocean. It’s a perfect picture – no clouds, just the trace of white where a plane scratches the sky. ‘We could call the hotel,’ I say, but my phone has no signal.
***
It’s almost seven. The sun has lowered in the sky, and the colours have shifted from blue to magenta.
‘At which point do we start screaming?’ Ali says, stood close to me.
‘Matt and Andy aren’t reckless. It’s just snorkelling round the island. I wonder what’s –’ I’m scanning the water as I hear a shout.
‘Clare! Ali!’
I grip the rail of
