Page 11 of Someone in the Water
Anna’s smile definitely looks false now and the sight makes me feel tense. The reality of being away from home for four months, in a strange country, sharing a room with someone I don’t know, is proving harder to get excited about than I expected, even with Mum’s blessing.
Footsteps sound in the corridor and a man appears at the double doors to the reception. ‘Are you Frankie? I’m Raphael, great to meet you.’
Raphael has what I think of as classic Corsican looks. Dark hair swept back, brown eyes, tanned skin, a strong, square jaw. Good-looking, which explains the model-like wife. ‘You too,’ I say.
‘And you’ve met Anna? That’s good. If you have any practical needs like fresh bedsheets, and so on, you can ask her.’
I turn towards Anna in time to see her smile fade a fraction.
‘I guess you’d like to meet the waterfront team next?’ Raphael continues. ‘If you’re not too tired from your flight? My condolences, by the way. I never met your father, but Salvo spoke very highly of him.’
To my horror, my eyes prickle. Man, I need to toughen up. I blink, try one of Anna’s smiles. ‘Thank you, and yes, I’d love to meet them.’
Raphael nods, then turns, and I grab my backpack and follow. We pass a restaurant area, then step outside onto a terrace. We walk past the swimming pool, and a long bar, onto a rolling lawn sprinkled with sun loungers. When we reach the beach, I feel an urge to take my trainers off – feel soft sand between my toes – but Raphael doesn’t slow down.
The water sports area is at the far end of the beach. There are two catamarans and six Lasers, plus a rack of windsurf boards with brightly coloured sails hung up close by, all good brands and new-looking. My nervousness fades at the familiar sight. In the summer months, I spend every spare hour doing some kind of water sport back home, but summers are short in the UK, and I don’t have that many spare hours. The thought of doing this all day, every day, for four months, is awesome.
A girl with loose honey-blonde curls tied up high on her head is leaning over one of the catamarans, tightening the ropes.
‘Izzy, do you have a moment?’ Raphael asks.
The girl straightens and turns. Her face softens. ‘Sure.’
‘This is Frankie. The new water-ski instructor we’ve hired to help Dom. Can you show her around?’
‘Of course.Salut, Frankie.’
‘Um,salut,’ I say, wishing Dad had taught me at least some basic French. Being half Corsican and only getting a D in French GCSE is embarrassing.
Izzy smiles. ‘Don’t worry. I spent three years in London, so my English is pretty much perfect.’
I smile back in relief. ‘Are you from Corsica originally?’
‘Oh, no, I’m French,’ Izzy explains. ‘From Nice on the south coast – that’s where I learned to sail. But I came to Corsica on holiday when I was little a couple of times, and I do love it here.’ Izzy turns back to Raphael. ‘Leave Frankie with me. I’ll introduce her to the others.’
He thanks her, then lifts his hand in a short wave and walks back up the beach. I watch a young boy – maybe four or five – run over to him and reach for his hand.
‘That’s Patrick,’ Izzy says, noticing me looking. ‘Raphael and Anna’s son. Sweet kid. Shame about his mum, pointless Anna, the classic brainless beauty.’ Izzy pulls a face and giggles. ‘And there’s Raphael’s dad – Salvo,’ Izzy goes on. ‘He lives here too, with his wife, Rosa. She’s nice enough, but he’s one of those gnarly old Corsican men who hates everyone – tourists, the French, the Italians, ignorant young people – so worth steering clear of. Anyway, come on.’ Izzy reaches for my arm. ‘Guests have lunch between one and three, so the team are chilling out in the hut at the moment.’
As we walk past a row of buoyancy aids hanging up to dry, I wonder why I didn’t come to Salvo’s defence, or at least tell Izzy about him knowing my dad, and him giving me this job. I feel disloyal, but there’s something about Izzy, an intoxicating warmth, that makes me reluctant to disagree with her. And it’s not like I know him, after all.
We reach a beach hut and Izzy gestures for me to walk inside. There’s a makeshift reception desk on one side, and a wide doorway, but there are no windows, and the sudden darkness blinds me. By the time my eyes have adjusted to the gloom, four bodies have unfurled from a pile of cushions on the floor.
‘Guys, this is Frankie. Dom, she’s here to show you up behind a boat.’
‘Ha, no chance,’ a guy says, taking a step forward and reaching out his hand. He’s tall and broad with wavy light brown hair and dimples in his cheeks. ‘Although thank fuck I’ve got someone to help me hoist the kids out of the water when they stack it on those little skis,’ he goes on. ‘I’m sure I’ve lost a few of them this week.’
‘Sadly, I doubt he’s joking,’ says a girl with strong shoulders and iron-straight ash-blonde hair, pushing herself forward. ‘I’m Harriet, senior sailing instructor.’
I recognise Harriet’s type straight away and feel the gnawing anxiety return. Private school, sailing in the Caribbean every Christmas, and Salcombe or Sandbanks over the summer. Rarely seen out of Helly Hansen clothes. Harriet gives my hand a firm shake, and I try to match her strength. I can hold my own on the water; I just need to learn to do it on dry land too.
‘Hey, I’m Archie,’ another guy says in a Scottish accent. ‘I teach windsurfing with Jack.’ Archie is tall and lean, with freckly skin and longish red hair that he curls around his ears.
‘And I’m Jack.’
I turn towards the last voice and try not to let my eyes widen with awe. Jack is a tanned version of Brad Pitt with a peroxide-blonde buzz cut and sea blue eyes. He’s not wearing a T-shirt, and his chest is broad and impossibly smooth. ‘Hello, I’m Frankie,’ I say, then wince – Izzy has already introduced me – and Jack’s smirk doesn’t make me feel any better.
‘Don’t mind Jack,’ Archie continues. ‘He’s a man of few words.’
