The Dodecanese Islands, Greece

And then some days you wake up and everything is perfect.

This fine bright St Swithin's Day found them under an immense blue sky with not the smallest chance of rain, on the sun deck of the ferry that steamed slowly across the Aegean. In new sunglasses and holiday clothes they lay side by side in the morning sun, sleeping off last night's taverna hangover. Day two of a ten-day island-hopping holiday, and The Rules of Engagement were still holding firm.

A sort of platonic Geneva Convention, The Rules were a set of basic prohibitions compiled before departure to ensure that the holiday didn't get "complicated". Emma was single again; a brief, undistinguished relationship with Spike, a bicycle repairman whose fingers smelt perpetually of WD40, had ended with barely a shrug on either side, but had at least served to give her confidence a boost. And her bicycle had never been in better shape.

For his part Dexter had stopped seeing Naomi because, he said, it was "getting too intense", whatever the hell that meant. Since then he had passed through Avril, Mary, a Sara, a Sarah, a Sandra and a Yolande before alighting on Ingrid, a ferocious model turned fashion-stylist who had been forced to give up modelling -- she had told Emma this with a straight face -- because "her breasts were too large for the catwalk", and as she said this it seemed as if Dexter might explode with pride.

Ingrid was the kind of sexually confident girl who wore her bra on top of her shirt, and although she was by no means threatened by Emma or indeed by anyone on this earth, it had been decided by all parties that it might be better to get a few things straight before the swimwear was unveiled, the cocktails were drunk.

Number One: separate bedrooms. Whatever happened, there were to be no shared beds, neither double nor single, no drunken cuddles or hugs; they were not students anymore. "And I don't see the point of cuddling anyway," Dexter had said. "Cuddling just gives you cramp," and Emma had agreed and added: "No flirting either. Rule Two."

Not that anything was likely to happen; that brief window had closed some years ago and they were immune to each other now, secure in the confines of firm friendship. Nevertheless, on a Friday night in June, Dexter and Emma had sat outside the pub on Hampstead Heath and compiled The Rules.

"Well I don't flirt, so…" said Dexter, rubbing his foot against the inside of her shin.

"No, it isn't. Because it's a Rule."

"Seriously though, no having a few drinks and getting frisky."

"You know what I mean. No funny business."

"With me or anyone. In fact that's Rule Three. I don't want to have to sit there like a lemon while you're rubbing oil into Lotte from Stuttgart."

"Em, that is not going to happen."

Rule Number Four, at Emma's insistence, was the no nudity clause. No skinny-dipping: physical modesty and discretion at all times. She did not want to see Dexter in his underpants or in the shower or, God forbid, going to the toilet. In retaliation, Dexter proposed Rule Number Five. No Scrabble. More and more of his friends were playing it now, in a knowing ironic way, triple-word-score-craving freaks, but it seemed to him like a game designed expressly to make him feel stupid and bored. No Scrabble and no Boggle either; he wasn't dead yet.

"Frisky?"

Now on Day Two, with The Rules still in place, they lay on the deck of the ancient rust-spotted ferry as it chugged slowly from Rhodes towards the smaller Dodecanese islands. Their first night had been spent in the Old Town, drinking sugary cocktails from hollowed-out pineapples, unable to stop grinning at each other with the novelty of it all. The ferry had left Rhodes while it was still dark and now at nine a. m. they lay quietly nursing their hangovers, feeling the throb of the engines in their churning liquid stomachs, eating oranges, quietly reading, quietly burning, entirely happy in each other's silence.

"What, with you?"

He settled his head once more against his rucksack, but two people were by his side now, casting a shadow over his face. The girl was pretty and nervous, the boy large and pale, almost magnesium white in the morning sun.

"Tell me one more time, why were you sacked from that Language School in Rome?"

"Only if you're into little girls."

"I can't get into it."

"I'm just finding it a bit dense. It's just this bloke banging on about how horny he is all the time."

Dexter cracked first, sighing and placing his book on his chest: Nabokov's Lolita, a gift from Emma who was responsible for selecting all the holiday reading, a great breeze-block of books, a mobile library that took up most of her suitcase.

"Oh, I am enjoying it --"

"I should have got something with pictures or flaps."

A moment passed. He sighed again, for effect.

"Makes my head hurt."

"I thought it would strike a chord." She raised her sunglasses. "It's a very erotic book, Dex."

"I've told you, she was twenty-three years old, Em!"

"It's a masterpiece."

"Go to sleep then." She picked up her Russian novel. "Philistine."

"What's up with you?" said Emma, without looking up from Dostoyevsky's The Idiot.

"Very Hungry Caterpillar or something --"

"Aren't you that bloke off the telly?"

Dexter shielded his eyes and smiled broadly up at them. "Hi there."

"Scuse me," said the girl in a Midlands accent.

Emma laughed briefly through her nose, and Dexter shot her a look. "Funny bit," she explained, nodding towards her Dostoyevsky.

"Might be," said Dexter, sitting and removing his sunglasses with a raffish little flick of his head. Emma quietly groaned.

Dexter held his hand up. "Guilty as charged!"

"What's it called? larging it!" The title of the TV show was always spelt in lower case, lower being the more fashionable of the two cases at this time.

"I knew I'd seen you on the telly!" The girl nudged her boyfriend. "I said so, didn't I?"

The pale man shuffled and mumbled, then silence. Dexter became aware of the chug of the engines and Lolita lying open on his chest. He slipped it quietly into his bag. "On holiday, are ya?" he asked. The question was clearly redundant, but allowed him to slip into his television persona, that of a really great, down to earth guy who they'd just met at the bar.

"As a manager. But she's just about to pack it in. She's trainin" to be a teacher in September, aren't you, Em?"

"Emma works for Amnesty International," said Dexter proudly, one hand on her shoulder.

Emma looked at him levelly. "Why are you talking like that?"

"Me? God, no." She widened her eyes. "Though it is my dream."

Dexter had never consciously set out to be famous, though he had always wanted to be successful, and what was the point of being successful in private? People should know. Now that fame had happened to him it did make a certain sense, as if fame were a natural extension of being popular at school. He hadn't set out to be a TV presenter either -- did anyone? -- but was delighted to be told that he was a natural. Appearing on camera had been like sitting at a piano for the first time and discovering he was a virtuoso. The show itself was less issue-based than other shows he had worked on, really just a series of live bands, video exclusives, celebrity interviews, and yes, okay, it wasn't exactly demanding, all he really did was look at the camera and shout "make some noise!" But he did it so well, so attractively, with such swagger and charm.

More dead air. "This is my friend Emma."

"Part-time. Mainly I work in a restaurant."

The girl squinted at her. "Are you on television too?"

Emma peered over her sunglasses. "Hi there."

"Yeah, holiday," mumbled the man.

"Like what?" Dexter laughed defiantly, but the young couple were shifting uneasily, the man looking over the ship's side as if contemplating the jump. Dexter decided to round up the interview. "So we'll see you on the beach, yeah? Maybe get a beer or summink?" and the couple smiled and headed back to their bench.

"It's not going to change you, is it?"

"Oh and what would you prefer? 'Well known'."

"What?"

"I hate that word. 'Famous'."

"Leave it out, will ya?"

Emma watched this performance, amused; the straining for nonchalance, the slight flare of the nostrils, the smile that flickered at the corners of his mouth. She pushed her sunglasses up onto her forehead.

"Or 'annoying'? How about 'annoying'?"

"How about 'notorious'?" he grinned.

"The cockney accent. You went to Winchester College for Christ's sake."

"Being very, very, very, very slightly famous."

"And you can drop that now, please?"

But public recognition remained a new experience. He was self-aware enough to know that he possessed a certain facility for what Emma would call "prattishness" and with this in mind he had been investing some private effort into working out what to do with his face. Anxious not to appear affected or cocky or a fake, he had been devising an expression that said hey, it's no big deal, it's only TV and he assumed this expression now, replacing his sunglasses and returning to his book.

"What?"

"And what do you think?"

"You've got a Yorkshire accent!"

"Just say what you think."

"I don't do a cockney accent."

"When you're being Mr TV you do. You sound like you've left your whelk stall to go and do this 'ere fancy telly programme."

"The TV show on which I feature."

"Oh, your show is it now?"

She sighed and fixed her eyes on the book. "It's not my thing, Dex."

She laughed and went back to her book.

After a while Dexter spoke again.

"Well, do you?"

"I'm sure it does, but you're not one of the two million people who watch my show."

"Okay, well I think the programme is like being screamed at for an hour by a drunk with a strobe-light, but like I said --"

"Watch me? On larging it?"

"I don't know about TV…"

Dexter shrugged. "I've got to talk like that, otherwise it alienates the audience."

"And what if it alienates me?"

"What?"

"Alright, point taken." He glanced at his book, then back at Emma. "And what about me?"

"I might have had it on. In the background once or twice, while I'm balancing my cheque-book."

"Tell me anyway."

"Because I'm from Yorkshire!

She held her chin between finger and thumb. "Yes, yes, I believe I saw your in-depth piece on MC Hammer. Very sharp, very provoking --"

Emma smiled and turned a page. "I'm sure you do."

"Because that's what it is, journalism. I have to research, shape the interview, ask the right questions --"

"What about you?"

"Well -- am I any good? As a presenter?"

Proudly, he raised himself onto one elbow. "Actually, I prefer to think of myself as a journalist."

She removed her sunglasses. "Dexter, you are possibly the greatest presenter of Youth TV that this country has ever known, and I don't say that kind of thing lightly."

"Shut up, Em --"

"No, seriously, the way you got under MC's skin, his musical inspirations, the trousers. It was, well -- untouchable."

Mid-morning approached and while Dexter slept, Emma caught her first sight of their destination: a blue-grey granite mass rising from the clearest sea that she had ever seen. She had always assumed that water like this was a lie told by brochures, a trick with lenses and filters, but there it was, sparkling and emerald green. At first glance the island seemed unpopulated except for the huddle of houses spreading up from the harbour, buildings the colour of coconut ice. She found herself laughing quietly at the sight of it. Until now travel had always been a fraught affair. Each year until she was sixteen, it had been two weeks fighting with her sister in a caravan in Filey while her parents drank steadily and looked out at the rain, a sort of harsh experiment in the limits of human proximity. At University she had gone camping in the Cairngorms with Tilly Killick, six days in a tent that smelt of cup-a-soup; a larky, so-awful-it's-funny holiday that had ended up just awful.

He swatted at her with his book. "Shut up and read, will you?" He lay back down and closed his eyes. Emma glanced over to check that he was smiling, and smiled too.

Now, standing at the railing as the town came into clearer view, she began to understand the point of travel; she had never felt so far away from the launderette, the top deck of the night bus home, Tilly's box room. It was as if the air was somehow different here; not just how it tasted and smelt, but the element itself. In London the air was something you peered through, like a neglected fish tank. Here everything was bright and sharp, clean and clear.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

She heard the snap of a camera shutter and turned in time to see Dexter take her photo again. "I look terrible," she said as a reflex, though perhaps she didn't. He joined her, his arms holding the rail on either side of her waist.

"S'alright," she said, unable to recall a time when she had felt happier.

They disembarked -- the first time she felt that she had ever disembarked -- and immediately found a flurry of activity on the quayside as the casual travellers and backpackers began the scramble for the best accommodation.

"So what happens now?"

"We need two rooms. Yes?"

He turned and looked at her, standing on the harbour wall, holding her wide-brimmed hat to her head in the warm breeze that pressed her light blue dress against her body. She no longer wore spectacles, and there was a scattering of freckles across her chest that he had never seen before, the bare skin turning from pink to brown as it disappeared below the neckline.

"Somewhere with a balcony --"

"What about them?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"I'll find us somewhere. You wait in that café, I'll come and get you."

"I'll see what I can do," and, sandals slapping, he strolled towards the crowd on the quay.

He smiled and headed off into the crowd. Emma watched him go, then dragged the two backpacks along the quay to a small, wind-blown café. There she reached into her bag and pulled out a pen and notebook, an expensive, cloth-bound affair, her journal for the trip.

"The Rules," she said.

"And a sea view please. And a desk."

She shouted after him: "And don't forget!"

"Absolutely. Two rooms."

Dexter and the landlady stood in the middle of the bare room: whitewashed walls and cool stone floor, bare save for an immense iron-framed double bed, a small writing desk and chair and some dried flowers in a jar. He walked through louvred double-doors onto a large balcony painted to match the colour of the sky, overlooking the bay below. It was like walking out onto some fantastic stage.

She opened it on the first blank page and tried to think of something she could write, some insight or observation other than that everything was fine. Everything was fine, and she had the rare, new sensation of being exactly where she wanted to be.

"You are how many?" asked the landlady, mid-thirties, quite attractive.

"Two of us."

"And for how long?"

"Not sure, five nights, maybe more?"

Emma has these freckles that I've never seen before scattered across her chest just above the neckline.

Dexter sat on the double bed, bouncing on it speculatively. "But my friend and I we are just, well, just good friends. We need two rooms?"

"Oh. Okay. I have second room."

"Well here is perfect I think?"

"What I mean, Em, is I don't mind if you don't."

"Well," Dexter shrugged, "I suppose I prefer to think of them as guidelines."

Emma frowned.

"Yes, of course, I have two rooms."

"Go on," said Emma, closing her notebook.

"Sorry."

"And the bad news?"

"I see."

"There's only one bed."

"So you do have two rooms?"

"There's good news and there's bad news."

"It's peak season, Em! I've tried everywhere!" Stay calm, don't get shrill. Maybe play the guilt card instead. "But if you want me to carry on looking…" Wearily he made to get up from the chair.

"Well I've found this fantastic place, sea view, balcony, a bit higher up in the village, quiet if you want to write, there's even a little desk, and it's free for the next five days, longer if we want it."

"Well it would have to be a pretty massive bed though, wouldn't it? To conform to The Rules."

"Ah."

"Ah."

The lie seemed to be holding. He sat again. "Double. A big double."

"Really?" she said, suspiciously. "One bedroom on the whole island?"

She put her hand on his forearm. "Single or double bed?"

"No, I know you don't mind --"

"Oh, I can manage, it's you I worry about --"

"But if you really don't think you can keep your hands off me --"

Emma loved the room. She stood on the balcony and listened to the cicadas, a noise that she had only heard in films before and had half suspected to be an exotic fiction. She was delighted, too, to see lemons growing in the garden; actual lemons, in trees; they seemed glued on. Keen not to appear provincial, she said none of this out loud, simply saying "Fine. We'll take it." Then, while Dexter made arrangements with the landlady, she slipped into the bathroom to continue fighting with her contact lenses.

"Because I'm telling you now, if you lay one finger on me --"

At University Emma had held firm private convictions about the vanity of contact lenses, nurturing as they did conventional notions of idealised feminine beauty. A sturdy, honest, utilitarian pair of National Health spectacles showed that you didn't care about silly trivia like looking nice, because your mind was on higher things. But in the years since leaving college this line of argument had come to seem so abstract and specious that she had finally succumbed to Dexter's nagging and got the damn things, realising only too late that what she had really been avoiding for all those years was that moment in the movies: the librarian removes her spectacles and shakes out her hair. "But Miss Morley, you're beautiful."

Her face in the mirror seemed strange to her now, bare and exposed, as if she had just removed her spectacles for the last nine months. The lenses had a tendency to make her prone to random and alarming facial spasms, ratty blinks. They stuck to her finger and face like fish scales or, as now, slid beneath her eyelid, burying themselves deep in the back of her skull. After a rigorous bout of facial contortion and what felt like surgery, she managed to retrieve the shard, stepping out of the bathroom, red-eyed and blinking tearfully.

Dexter was sitting on the bed, his shirt unbuttoned. "Em? Are you crying?"

"No. But it's still early."

They headed out in the oppressive lunch-time heat, finding their way towards the long crescent of white sand that stretched for a mile or so from the village, and it was time to unveil the swimming costumes. Emma had put a lot of thought, perhaps too much, into her swimsuit, settling finally for a plain black all-in-one from John Lewis that might have been branded The Edwardian. As she pulled her dress over her head, she wondered if Dexter thought she was in some way chickening-out by not wearing a bikini, as if a one-piece swimming costume belonged with spectacles, desert boots and bike helmets as somehow prudish, cautious, not quite feminine. Not that she cared, though she did wonder, as her dress passed over her head, if she had caught his eyes flickering in her direction. Either way, she was pleased to note that he had gone for the baggy shorts look. A week of lying next to Dexter in Speedos would be more uncomfortable than she could bear.

He smiled, and continued to watch her from behind his dark glasses, noting the way her raised arm lifted her breast beneath the black material of the swimming costume, the bulge of soft pale flesh about the elasticated neckline. There was something about the gesture too, the tilt of the head and the pulling back of her hair as she applied the lotion to her neck, and he felt the pleasant nausea that accompanied desire. Oh God, he thought, eight more days of this. Her swimming costume was scooped low at the back and she could do no more than dab ineffectually at the lowest point. "Want me to do your back?" he said. Offering to apply sun cream was a corny old routine, beneath him really, and he thought it best to pass it off as medical concern. "You don't want to burn."

"I'm not used to the sun. Not like you, you globetrotter. You want some?"

"It's like house paint."

"You might as well lie under a blanket."

"No, I'm her auntie." She sat and attempted to apply suntan lotion to her legs in a way that wouldn't make her thighs wobble.

"Excuse me," he said, "but aren't you the Girl from Ipanema?"

"What is that stuff?" he said.

"Factor thirty."

"I don't agree with suntan lotion."

"Dexter, you are so hard."

"I don't want to overdo it on the second day."

"Scooped quite low, isn't it?" he said, aware of his fingers at the base of her spine.

"My tattoo. From India." She rubbed it with her thumb as if trying to wipe it off. "It's faded a bit. It's a yin-and-yang," he explained.

"Go on then." Emma shuffled over and sat between his legs, her head resting forward on her knees. He began to apply the lotion, his face so close that she could feel his breath on her neck, while he could feel the heat reflecting off her skin, both of them working hard on the impression that this was everyday behaviour and in no way a clear contravention of Rules Two and Four, those prohibiting Flirtation and Physical Modesty.

"Good job I didn't put it on backwards!" she said and a silence followed while both of them thought oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God.

"It means the perfect union of opposites."

"Looks like a road sign."

As a distraction she placed her hand on his ankle and yanked it towards her. "What's this?"

"It means 'end of national speed limit'. It means put some socks on."

"Low third, wasn't it?"

"I'm not ogling, I'm observing. I'm a qualified anthropologist, remember?"

"What?"

"Is everyone on this beach completely naked?"

Emma averted her eyes. "You see, I couldn't do that."

And so the long, hot day crawled on. They swam and slept and read, and as the fiercest heat faded and the beach become more populated a problem became apparent. Dexter noticed it first.

Emma looked up. "Oh yeah." She returned to her book. "Don't ogle, Dexter."

"Is it just me or --"

He laughed and placed his hands on her back, his thumbs aligned with the hollows of her shoulder blades. A moment passed. "There!" he said, brightly. "That's your undercoat. So. Let's swim!"

"From the ferry. Over there. Having a barbecue." Twenty metres away the man crouched pale and naked over a smoky aluminium tray as if for warmth, while the woman stood on tip-toes and waved, two triangles of white, one of black. Dexter waved back cheerily: "You've got no cloooothes oooon!"

"What friends?"

"High two-two. Look, there's our friends."

"Not a rule, a guideline."

"What?"

"I'd barbecue naked."

"I don't know, is it?"

"Should we?"

"Just have a chat."

"Maybe we should go and say hi."

"What?"

"So what do you think?"

"No!"

"What?"

"Em, you're so conventional."

"What?"

"Everyone else has!"

"No, a rule."

"That's no reason! And what about Rule Four?"

"Take all our clothes off?"

"No, we should not take all our clothes off!"

"That's not conventional, it's basic health and safety. It's food hygiene."

"With a chicken drumstick in one hand and his knob in the other? No thanks. Besides, isn't it a breach of nudist etiquette or something?"

"Barbecue naked."

"And that's the difference between us, Dex, you're so dark, so complicated."

"Talking to someone naked and us not being naked."

"Just concentrate on your book, will you?" She turned to face the tree-line, but over the years she had reached a level of familiarity with Dexter where it had become possible to hear an idea enter his mind, like a stone thrown into mud, and sure enough:

Emma laughed sharply. "Oh, Dexter, do you really think so?"

Sulkily he flopped back down on the sand. "Just seems a bit rude, that's all."

"Why not?"

"No point if it's just me," he mumbled petulantly.

"So? You could be a model."

"I just thought we might be more relaxed, with our clothes off."

"It doesn't matter why not! Besides, I don't think your girlfriend would be very pleased."

"Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you, Dex --"

"Ingrid wouldn't care. She's very open-minded, Ingrid. She'd have had her top off at WH Smiths in the airport --"

"So? We can bend it."

"You don't disappoint me --"

"But there's a difference --"

"What difference?"

"Fine, you go ahead, I'll try to tear my eyes away."

She lay her back down once again. "Dexter, why on earth are you so desperate for me to take my clothes off?"

"NO!"

"For catalogues or something. You've got a lovely figure."

"Well Ingrid used to be a model for one thing --"

"You don't think you'd be more relaxed?"

"Un-believable, just unbelievable --"

"If you bend it, it's not a rule."

"Course it's nothing we've not seen before."

"I think I'm going to be sick --"

"I'm just saying it's not as if we've got any surprises, genitally-speaking."

"Dexter?"

"Not that long. If I close my eyes, I can picture it --"

"I'm just saying that neither of has got anything that the other hasn't seen before. Nudity-wise." She stared. "That night, remember? After the graduation party? Our one night of love?"

"Beg pardon?"

He turned and lay down on his front alongside her, head resting on his arms, their elbows touching, and once again she could hear the sound of his thoughts. He nudged her with his elbow.

"All I'm saying is completely objectively, you're a very attractive woman --"

Slowly she lay her book down, lifted her sunglasses onto her forehead, her face resting sideways on her forearms, the mirror of him.

"-- who is keeping her clothes on! If you're so desperate to tan your bits, fine, go ahead. Now can we change the subject?"

"You know what I mean --"

"'A lovely figure', God help me --"

"It was a long time ago --"

"Not that dark --"

"Don't do that --"

"Look I'm not taking my clothes off, alright? And I wasn't wearing dungarees, I've never worn dungarees in my life." She retrieved her book, then started to laugh quietly to herself.

"Do I?"

"What's funny?" he asked.

"Drunk enough to lower my standards. Besides, as I recall nothing happened."

"They? Who's they?"

"And you weren't that drunk --"

"Well I wouldn't call it nothing, not from where I was laying. 'Lying'? 'Laying' or 'lying'?"

"Lying. I was young, I didn't know any better. In fact I've blanked it out, like a car crash."

She tapped him sharply on the nose with her book.

"Ow!"

"Well I haven't. If I close my eyes I can picture you right now, silhouetted against the morning light, your discarded dungarees splayed provocatively on the Habitat dhurri --"

"Yep, there you are --"

"'Habitat dhurri'." She laughed and looked at him fondly. "You make me laugh sometimes."

"That's what they always say --"

"I was drunk --"

"It was dark --"

"Every now and then. You should be on television."

Gratified, he smiled and closed his eyes. He had in fact retained a vivid mental picture of Emma from that night, lying on the single bed, naked except for the skirt around her waist, her arms thrown up above her head as they kissed. He thought about this, and eventually fell asleep.

In the late afternoon they returned to the room, tired and sticky and tingling from the sun, and there it was again: the bed. They stepped around it and walked out onto the balcony that overlooked the sea, hazy now as the sky shaded from blue into the pink of the evening.

There was no shower curtain, and she could see Dexter standing side on beneath the cold water, eyes closed against the spray, head back, arms raised. She noticed his shoulder blades, the long brown back, the two hollows at the base of his spine above the small white bottom. But oh God, he was turning now, and the can of beer slipped through her hand and exploded, fizzing and foaming, propelling itself noisily around the floor. She threw a towel over it as if capturing some wild rodent, then looked up to see Dexter, her platonic friend, naked except for his clothes held loosely in front of him. "Slipped out of my hand!" she said, stamping the beer foam into the towel and thinking eight more days and nights of this and I will self-combust.

"So. Who wants first shower?"

"You go ahead. I'm going to sit out here and read."

She lay on the faded sun-lounger in the evening shade, listening to the sound of the running water and trying to concentrate on the tiny typeface of her Russian novel, which seemed to be getting smaller with each page. She stood suddenly and crossed to the small fridge that they'd filled with water and beer, took a can and noticed that the bathroom door had swung open.

"Happy then?"

Then it was her turn to shower. She closed the door, washed the beer from her hands then contorted herself as she struggled to undress in the tiny, humid bathroom that still smelt of his aftershave.

"Maybe we should just stay here," he said. "Instead of island-hopping, hang out here for a week, then back to Rhodes then home."

"Don't think you'd get bored?"

Rule Four required that Dexter go and stand on the balcony while she dried herself and got dressed but after some experimentation he found that if he kept his sunglasses on and turned his head just so, he could see her reflection in the glass door as she struggled to rub lotion onto the low parabola of her newly tanned back. He watched the wriggle of her hips as she pulled on her underwear, the concave curve of her back and arch of shoulder blades as she fastened her bra, the raised arms and the blue summer dress coming down like a curtain.

She joined him on the balcony.

She smiled. "Okay. Maybe."

"I don't think so."

"Well my face feels like a grilled tomato, but apart from that --"

"Let me see."

"Christmas trees," said Dexter.

"Game of Scrabble?"

"Whatever you want."

The restaurants in the small town were remarkable for being all identical. The air hung smoky with burning lamb, and they sat in a quiet place at the end of the harbour where the crescent of the beach began and drank wine that tasted of pine.

"Okay, how about dinner. Apparently they have this thing called Greek Salad."

Music played from speakers concealed in the plastic vines, Madonna's "Get into the Groove" performed on the zither. They ate stale bread rolls, burnt lamb, salad soused in acetic acid, all of which tasted just fine. After a while even the wine became delicious, like some interesting mouthwash, and soon Emma felt ready to break Rule Two. No flirting.

She opened her eyes suddenly. "What now?" she said.

Closing her eyes she turned towards him and lifted her chin, her hair still wet and combed back off her face, which was shiny and scrubbed clean. It was Emma, but all new. She glowed, and he thought of the words sun-kissed, then thought kiss her, take hold of her face and kiss her.

"I have my limits."

"Disinfectant," said Emma.

"What, like a secret?"

"Why me first?"

"No, you first."

"Not necessarily."

"Sort of like spin-the-bottle?" His eyes widened. Dexter considered himself a world-class spin-the-bottle player. "Okay. You first."

"But to be on the safe side." She leant forward, put her hand on his wrist. "I think we should tell each other something that the other person doesn't know."

And it was true, he had an almost bottomless supply of secrets. He could tell her that he'd watched her getting dressed that night, or that he'd left the bathroom door open on purpose when he showered. He could tell her that he'd smoked heroin with Naomi, or that just before Christmas he'd had fast, unhappy sex with Emma's flatmate Tilly Killick; a foot massage that had spun horribly out of control while Emma was at Woolworths buying fairy lights for the tree. But perhaps it would be better to go for something that didn't reveal him as shallow or seedy, duplicitous or conceited.

"Well if we're going to stay here for eight days we're going to run out of things to talk about, right?"

"Exactly, a secret, something surprising, one a night every night for the rest of the holiday."

"I've got an idea."

She had never been a proficient flirt. Her spasms of kittenish behaviour were graceless and inept, like normal conversation on roller skates. But the combination of the retsina and sun made Emma feel sentimental and light-headed. She reached for her roller skates.

"Go on."

"You've got more to choose from."

"And what were you doing in a gay club?"

Her mouth fell open. "A guy?" and she started to laugh. "Well I take my hat off to you, Dex, you're really full of surprises --"

"No big deal, just a snog, and I was off my face --"

"We always go. The music's better. More hardcore, less of that happy house shit --"

"Okay, here goes." He cleared his throat. "A couple of weeks ago at this club, I got off with this guy."

"It was alright. Just a kiss. A mouth is just a mouth, isn't it?"

"And did you…?"

He thought for some time.

"It's not a 'disco', it's a gay club."

""Sexface at Strap"! Whatever happed to discos called 'Roxys' or 'Manhattans'?"

"Anyway, I was there with Ingrid and her mates and I was dancing and this guy just came up to me and started kissing me and I suppose I just sort of, you know, kissed him back."

"You mentalist --"

"Well it was this hardcore gay night, Sexface, at this club called Strap in Vauxhall --"

"What?"

"Like it?"

"That's what they all say. So tell me -- what happened?"

Emma laughed once, loudly. "Dexter, you've the soul of a poet. 'A mouth is just a mouth'. Oh, that's nice, that's lovely. Isn't that from 'As Time Goes By'?"

"Seems to me like everyone's your type."

"Hey, it's not a big deal, is it? We're meant to be experimenting with sexuality at our age."

"You know what I mean."

"She just laughed. She doesn't mind, she quite liked it." He gave a blasé shrug. "Ingrid's bisexual anyway, so --"

"We are? No-one tells me anything."

"And do you think you'll be seeing Stewart again?"

"I left the lights on once, but I wouldn't do it again."

"Not The Strap, just Strap. A harness and leather chaps. A British Telecom engineer called Stewart."

"Well you better get on with it, Em. Shed those inhibitions."

"You must get up to stuff."

"A mouth is just a mouth. They should put that on your tombstone. What did Ingrid say?"

"Oh Dex, you're such a sexpert. What was he wearing then, your friend at The Strap?"

"Only if my phone breaks down. He wasn't my type."

Emma rolled her eyes. "Of course she's bisexual," and Dexter smiled as if Ingrid's bisexuality had been his idea.

"Just you look soooo pleased with yourself."

"It was just a colourful episode, that's all. What's funny?"

"No, I don't! Homophobe." He started to peer over her shoulder.

"Hey are you making a pass at the waiter?"

"Oh I give in. I can't compete with that kind of thing."

"I'm trying to get us another drink. Your turn now. Your secret."

"No girl/girl?"

She shook her head, resigned. "You know one day you're going to say something like that to a real-life lesbian and they're going to break your jaw."

"So you've never been attracted to a --?"

"Don't be pathetic, Dexter. Now do you want to hear my secret or what?"

The waiter arrived with complimentary Greek brandies, the kind of drink that can only be given away. Emma took a sip and winced then carefully rested her cheek on her hand in a way that she knew suggested a tipsy intimacy. "A secret. Let me see." She tapped her chin with her finger. She could tell him that she had watched him in the shower, or that she knew all about Tilly Killick at Christmas, the foot massage that had spun horribly out of control. She could even tell him that in 1983 she had kissed Polly Dawson in her bedroom, but knew that she would never hear the end of it. Besides, she had known all evening what she intended to say. As the zither played "Like a Prayer", she licked her lips and made her eyes sultry along with other tiny readjustments, until she had constructed what she believed to be her best, most attractive face, the one she used in photographs.

"Poems? Really?"

"'Bastard'. It's a half-rhyme."

"So what happened?"

"God, you're annoying!" She slapped the reddest part of his sunburn with the back of her hand.

"Seriously, what happened to them?"

"When we first met, at University, before we became, you know, pals, well, I had a bit of a crush on you. Not a bit of a crush, a massive crush actually. For ages. Wrote dopey poems and everything."

"I got to know you. You cured me of you."

"Well I want to read these poems. What rhymes with 'Dexter'?"

"Tilly told me."

"How did you know?"

"No, really, what happened."

"Because you said it had to be something that I didn't know." He was grinning, and she was reminded once more of his almost limitless capacity to disappoint.

"Ow!"

"I'm not proud of myself."

"Nice one, Tilly."

"I see. I see." He folded his arms, put them on the edge of the table and looked down. "Well I'm sorry, Em, but that doesn't count."

She looked into the bottom of her glass. "I suppose it was something you get over in time. Like shingles."

"Why not?"

She hesitated. "Okay. Let's go for a walk."

"They've been destroyed. I built a bonfire, years ago." Feeling foolish and let down, she drank once more from the empty glass. "Too much brandy. We should go." She began to look distractedly for the waiter, and Dexter began to feel foolish too. So many things he might have said, so why be smug, glib, un generous? Keen to find a way to make amends, he nudged her hand. "So shall we go for a walk?"

They headed out along the bay past the half-built houses of the town as it spread itself along the coast, a new tourist development that they deplored in a conventional way, and while they talked Emma silently resolved to be more sensible in future. Recklessness, spontaneity didn't really suit her, she couldn't carry it off, the results were never what she hoped for. Her confession to Dexter had felt like swinging wildly at a ball, watching it sail high into the air then moments later hearing the sound of breaking glass. For the remainder of their time together she resolved to stay level-headed, sober and remember The Rules. Remember Ingrid, beautiful uninhibited bisexual Ingrid, waiting for him back in London. No more inappropriate revelations. In the meantime she would just have to drag the stupid conversation round with her, like toilet paper on the heel of her shoe.

"You won't. Look, it's beautiful." The sea was very calm and clear like some wonderful aquarium, jade with a phosphorescent gleam; if you scooped it up it would glow in your hands. Dexter was already pulling his shirt off over his head. "Come on. It'll sober us up."

"I'll drown."

They had left the town behind now, and Dexter took her hand to support her as they stumbled woozily over the dry dunes, still warm from the day's sun. They walked towards the sea to where the sand was wet and firm and Emma noticed that he was still holding her hand.

"You're insane."

"Come on!"

"But I haven't got my swimming cost --" A realisation dawned. "Oh, I get it," she laughed. "I see what's going on here --"

"I'm going for a swim. You coming?"

"Where are we going anyway?" she asked, noting the slur in her voice.

"What?"

"What?"

"Emma, you are such a prude. Why are you such a prude?"

"I've walked right into it haven't I?"

"The old skinny-dip routine. Get a girl drunk and look for the nearest large body of water --"

"Fine, but you'll regret it." His back was to her now, taking down his trousers then his underwear.

"You go on, I'll wait here."

"Leave your underpants on!" she shouted after him, watching his long brown back and white buttocks as he strode down to the sea. "You're not at Sexface now you know!" He fell forward into the surf and she stood, swaying woozily, feeling solitary and absurd. Wasn't this exactly one of the experiences she craved? Why couldn't she be more spontaneous and reckless? If she was too scared to swim without a costume how could she ever be expected to tell a man that she wanted to kiss him? Before the thought was finished she had reached down, grabbed the hem of her dress and in a single movement peeled it over her head. She removed her underwear, kicking it off her foot high into the air, letting it lie where it fell, and ran, laughing and swearing to herself, towards the water's edge.

Standing on tip-toe as far out as he dared to go, Dexter wiped the water from his eyes, looked out to sea and wondered what would happen next. Qualms; he felt the onset of qualms. A Situation loomed, and hadn't he resolved to try and avoid Situations for a while, to be less reckless and spontaneous? This was Emma Morley after all, and Em was precious, his best friend probably. And what about Ingrid, privately known as Scary Ingrid? He heard a garbled shout of exhilaration from the beach and turned just too late to see Emma stumble naked into the water as if pushed from behind. Honesty and frankness, those would be his watchwords. She splashed towards him with a messy crawl, and he decided to be frank and honest for a change and see where that got him.

"What?"

"It is. What d'you think?"

Emma arrived, gasping. Suddenly aware of the sea's translucency, she was struggling to find a way to tread water with one arm folded across her chest. "So this is it then!"

"So anyway what I meant to say was sorry. For what I said --"

"Skinny-dipping!"

"No --"

"When?"

"So?"

"That's a very soulful face," she said, to break the silence. "Hey, you're not having a wee in the water, are you?"

"Back in the restaurant, for being a bit glib or whatever."

"S'alright. I'm used to it."

"S'alright I suppose. Very larky. What am I meant to do now, just goof around or splash you or what?" She cupped her hand, threw water lightly at his face. "Am I doing it right?" Before he could splash her back the current caught her and pulled her towards Dexter, who stood with his feet braced against the seabed. He caught her, their legs interlacing like clasped fingers, bodies touching then held apart again, like dancers.

"And also to say I thought the same thing too. At the time. What I mean is I liked you too, 'romantically', I mean. I mean I didn't write poems or anything, but I thought about you, think about you, you and me. I mean I fancy you."

"Break the Rules --"

"You know what I mean. A fling. Just while we're away, no strings, no obligations, not a word to Ingrid. Our little secret. Because I'd be up for it. That's all."

"My problem is --" and he sighed and smiled with one side of his mouth. "Well I suppose I fancy pretty much everybody!"

"I'm being serious here, Em?"

"I see," was all she could say.

"Because… you're a gay man?"

"Really? Oh. Really? Right. Oh. Right." It's going to happen after all, she thought, right here and now, standing naked in the Aegean Sea.

"What I mean is that I don't think I was -- am -- ready for, you know, Boyfriend Girlfriend. I think we'd want different things. From a relationship."

"Are you angry with me?"

"No! I don't care! I told you, it was a long, long time ago --"

"-- anyone really, just walking down the street, it's like you said, everyone's my type. It's a nightmare!"

"Poor you," she said flatly.

"Play Scrabble?"

"However!" Under the water, his hands found her waist and held on. "However, if you wanted a bit of fun --"

"Fun?"

"Are you? I can never tell."

Seven, eight, nine --

She made a noise in her throat somewhere between laughter and a growl. Up for it. He was grinning expectantly like a salesman offering great deals on finance. Our little secret, to add to all the others presumably. A phrase entered her mind: a mouth is just a mouth. There was only one thing she could do, and oblivious to her own nakedness she bounced up out of the water and with all her weight pushed his head under the water and held it there. She began a slow count. One, two, three --

He's flailing now, better let him up I suppose, and make a joke, make a joke of it --

You arrogant, self-satisfied little --

Four, five, six --

And you stupid, stupid woman, stupid for caring, stupid for thinking that he cared --

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."

"You're worried that not sleeping together could spoil our friendship?"

"Got it out of the way?"

"I just think we'd feel closer. As friends."

"If you're scared of Ingrid --"

"I'm not expressing myself very well --"

"I'm not scared of her, I'm just not going to do it so that we can say that we've done it. And I'm not going to do it if the first thing you say afterwards is 'please don't tell anyone' or 'let's forget it ever happened'. If you have to keep something secret it's because you shouldn't be doing it in the first place!"

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.

"Dexter, I understand you perfectly, that's the problem --"

"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.

"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.

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?"

"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."

"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!"

"Well I suppose that's just one of the perils of skinny-dipping," she mumbled, the corners of her mouth twitching.

"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.

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.

"Pack it in, Em. It's not funny. Emma? Emma! That's enough!"

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.

"It's Helmut Lang," said Emma and Dexter narrowed his eyes at her treachery.

"So is that them?"

"Til that last bit," he mumbled.

"Ha," he said, lying on the bed, in new underwear.

"The famous thirty-quid underpants. What are they, lined with ermine?"

"This one."

"Let's just go to sleep, shall we? So -- which side?"

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."

"What?"

"Nice day," she said.

"Someone stole my clothes," he explained curtly.

They lay on their backs in parallel, Emma relishing the sensation of the cold white sheets against tender skin.

The couple nodded sympathetically and squeezed past them, the girl pausing to turn and shout after them -- "Nice sack."

"Yeah. Me too," 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."

"Eight more days."

She thought for a moment. "One, Two and Four."

"Eight more days," she said.

"Well at least we didn't play Scrabble."

"Think you can hack it?"

"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.

"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?"

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, Em," he replied, but she was already gone.

Eight days to go, he thought, eight whole days. Almost anything could happen in eight days.

"Night, Dex," she murmured while she could still speak.