Sunshine After the Rain: a feel good, laugh-out-loud romance

It was like being in a car wash. Rain hammered down with angry vengeance. Fast-flowing rivulets had formed and were chasing their companions down the sloping footpaths towards the sea, the tall thin cypress trees bending perpendicularly to the storm’s demands. Evie cursed the sojourn into misplaced optimism she had indulged in on the plane whilst sipping a glass of Prosecco rosé; when she had dreamed of sun-soaked days stretching out on a sun lounger by the pool, a cocktail in one hand and a paintbrush in the other, a gentle tropical breeze cooling her brow and defrosting her bones.

‘Are we waiting here until the rain stops?’

The taxi driver turned in his seat, his lips bracketed with cute dimples, his mahogany eyes kind but laced with an edge of guilt.

‘No, madam. We arrive at your destination.’

Evie squinted through the velvety darkness but all she could make out were a battalion of trees on both sides of the road.

‘Erm, I don’t see a villa?’

‘The driveway is very steep. I can’t risk taking the car down in this.’

The taxi driver waved his arm at the weather in disgust before flashing her his matinee idol smile. For some reason, an image of Pippa floated into Evie’s mind as she suggested she should consider a dalliance with a handsome Greek guy. A twist of interest snaked through her veins until it dawned on Evie what the driver was expecting her to do.

‘What? You want me to get out and walk?’

But the driver had already sprung from his seat, dashed to the boot to extract her suitcase, and yanked open the passenger door. She stared at him with incredulity.

‘You can’t be serious? How far is it?’

‘Only a few metres.’ He pointed to a hidden gap in the vegetation, where, if she concentrated hard enough, she could just about make out the curled ironwork of a black metal gate.

She gritted her teeth, gifted the driver with what she hoped was a stern grimace, and swung her jean-clad legs out of the car. Within seconds she was soaked to her knickers as a volley of raindrops the size of grapes attacked her with cruel retaliation. She twisted her lips at the amusement she saw dancing in the driver’s eyes and snatched the handle of her suitcase from his hands.

Oblivious to the bouncing rain and Evie’s irritation, the driver had the audacity to whip out a business card. ‘I am Andreas Scoumpouris. I am sure our paths will cross again.’

She had no choice but to accept the card, then watch from beneath an overhanging branch as the taxi’s red tail lights disappeared into the deluge. The final scene of her desertion was accompanied by a loud melodious blast of bouzouki music, as the deserter sped away to a no doubt more lucrative night on the streets of Ipsos.

Evie squared her shoulders, tossed her sodden hair behind her ears, and stalked through the gate just as another crack of lightning enabled her to see that the villa was at least fifty metres away at the bottom of a very steep driveway. She briefly fought the urge to sit down at the roadside and dissolve into a bucket-load of tears. Why had she thought her life couldn’t get any worse? Clearly her guardian angel was enjoying yet another a night off – perhaps she was partying in the cafés and bars with the rest of the tourists, and who could blame her?

But what good would crying do? All she wanted was to strip off her clothes, sink into a hot bath, and take refuge in the oblivion that sleep offered. She inhaled a deep, fortifying breath and made her way down the drive. Despite the downpour, the sweet fragrance of crushed wild rosemary mingled with damp soil met her nostrils as she dragged her suitcase and her exhausted body through the exotic vegetation down the almost vertical incline towards the house.

She swished her hair from her eyes again and wished she had thought to tie it back. Unfortunately, the jerking movement dislodged a bottle of Evian from the top of her shoulder bag. Before she could catch it, the bottle had tumbled to the ground and rolled away down the hill, picking up speed until it had disappeared from sight.

She rolled her eyes at the ridiculous predicament she had found herself in. The rain had clearly followed her from London to Corfu! She had made the journey for nothing. There was an abundance of rain-soaked sights to capture in paint on the streets of the capital without having to invest in the expense of airfare. She thought of the rucksack containing her artist’s materials she had hurriedly packed and decided that the current weather would give a whole new meaning to her dream of producing a portfolio of beautiful watercolours.

How had she attracted such bad luck? She felt like a character from a cartoon in which a heavy black rain cloud followed her around whilst the sun shone down on her companions. An upsurge of emotion threatened to overwhelm her. Not only was she soaked to the skin, her lungs burning with the exertion needed to control the barrelling suitcase so that it didn’t race away down the hill in the wake of the Evian bottle or, a much more likely scenario, knock her to the ground like an out-of-control juggernaut.

Just as she caught a glimpse of the cheery powder-blue front door of the Bradburys’ whitewashed villa, a random gust of wind caused her to miss her footing on the cobbled path and she tumbled down the final few feet to land in an undignified heap on the doorstep, the suitcase veering over her ankle.

‘Ouch!’

She remained on her bottom for a few seconds waiting for the pain to recede before she began scrambling in her bag for the key Pippa had given her. She found it and, with shaking fingers, shoved it into the lock, already envisaging the ecstasy of sinking under a mountain of aromatic bubbles to soak away the vagaries of the day from hell.

But the key refused to turn. She twisted it to the right, and then to the left, and even gave the door a sharp kick for good measure. Nothing happened so she succumbed to the overwhelming urge to allow her hot tears to trickle down her cheeks when she realized she would be spending the night outside on the doorstep. Fortunately, despite the deluge, the temperature still retained some warmth so she wouldn’t freeze to death, but curled up like a bedraggled lost dog wasn’t how she had envisioned spending her first night in Corfu.

She dragged her suitcase under the canopy and stalked along the wooden wraparound veranda. A twinkling necklace of solar lights lit the walkway until she arrived at the front aspect of the villa. Despite her mood after the ordeal of her journey, she found her breath whipped from her lungs as the view from the balcony came into focus. She had never gazed on anything so awe-inspiring in her life. The storm clouds had moved away southwards, leaving behind only a light drizzle.

Spread before her was the Ionian Sea, disappearing into infinity like a flat black mirror, its surface interrupted by a series of tiny pinpricks of light from boats filled with night-time revellers and fishing trips gathering the next day’s lunch.

In the foreground, and maybe a couple of hundred metres or so over to her right, was a beachside taverna, its roof outlined with strings of fairy lights and emitting a gentle ripple of music. But her final jaw-drop was reserved for the rectangle of luminous turquoise at her feet. For the first time since the rogue painting had been revealed in all its glory at Jaxx Benson’s exhibition, the corners of her lips turned upwards and a blanket of calm descended.

Perhaps with inspiration like this, she could regain her passion for painting.

She turned around to look up at the Bradbury family villa: a whitewashed sugar cube concealed from the busy coast road by row upon row of giant cypress trees. The house was more akin to a luxury ocean liner moored at anchor in an emerald sea than a building, with purple bougainvillea crawling around its walls and the adjacent gazebo and flanked by rippling palm trees.

‘Ahh!’

Evie sighed as she remembered that this was not where she was supposed to be staying and her eyes fell on the more modern addition to the property – a garage block on the far side of the pool, with the windows of a tiny studio jutting from its eaves.

The rain had stopped so she trotted back round to the front door to collect her belongings and made her way to the door at the back of the poolside building. This time her key slotted into the lock without resistance. She heaved her luggage up the stairs and found herself in a small, but perfectly formed room with the benefit of a large balcony overlooking the same view she had been admiring moments earlier.

The studio had everything she needed: a tiny kitchen, an even smaller bathroom – sadly no bath to soak away her troubles in – but the sofa was huge and would, she hoped, convert into a very comfortable bed. Every surface had been painted white: the ceiling, the floors, even the furniture. The plain walls provided an ideal backdrop for a series of framed pencil drawings that Evie recognized as Esme Bradbury’s work.

She lay down on the sofa, closed her eyes, and within seconds tumbled into the oblivion offered by sleep, a state she had craved since leaving London.

Chapter Seven (#ulink_75f9bec0-d0a2-56bf-a213-17af3e1855d1)

Evie groaned and reached up to rub her eyes. A feeling of intense disorientation enveloped her body and made her head swoon. She pushed herself into a sitting position and a sharp spasm of pain radiated from her ankle into her shin to remind her of the previous night’s escapade. However, she shoved her lank, lifeless hair behind her ears and walked barefoot across the marble floor to open the French doors to the balcony. The view, now bathed in the golden light of the midday sun, hit her square in the face and nudged her spirits northwards.

How could anyone be miserable when there was such an abundance of nature’s beauty to appreciate every morning?

The infinite canopy of cerulean sky, dotted with the kind of clouds she had last seen in a children’s picture book, and the sapphire of the shimmering sea provided the perfect foil for the stark sand-coloured, almost moon-like mountains of Albania in the distance. A procession of ferries and sailing boats were making their way to the numerous hidden coves for an afternoon of swimming, picnicking, and sun-worshiping.

She couldn’t wait to get outside to explore. She stripped off her jeans and sweater, but instead of making her way to the bathroom to wash away the grime of her travels she decided to throw caution to the wind and instead grabbed her beach towel and trotted down to the pool.

A long sigh of satisfaction escaped her lips. The terrace was even more stunning in the sunshine. Large ceramic pots crammed with scarlet geraniums were clustered together on the cracked paving of the pool area under the shade of a large palm tree. A small grove of olive trees congregated to her right, their gnarled trunks and silver-green leaves so picturesque that Evie wanted to dash back inside to collect her paints. To her left, an impenetrable thicket of orange and lemon trees blocked the view of the pool from an adjacent villa.

There were no sun loungers but she assumed they had been stored for the winter season in the garage beneath the studio. She dropped her beach towel over the handrail and tested the water with her toe. A shiver of pleasure shot through her veins.

Bliss.

She glanced down at her bra and knickers and, in a completely out-of-character moment, her inner voice announced ‘what the hell’ so she peeled away her underwear and dived into the sparkling water. Chills surged through her body but as she built up a rhythmic breast stroke her heart rate accelerated and she warmed up. She hadn’t been in a pool for years – certainly never naked – and it felt awesome. Why hadn’t she tried it before? The way the water slipped over her skin like liquid silk was luxurious and she experienced a sense of total freedom from all the stress and pressure she had faced over the last few weeks.

Evie was overtaken by a burst of gratitude. How lucky she was to have been offered this refuge from her trauma. She made an immediate pact with herself: every day she was in Corfu she would indulge in a vigorous morning swim, minus the confinement of a bikini. She inhaled a deep breath and ducked her head beneath the surface, launching herself forward, and proceeded to complete another twenty laps until her upper arm muscles cried for mercy.

She hauled herself from the water and wrapped her towel around her body. As there were no sun loungers upon which to recline to while away the rest of the afternoon, she trotted back up the stairs to the studio and dragged a plastic chair out onto the tiny balcony. She closed her eyes and turned her face towards the sun, wondering if she had already succumbed to the more languid tempo of daily life the Greeks preferred. She decided to act like a local and indulge in a siesta. She pulled out her sofa bed, slipped naked under the crumpled white cotton sheet and fell asleep.