The Years That Followed (30 page)

imogen

Limassol, 1983

Imogen makes her way down the jetty towards where Alexandros's yacht is moored. The
Cassandra
is a thing of beauty. Imogen has always felt this, despite its having been named for her stepmother. The arrival of Sandra into her father's life, into all of their lives, is something that Imogen prefers not to think about. She prefers to remember other things instead, such as the summer her father taught her to sail: the summer she was eight. Three whole years before British Sandra made her appearance.

Imogen remembers the Mermaid, her own tiny sailing boat; remembers the solid heft of the wave, the slap of the canvas, the sheer slick saltiness of flying before the wind. She remembers, too, the day she finally grasped what her father had been trying to teach her, patiently, almost doggedly, for months.

That is a day that stands out above so many others, something Imogen can still see and hear and feel with a bright, brittle clarity. Learning how to master the wind and the waves was only one part of the exhilaration she felt. Knowing that her mother would visit again as soon as she could was the other. Imogen hugged that secret knowledge to herself, storing up her memories until the next time.

“Well done, Imogen!” Her father's face was filled with pride. “You've done it; you're a sailor!” He lifted her into his arms and strode hugely towards the beach. The Mermaid bobbed and ducked along behind them.

Old Karolis came running towards them. He was panting, anxious. “Is everything all right, Mr. Alexandros?”

“Yes, Karolis, everything is fine, just fine!”

The older man relaxed at Alexandros's jovial tone. He grinned, years falling away from his face, smoothing out his weathered skin so that he looked just like his son, twelve-year-old Young Karolis.

“I'll take care of the Mermaid,” Old Karolis said, already reaching for the painter.

“Which one?” Alexandros rocked with laughter. “Which mermaid? That Mermaid there, or”—he swung Imogen around, dipping her scarily towards the sand and then scooping her back up into his powerful arms again—“this one, my lovely daughter!”

But it wasn't really a question, and Old Karolis seemed to know that, because he didn't answer. He just nodded and smiled and took the rope from Alexandros. He pulled the Mermaid smoothly up onto the sand, where it sat, becalmed. Imogen thought the little boat looked relieved to be there, as though it had fulfilled some secret purpose of its own and could rest now.

Alexandros strode up the beach to where the car was parked. As he walked, he patted Imogen's back from time to time, murmuring endearments. He kissed her wet and salty cheek.

Imogen rested against his shoulder, could hear his voice rumbling away beneath her.

She, too, felt becalmed.

At last.

* * *

Today, as Imogen approaches the end of the jetty, she has time to admire the sleek lines of her father's yacht, the white sheen of the hull. She can already imagine the smooth warmth of its varnished wood under her bare feet.

Young Karolis is already there, hosing down everything above the water line. Alexandros is very particular about the appearance of the
Cassandra
.

Imogen watches Young Karolis now, sees the way he coils up the hose and places it around the base of the tap that is dedicated to the
Cassandra
's mooring. All the lines are similarly coiled: they lie neat and flat on the jetty. Everything is ready for an afternoon departure.

He looks up, finally, at Imogen's approach. And he smiles. “
Kalimera
,” he says.

Imogen is glad she has her sunglasses on. Without them, Young Karolis might be able to read what he should not be able to read in her eyes. Alexandros had caught her looking at the boy once, late last summer, watching him as he unloaded crates of supplies for the
Cassandra
—food, wine, bottles of beer and lemonade. She watched as he moved with an unconscious grace, a loping ease that made her breath catch somewhere towards the back of her throat. She was fifteen then, Karolis an unattainable nineteen; but a girl could dream, couldn't she?

And then her father's hand was on her shoulder. “You are
my
daughter,” he'd said, almost as though he had heard her. His voice was quiet, but Imogen immediately understood his meaning, although she pretended not to.

“
What?
” she said, backing away from the porthole as if she'd been stung.

“You are my daughter,” Alexandros repeated, “and you will behave in an appropriate manner. I see how you look at him. I will not have it.”

Imogen had slammed her way into her cabin, locking the door behind her. She'd refused to come out for hours. When she did, it was to her father's repeated mantra of his duty; his authority; her safety and security above all else.

“Good morning, Karolis,” Imogen says now, her voice friendly, cheerful. “All done?”

“Yes, Miss Imogen, everything is ready. I charged the fridge battery last night and put the food away. The icepacks are frozen, and the drinks are in the second cabin—use the blue coolboxes first, then the red.” He flicks the butt of his cigarette into the water. Imogen feels a shivery thrill at the gesture. Karolis is so grown-up. Sexy. “Mr. Alexandros and Madam Sandra will be here within the hour.”

Imogen looks at him. She can feel the way her mouth has opened, and she closes it again quickly. “What did you say?”

“Your father called the office,” Karolis says. He looks puzzled, as though this, surely, is information Imogen must already have. “He told my father to put supplies on board for the three of you, that you had had a change of plan?”

Imogen says nothing. She does not acknowledge the interrogative lift at the end of Karolis's sentence.
I
have not had a change of anything, she fumes. Anger towards her father vies with what Aiya
María-Luisa calls “breeding.” And Imogen remembers her father's warning about loyalty: never, ever discuss family business in front of servants or employees.

Loyalty.

Fuck
loyalty, Imogen thinks.
Fuck
it.

Fury makes tears spring to her eyes. Omiros is away, taking part in a junior regatta; Sandra is supposed to be in Athens. This was to be Imogen's day in charge of the
Cassandra
, under the supervision of her father. Skipper for the day, he'd promised her. You are more than ready. I've taught you all that I know.

“That's fine, thank you,” Imogen says to Karolis now.

“Do you need any help at all on board?” he asks.

Imogen can hear the hope in his voice. She hesitates, but only for an instant. “Thanks, Karolis, but I don't think that's a good idea.”

His smile collapses. “Of course,” Karolis says. “I understand.” He nods abruptly. “It would not be appropriate.” He touches two fingers to the imaginary peak of the cap he is not wearing—an ironic salute, a mock-servile gesture—and then he's gone, walking briskly away from her up the jetty. He does not turn back.

Imogen watches his departure, dismayed. She wants to call out, but she doesn't know what to say. She wishes she could just walk away from this: from the yacht, from the prospect of her father and his wife for twenty-four hours. From her life.

She climbs on board and opens the hatch in the forward cabin. The heat is stifling. It will be so much better once they get under way. Karolis has left clean sheets and pillowslips on the double berth, and Imogen ignores them.

Let Sandra make her own bed.

She crosses to her cabin and throws her rucksack onto the top bunk. Quickly, she pulls off her shorts and T-shirt. She'll sunbathe in her bikini while she waits for the two of them to arrive. And if Alexandros objects, he can just go to hell.

He can take the
Cassandra
out of the marina himself today. Imogen has no intention of sharing the cockpit with her father and Sandra while they fawn all over each other.

Sitting up at the bow is the part Imogen loves best. Particularly once they get under way. The heat disappears; the breeze ruffles and cools; the engine noise makes conversation impossible.

She scrambles up to the bow, taking her book with her. She has maybe twenty minutes' peace before they arrive.

* * *

Imogen hears voices, sees the dip and swell of the jetty as Alexandros and Sandra approach. She hears her stepmother's high, clear laughter and her father's deeper tone underneath.

She looks up. Alexandros waves. Imogen does not wave back. He says something to Sandra out of the side of his mouth, and they both laugh.

“You ready to take her out?” Alexandros asks Imogen as he reaches the yacht and helps Sandra on board. He's looking pleased with himself.

“I'd rather you did it,” she says without lifting her eyes from her book. Her tone is cold. “The marina is very crowded today.”

“You're more than capable,” Alexandros begins. Imogen raises her eyes to his and sees the way Sandra quickly touches her father's arm. He stops. “Well, if you're sure that's what you want,” he says, his voice conciliatory.

“I'm sure.”

“Gosh, it's hot,” Sandra says. She fans herself with her ridiculous straw hat. Her freckled skin is already pink. “I'm going to have a beer. Imogen, would you like one?”

Why not? Imogen thinks. Why not take advantage of the situation? “Thanks,” she says, reaching back as her father's wife hands her a bottle from the coolbox.

Sandra thinks giving her a beer is a big deal; Imogen is amused at her stepmother's attempt to be cool.

If only she knew.

* * *

Imogen's mood begins to improve as they reach the open water. She already knows where her father will slow down, knows the exact spot where he will cut the engine, the time when he will expect her to unfurl the sails. This knowledge, this unchanging routine makes something rebellious stir inside her: Imogen's familiar, bitter longing to make her life her own, to make it different from the one that has shaped itself around her.

As the bow rises and falls, Imogen thinks of her mother, of her mother's life. She resolves that this is the last time she will come sailing with her father and his English wife, the last time she will be treated as a child. She is not one to be bought off with spurious reassurances of adulthood. Sandra can keep her bottles of beer and her phony gestures of equality.

Somehow, Imogen will escape. Somehow she will get herself to London and to Calista. She is at last sixteen, and she knows how to be cunning. She'll take the time to plan her getaway; but get away she will. Imogen feels a surge of triumph, followed by a sense of relief so powerful that it feels like an assault.

She is trapped only by her own acquiescence.

A realization has been reached, a decision made.

Is there any greater freedom than that?

* * *

Imogen looks down over the side, down into deep water that is turquoise in its clarity. Small waves begin to slap at the sides of the
Cassandra.
The yacht turns lazily on its anchor. But the breeze is beginning to strengthen; you could set your watch by it in this part of the world. Always at around three in the afternoon, the wind gathers force around the island. This makes Imogen happy; they will have an exhilarating sail to the harbor.

Over lunch, Imogen makes an effort to be polite, to show interest in her father's plans for the evening, once they dock. She doesn't really care what they do later on, or where Alexandros intends to treat them to dinner. Her earlier decision makes her feel calm and resolute and grown-up. She feels that she can tolerate whatever her father does today.

Alexandros drains his bottle of beer, stands up, stretches, and yawns.

“I'm going to lie down for an hour or so,” he says. “We'll give the breeze the chance to strengthen a bit; then we'll be on our way.” He turns to Sandra, much too casually. “Coming, my love?”

Imogen thinks she'll throw up. He's so
transparent
.

Sandra hesitates. Imogen turns away, but not before she sees Sandra's moue of embarrassment. She senses, rather than sees, her father's shrug. Without a word, Sandra gets up and follows Alexandros into the forward cabin.

Disgusting, Imogen thinks. They're just so disgusting, both of them.

When the cabin door closes, Imogen sits back in the padded seat of the cockpit, shaded from the intensity of the sun. She no longer has any intention of sitting up on the bow; no intention of feeling herself surrounded by her father's grunts and her stepmother's high-pitched cries.

Soundlessly, Imogen reaches for another beer. She has her own secret stash under her bunk. She'll use it to replace the cold ones that she intends to drink, one after the other, until her father reappears.

* * *

When Alexandros emerges, Imogen has already heard the crackle of radio static from below. “There's a bit of a blow coming,” he says. “It's almost upon us. Time to test your skills.” And he grins at her. There is no sign of Sandra.

“How much of a blow?” she asks.

Even as she speaks, Imogen hears the snap of canvas: a taut, angry sound. It is the skipper's duty, always, to check the weather in advance. Alexandros has taught her this, but Imogen holds her tongue. Her father will take no hint of criticism, particularly in the presence of his precious wife.

“Nothing you and I can't handle,” he says. But he moves with speed towards the bow.

Imogen watches as Alexandros raises the anchor. The chain comes up from the deep, rattling its way into the housing with an aggressive screech of steel. It's as though it's reluctant to be disturbed. Alexandros noses the bow into the wind. There is an unaccustomed urgency to each of his movements.

All at once, the rigging begins to sound as though it is struggling to break free, the metal zinging and slapping against the aluminium mast.