Page 11 of Someone in the Water

Frankie

‘Remember what I said!’ I shout above the idling engine. ‘Knees tucked into your chest, arms straight, and let the boat pull you up. You have totally got this; I believe in you!’

During my first week at Hotel Paoli, I thought my job was to turn every guest into a proficient water-skier.

I threw technical terms at them, pointed out their faults, forgot to smile.

Then Dom reminded me that everyone was on holiday, and that my only objective is to make sure the guests have fun, so now I’m dishing out these inspirational quotes like sweets at a kids’ party.

Liam is our last guest of the day, a thickset police officer from Manchester on holiday with his fiancée who is watching from the beach, armed with a camera.

Satisfied that his body is vaguely in the right position, I twist back in the driver’s seat and slowly push on the throttle.

There’s always two of us in the boat – one driving, one spotting – so I can rely on Dom to tell me if Liam face-plants at any point.

But the roar of triumph floating over my shoulder is enough of a clue that he’s finally made it out of the water – that and the drag caused by his fourteen-stone weight.

I nose the boat out to sea, making sure to stay away from the swimming area, and clear of the last two Pico sailing boats slowly tacking their way to shore in the dying wind.

When I get close to the edge of the bay area, where the sea is rougher, I curve back in a wide turn.

This is always the trickiest part for a beginner skier – being thrust unaware into a slingshot manoeuvre – but Liam clings on, brute strength coming to his aid, and makes it onto the straight again.

When I guide him towards the beach ten minutes later – Dom hollering at him to drop the rope – Liam looks exhausted but elated.

Another happy guest with a story to tell at dinner.

I acknowledge his fist pump with a wave, and then watch with mild relief as he drops his buoyancy aid into the container of fresh water and trudges up the beach towards his whooping fiancée.

I’ve been on the go since seven o’clock this morning and I’m looking forward to an evening chilling out.

I hope Izzy is thinking the same. I’ve only known her for three weeks, and she’s eight years older than me, but I already feel like we’ve been friends forever.

Maybe it’s the intensity of living and working together, or maybe I’ve been lucky enough to find a kindred spirit a thousand miles from home, but I already can’t imagine our friendship stopping when the summer ends.

I haven’t got as close to the rest of the waterfront team yet.

Izzy warned me that they can be cliquey, and they do seem to give her the cold shoulder a lot of the time.

It makes me feel uncomfortable – and confused – because she’s so lovely.

But they’re nice enough to me. Dom is the entertainer in the group, which veers between amusing and annoying depending on my mood.

Harriet hasn’t dropped her superiority act but loosens up after a couple of Long Island ice teas, our favourite cocktail.

I have a lot of time for Archie – he’s warm and funny, but with a vulnerable edge too – and it’s still too early to know about Jack, although that might be because I turn into a nervous wreck whenever he’s around.

‘Jeez, my back is shot,’ Dom says, pulling in the rope, then leaning back with an exaggerated grimace. ‘How about we swap: you carry the skis and stuff back to the hut, and I’ll moor up the boat?’

‘Not on your life,’ I say, shaking my head. In truth, I don’t care which job I do, but Izzy has warned me not to be too accommodating, otherwise I’ll find myself being treated like the resident mug.

‘Oh, such cold-hearted beauty, I can hardly bear it.’ Dom holds his hands to his chest in mock pain.

‘Shut up, Dom.’ But I smile anyway.

‘It’s true; I reckon you could turn men to stone as a hobby.’

‘Well, maybe you should stop staring then, or you might end up like one of those menhir statues.’

‘God, don’t remind me about Izzy’s bloody history lesson again. Who cares that Corsican cavemen were making stone Mr Blobbys six thousand years ago?’

‘It’s art, Dom,’ I say in my best superior voice, although Mr Blobby probably is a better description of Corsica’s famous pre-historic statues, which Izzy took us to see on our last day off. ‘Didn’t you say you did art history at uni?’

‘Hey, look at this!’ Dom points over the side of the boat. I can’t tell if he’s changing the subject or has actually seen something in the water. But his eyes are wide enough to rouse my curiosity.

‘What?’ I say, edging towards him.

‘Quick! It’s massive! It must be a tuna or a grouper or something!’

I lean over the side of the boat, search for the chunky silver fish. But I can’t see it. I stretch further.

A second later, a hot palm lands on my mid-back and I jolt forward. My limbs flail, trying to reverse the inevitable. Then I fall from the boat, splash into the salty water. I sink for a moment, my shorts and T-shirt dragging me down, then bob back up.

‘You complete dick!’ I screech, pushing my spikes of hair back, seawater spraying into the air. ‘What did you do that for?!’

Dom is doubled over, howls of laughter spilling out of him. ‘Oh man, I’m sorry,’ he manages as he tries to catch his breath. ‘Wow, you really fell for that fish story, didn’t you? Hook, line and sinker!’ Another burst of laughter explodes from his mouth.

I jerk my legs underwater, keeping myself afloat, but also kicking out in frustration.

I have no idea if Dom uses this annoying practical-joker act with everyone, or if he’s got something specifically against me.

‘Well, I need to get changed,’ I shout up.

‘Which puts you on boat and kit duty, so it looks like your little joke backfired.’

I throw Dom a dirty look and feel a wave of satisfaction as his face slips towards remorse.

Then I flip onto my belly and start swimming on a diagonal towards the shore, the sound of his laughter-laced apologies fading into the distance.

When I get to the beach, I peel off my shorts and T-shirt, revealing my third item of uniform, a royal blue swimming costume with the hotel insignia – a spiky white flower – printed on the chest. It’s past seven o’clock, so the beach is quiet, but as I wring out the sopping clothes, I sense someone behind me.

I whip around, half expecting it to be Dom with another apology, but it’s Salvo.

‘Oh hi.’ When Salvo offered me this job, I assumed that he’d be involved in managing me to some extent, but I’ve barely seen him since I arrived, and he now feels like a stranger.

He goes out in his fishing boat most evenings, so I often get a fleeting view of him walking through the sea at dusk, but we haven’t had a proper conversation.

And the longer it goes on, the more awkward it feels.

‘Sorry for looking like a drowned rat,’ I continue, remembering a bit late that he is still – officially – my boss.

‘Dom thought it would be hilarious to throw me off the boat.’

Salvo clicks his tongue. ‘Young men. Always stupid. Especially young British men,’ he adds with feeling.

I think about Izzy’s description of Salvo as a gnarly old Corsican who hates everyone. ‘Are you going to tell me I should find myself a good Corsican boy instead?’ I ask, my tone light. I expect Salvo to smile, but his face grows serious.

‘No, I wouldn’t advise that either.’

‘Oh, be careful,’ I warn, making sure to keep the tease in my voice. ‘Remember that’s exactly what my mum did.’

‘Pascal was different. He was a good man.’

‘Different from who?’

Salvo looks out to sea, his expression hard to read.

‘Corsica is a small, unforgiving island,’ he starts.

‘Always has been. For many generations, no one wanted to come here. Then people did, but only to invade us, to claim the island for themselves, just like the French are doing now. Corsicans learned to survive together, and then to fight together.’

There’s an evening breeze, and my body shivers as it passes over my damp skin. ‘Those sound like strong characteristics to me,’ I murmur, wondering where this melancholy is heading.

‘Oh yes, we’re a strong nation,’ Salvo says, nodding.

‘But Corsicans can also be ruthless. In how we think as well as how we act. Sometimes we do things we know are wrong but that feel beyond our control in the moment. As though vengeance, violence are part of our destiny, as Corsicans.’ He turns to look at me, and finally smiles, as though he’s been brought back from the past to the present.

‘Sorry, I’m scaring you. We can be nice too, I promise. ’

I try to smile back, but it’s hard. All this talk of vengeance and violence doesn’t match my experience of Corsica so far with its sandy beaches, glistening blue sea and cocktail-glugging tourists.

But I do know that Corsica has a dark side.

‘Dad told me some stories about the Corsican mafia,’ I say.

‘How powerful they are. Is that what you mean?’

‘Mafia?’ Salvo’s tone has changed again. Now he sounds guarded. ‘Thankfully, your dad’s memories are out of date. The mafia used to run the island, for sure, but they’re part of our past now.’

‘Oh, sorry, my mistake.’ I pretend to look grateful for the correction, but in truth, I’m confused.

From what my mum told me about Corsica before I left, I’m pretty sure the mafia still operate here, and I wonder why Salvo, the man who is happy to condemn his fellow countrymen, feels the need to gloss over the truth.