The Old Ducks' Club Read online

  The Old Ducks’ Club

  Maddie Please

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Acknowledgments

  More from Maddie Please

  About the Author

  About Boldwood Books

  For Brian, who took me to Rhodes. With love. M xx

  1

  There’s no reason for you to resign, he’d said.

  We can work through this, he’d said.

  Hear me out, he’d said.

  Well there was and we couldn’t, and I didn’t. That was the truth of the matter.

  Finally, finally I’d had enough.

  Three weeks later

  I rummaged in my bag for the plastic wallet of unfamiliar euros and paid my driver. He was pretty fluent in English and had talked all the way from the airport to prove it, almost without drawing breath it seemed. I was guessing his were the complaints of taxi drivers the world over. He told me his wife was difficult, his children greedy and ungrateful. The economy was dreadful, all politicians were corrupt and stupid.

  Then, as we had neared the old town and the unchanging, breath-taking view of the towers of the Palace of the Grand Master, his mood had lightened. He declared Rhodes was a marvellous place; there was nowhere better in Greece, in the world. And the Rhodians were the best; the men were the handsomest, the women delightful and caring. Added to this, the local food was unsurpassed, the pace of life calming and pleasant, and the people the most generous.

  Tired after my early flight and the stress and disruption of the last few weeks, I didn’t have much spare energy for the discussion. I agreed with everything. But suddenly, as I scanned the faces of the strangers on the streets, it really did feel as though I had escaped from England to somewhere I could regroup and recover. I needed time to myself, time to think, to plan what on earth I was going to do next.

  The beauty of it was that no one knew me here. I would not feel the need to peer uncertainly around street corners, or dread the phone ringing, or, even worse, the late-night knock on my door that would unleash yet more embarrassing scenes. I felt safe here; I was on my own at last.

  For the first time in ages I felt I might be able to relax and disentangle my tangled thoughts. Peace, solitude, quiet; things that had been in short supply for me recently could all be found in those ancient streets in front of me.

  As we drove slowly towards the harbour, I craned round to watch a huge white cruise ship berthed in the distance. The famous Colossus of Rhodes had once looked out over that same wonderful blue water. I bet he would have been surprised to see The Odyssey of the Seas out there too.

  On the other side of the car, I could already glimpse delightful little alleyways and a square seductively fringed with shady trees. The high season was over now but there were still quite a few couples sitting in the dappled shade with a glass of wine – the deep red of Mandilaria perhaps, or the crisp bright taste of Athiri – a dish of fat glossy olives, salty cubes of feta, pitaroudia fresh with mint… I’d done my research.

  My mouth watered. That’s what I had in mind once I was settled into my rented house. Yes, I was here for work – I had Lucian’s editing to do and a limited time in which to complete it, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t enjoy myself. After all, I had to eat sometime.

  That in itself was a nice feeling. I usually liked cooking, it was something I did well, but I hadn’t wanted to eat much recently; I’d existed on hastily snatched snacks, half-finished ready meals and toast. There’s always toast. None of it had been very satisfying or healthy for that matter. And I seemed to have incipient heartburn all the time. Perhaps the two were linked.

  Nor had the late-night solitary drinking done me any favours. I certainly wasn’t going to do that here. Perhaps I might think about turning over a new leaf and make this an alcohol-free trip.

  Well, maybe not. I’d see how I felt.

  Getting out of the aggressively perfumed, air-conditioned taxi into the heat of the afternoon was yet another shock to my already overwhelmed system. After one of the wettest Septembers on record back in Oxford, I’d forgotten what it felt like to stand in the clear Mediterranean sunshine.

  My driver – Andros – took my case out of the boot of his taxi. I had no raincoat, no slightly damp shoes, no umbrella. Instead, just wonderful warmth, the fresh air scented with the sea and the hint of suntan oil. Why had I hesitated? What had kept me away from places like this for so long? These days people seemed to go off all over the world at the drop of a hat… to exotic islands and luxurious resorts, or maybe African safaris, temples in Thailand, road trips and – as I’d just seen – cruises. I felt a shiver of irritation at having allowed myself to become so closed off to the world.

  Much cheered at the prospect of discovering my holiday home and finding my way around on my own without anyone behind me complaining about the language difficulties or the prices, I set off.

  I passed under a stone archway, the alley leading deeper into the old town, pulling my case behind me, the wheels rattling on the cobbles. The air was warm and dense, trapped between the high fortifications. It smelled of history and secrets and new possibilities. It held promise.

  I stopped for a moment and checked the map on my phone; it wasn’t far. I’d done this a dozen times at home, looking at the app, wondering what my little alleyway would be like.

  A dusty black cat scowled at me from the top of a wall, paws folded, golden eyes blinking. I liked cats; perhaps when all this was over, I would get one.

  At last I stood in front of a simple wooden door set into an old stone archway. There was a blue and white painted porcelain plaque on the wall – Iremía – I now knew that meant serenity, which is exactly what I needed, and yes, the key was there, hidden under the flowerpot as I had been told it would be. Talk about trusting. You wouldn’t do that in Oxford.

  I felt suddenly exhilarated and clever. All my plans had worked out beautifully. No one had stolen my luggage or sneered at my passport. I’d bought a new plug adaptor at the airport and remembered all my cables.

  I’d cancelled the milk, hadn’t I? Perhaps I should email one of my lodgers, Nigel, and ask him to check. He was so vague, I wondered if he would even realise I’d gone.

  As I reached to put the key into the lock my mobile rang. Foolishly, I answered it.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Hello Lucian,’ I said and sighed.

  ‘Where on earth are you?’ he repeated, this time slightly impatient.

  ‘You know where I am.’ I hitched my laptop bag up onto my shoulder.

  I was tired, I’d had an early start that morning. I wanted to get inside and sit down; my back was aching.

  ‘You said you were going to Rhodes. You didn’t mean it did you? It’s ridiculous. I know you. It was just something to say.’

  ‘Was it?’ I replied unhelpfully. ‘Was it really?’

  There was a moment’s silence while Lucian thought about things.

  ‘But Sophia. Sophia darling. There was no need for that. It was just a gesture wasn’t it? A silly one from a silly billy.’

  ‘God you are a condescending idiot, aren’t you? Just leave me alone,’ I shouted.

  ‘You’re overtired—’

  ‘I’m not overtired, I’m ordinary tired.’ I realised that didn’t make much sense. ‘I’ve been travelling all day, I’ve just arrived.’

  ‘Oh well done. You actually made it there without any disasters.’

  His tone was so familiar, but I could tell what it was now. Patronising and guaranteed to make me feel insecure. Well, I wasn’t going to put up with it any more, I was thousands of miles away from him. He couldn’t look at me with his mesmerising grey eyes and win me round with flowers or expensive wine. Always white wine though, never the red I preferred. And always blowsy lilies, which I don’t like, dropping pollen over everything and making my house smell like a funeral parlour. How had I understood him so well, while he knew me so little?

  I looked up at the sliver of deep blue sky which I could see between the high stone walls on either side of me and despite my resolution, I felt my good mood evaporating.

  ‘Yes, actually I have. I’m quite capable—’

  ‘No one’s saying you’re not,’ he said in a sing-song voice that I assumed was supposed to calm me down. It had the opposite effect.

  ‘Yes, you flaming well are! You’re astonished, aren’t you, that I could actually do this?’ I shouted back.

  I was suddenly aware that someone was watching me. Further up the narrow street a man was standing on his doorstep. It looked as though he had come out to water the rather glorious floral displays in the wi
ndow boxes outside his house. We exchanged an uneasy glance and I turned slightly away from him.

  ‘Lucian, we have said all we need to say. There’s nothing else—’

  ‘Of course we haven’t! Not by a long chalk. We have to sort this out. We have to,’ he said, his voice suddenly losing its heat. ‘Come on, you know you want to. You’re just being difficult. You’re just trying to make a point. And it’s a valid point, I accept that. I know you’re hurt by what I said but – well, never mind all that now. Think about it. I need you Sophia, you love me, isn’t that all that matters? Really?’

  My mind shuffled through all the things I might say, the discussions we might still have, the arguments we might resume. I knew then that I didn’t love him and I didn’t actually like him much either. And, to be honest, in my new holiday frame of mind I couldn’t be bothered. In addition, just a few steps away that man was still messing about with his task, probably eavesdropping on our conversation.

  So I hung up.

  I stood and looked at my phone for a moment, absolutely astonished at myself.

  I was usually so polite and proper. I’d never, ever done that before. Not even with scam calls telling me my broadband was about to be cut off. Although I did leave one listening to Woman’s Hour once while I went off and made coffee.

  Not so long ago the sight of Lucian’s name lighting up my phone had filled me with a thrill of excitement, a dizzy feeling of anticipation that he needed me, that he might slip away from his unsatisfactory life and dip into mine for a snatched hour or two of me making a fuss of him. Cooking his favourite meals for him. Now all that had changed. I just felt irritated and annoyed that he should try to impose himself on my escape. He had no place in my life any longer, we both knew that. Not after everything that had happened.

  I tucked my phone into my pocket and hitched up my laptop bag again. Then I sneaked a look at the man who was now deadheading some flowers. Men didn’t do things like that, did they? It was obvious he was using it as an excuse to keep spying on me.

  ‘Kalispéra. Good day to you, madame,’ he said, catching my eye. His voice was as warm as velvet, his smile white and friendly.

  ‘Good day,’ I said rather brusquely.

  ‘You are the English lady?’ He took a step towards me.

  I tried to look unapproachable and busy, and fussed about with the house key which had somehow got tangled up in the red tasselled cord attached to it.

  ‘I am the English lady,’ I said rather brusquely.

  I could have said I was actually half English, half Scottish, but I doubted he was that interested. I wanted to get inside and see if the welcome box of groceries I had ordered would include some proper tea bags.

  He smiled again. His face was open, kind, friendly. I was not used to men looking at me like that.

  ‘I wish you a pleasant stay. Tell me if you have any – um, provlímata – issues; I’m sure I can help out.’

  I had to admit he sounded lovely, and I’ve always had a weakness for a Greek accent. They make even tedious things sound interesting. And he didn’t look half bad either. Tall, silver-haired with a slim build, he was barefoot on the warm stones, simply dressed in a white cotton shirt and faded jeans. I can’t be doing with men of my generation who dress like teenagers or hippies with straggly beards or silly little hats. He was rather attractive actually.

  Stop it. I certainly didn’t need any of that sort of thing. I was here for peace and quiet and for work. I didn’t want him lurking about being charming and asking about my issues. If he knew the half of it, he would have taken his watering can and his secateurs back indoors pretty sharpish.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, finally untangling the key and managing to get the door unlocked.

  I dragged my bag indoors behind me and sighed with relief; at last I had reached my destination.

  It was lovely, far better than I’d dared to hope. There was just one very large white painted room, stone floor tiles and a wooden staircase to one side. On the opposite wall was a strange beehive-shaped fireplace filled with artistically arranged logs. There was a small but perfectly satisfactory kitchen and some simple white furniture in the dining area. Beyond that was a sitting area with a coffee table and some conservatory-type furniture softened by blue and white striped cushions. Most excitingly there were French doors opening onto a small, sunlit patio complete with a brick-built barbecue.

  I dumped my laptop bag and my handbag onto the sofa and opened the doors to let in the warmth of the afternoon, with it came the scent of something floral and herby. Rosemary, perhaps, and basil. The patio was enclosed by a high stone wall on three sides; a vine rambled lustily over a pergola, some of the leaves tinged with red. On the other side, to my right, was a low fence and a gate into the neighbouring garden. Perhaps this was useful when friends or a large family were renting both houses. Next door I caught a glimpse of a large shady garden complete with a hot tub. Lucky them. Still, I was entirely content with my choice. Everything was perfect.

  I flexed my dodgy knee that hadn’t been helped by hours sitting in a cramped airline seat. For a moment I seriously considered doing downward dog, a yoga pose I had been assured would help with the stress in my back. I had only been to yoga twice and both times I wasn’t able to get up afterwards without a struggle. You don’t realise how old you are until you sit on the floor and try and get back up again. My favourite so far had been the corpse pose which consisted of lying down at the end, not moving.

  Instead, I stretched my arms above my head, relieving the ache, revelling in the peace and imagining myself sitting out there in the morning with some coffee and pastries from the bakery I had passed at the end of the alley. I would be clear-headed and rested from a sound night’s sleep. I would not wake in a tangle of bedclothes, my new flamingo-printed pyjamas rucked around my knees like tourniquets.

  Thinking about that, I took my bags upstairs to find the bedroom which was equally as charming as the rest of the house. More white walls, some blue-striped curtains, a wide bed with a white cotton bedspread and big glass doors opening onto a tiny balcony and a view of a garden. I was thrilled.

  So often the photos of holiday rentals could be misleading; a pretty garden photographed three years ago which had now been concreted over to make a car parking space, a kitchen cleverly dressed with a fruit basket and a posh toaster to disguise the fact that it was small and badly planned. Or worse than that, a whole place grubby and reeking of other people’s meals, with tumbleweeds of fluff under the furniture. It wasn’t like that here. Everywhere was spotless and smelled of lavender and furniture polish.

  In this place I would recover from the anxiety of the last few weeks, I would get all my notes in order, finish editing Lucian’s book without him breathing over my shoulder, correcting and distracting me. In my spare time I would behave like a local, buying fruit and vegetables from the Laiki market; I would find golden bottles of olive oil and fat crusty loaves of bread.

  Maybe I would even walk to the harbour and buy fresh fish straight off the boat. Although, to be honest, despite being quite a good cook, fish was not my specialty and what to do with said fish might prove challenging. Never mind, I would find out and later sit quietly in my little garden with an aesthetically pleasing meal and a small glass of wine, marvelling at my good fortune and being very happy. I would also buy a round, colourful tablecloth decorated with sunflowers and olives to get into the spirit of things.

  Considering I had only spent half an hour on the internet on a rainy Sunday evening searching for somewhere to stay, I had obviously struck lucky. I couldn’t have been happier, and that in itself was worth the journey. Lucian and his excuses and treachery, all those wasted years, were a world away.