Getting Lost Page 15

  Even Stella had to admit the movie scenes were hilarious. The best one, requiring Stella as a prop, although completely inappropriately dressed, saw the Melbourne boys re-enact the singing bar scene from Top Gun. “You’ve Lost That Loving Feeling” echoed throughout the whole of Corfu as the entire group joined in.

  In their nightlife party element, it was also the Melbourne boys who amazingly convinced some of the group to play spin the bottle. The rules were that there were no rules! The bottle would be spun twice, and the two people it stopped on—male or female—were to enter the centre of the circle and kiss on the lips. Initially, this met with some resistance from the men, and most opted out quick smart.

  The first six spins saw three pairs of girls enter the circle and kiss. By this stage, those not participating had gathered to watch. Those involved were drinking frantically to gain courage. The men were awestruck. The kisses weren’t long or passionate, a quick peck on the lips, but the entire scene oozed foreplay. The first two men to kiss were Simon and Gez. Their horrified expressions were priceless, but neither could back out now—pride was on the line. With purpose, chests puffed out, both men strode into the circle, grabbed each other by the shoulders, and then kissed, lightning fast, on the lips. A cheer erupted and their arms flew triumphantly in the air.

  As the game wound down, the last kiss of the night fell between Stella and Megan. A chant of “snog, snog, snog” rang out and the crowd looking on suddenly grew. Stella wished she hadn’t joined in the damn game, but she had a job to do, and in true showmanship style, she took the challenge. Stella circled Megan, revving up the crowd, drawing every ounce of tension into the centre of the circle. Through deafening cheers and applause, she leaned in to kiss Megan. Stella’s lips pushed Megan’s apart and her tongue entered her mouth. The crowd roared. Stella felt Megan’s hands grasp her buttocks, and she forced her mouth wider still.

  It was then Stella remembered her kisses with Phoebe. The intimacy they had shared the previous evening had been magical, certainly nothing she had experienced in such a long while. It was in this moment that she realised Phoebe was the only girl she wanted to be kissing. Abruptly, she ended the kiss, and the crowd continued to chant. Megan knew something was wrong. There was a split second when she looked longingly at Stella, but must have realised the moment had passed. Playing to the crowd, Megan dramatically fell back on the lawn. The bartender turned up the music, and everyone who didn’t jump into the pool was thrown in. In Greece, no one cared if you were drunk and swimming.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Stella woke with a headache. She needed the protection of her sunglasses, regardless of the weather. At least half the group were enrolled for water sports, while the others went fishing and sailing. Some, the smart ones, preferred to sleep off their hangover poolside at the resort.

  “So, Stells, no word from Phoebe?” Russo pulled another soft drink from the cooler and passed it to her. They were reclining on lounges under the shade of an expansive umbrella, watching the group energetically frolic in the sea as they patiently awaited their turn to ski, parasail, banana ride, and jet boat.

  Stella shook her head. She had convinced herself Phoebe would have made contact by now, and disappointment filled her. “No, nothing. Other than a useless call to the police, I don’t know what else to do.”

  “Useless?”

  “They checked the records of the flight. She was on it.”

  “So according to them she’s not missing?”

  “Nope, just on holiday it would seem.”

  “I honestly think she has issues. Maybe things are working out for the best.”

  Enough was enough. “For Christ’s sake, Russo, will you just leave it alone? I know what’s best for me, not you. I know how I feel. I know how she makes me feel,” said Stella.

  “Okay, okay, steady on. I’m—”

  “No, Russo. I will not steady on. I’ve had it up to the eyeballs with you and this bullshit. No more. Do you hear me?”

  In a show of surrender, he raised his arms. “You got it, chief. I’m sorry. I’m just worried, that’s all.” He left it a while before continuing. “Do you want to hear what I got up to?”

  Stella sighed. She never could stay mad at Russo for too long. “Go on.”

  “In light of spin the bottle, Simon asked if I’d kiss him, for real, not just a peck.” Russo grinned.

  “Let me guess, you turned him down?”

  “I did turn that down, but not the bit where he blew me in the gardens.” Russo was grinning from ear to ear.

  “What?” He’d gained Stella’s full attention. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “I made it clear I wasn’t into blokes and I wasn’t going to reciprocate. It was his first time. He’s pretty sure he’s gay. I’m pretty sure he’s gay. He wanted to stay the night. That was when I really turned him down.”

  Stella sat up straight. “You said no to a simple kiss, but you let him suck you off?”

  “I’m not gay. I don’t want to kiss a bloke.”

  “Whatever. Trivial details. But you let him do the other?” Russo nodded. “And now he thinks he’s gay and then you send him back to his own room. You’re a harsh man, Russo.”

  “Hey, I’m a hero. I gave him some pointers, so the way I see it, I’ve done a community service. Now, next time, with a bloke who actually wants more, he’ll know precisely what to do.” Russo looked decidedly chuffed with himself.

  “You gave him pointers? He’s got his own equipment, you know.”

  “Yeah, I know, but he bothered to stop and ask. I told him what I liked. Did you know men have rather large mouths, and very, very strong lips?”

  “I’ve heard it all now,” Stella muttered under her breath as one of her crew approached and the discussion ended.

  Dinner that evening was free choice. As on previous occasions, Stella and Russo remained noncommittal and vague concerning their plans. It was the only evening during the entire tour when they refused to include any members of the group. As usual, they booked a table at Corfu’s most expensive restaurant—although cheap by European standards—where clients rarely ventured. It was the safest place to dine unseen. They often sat on the balcony, overlooking the beach, watching members of the group wander obliviously below them.

  As expected, dinner was amazing. They occupied the corner table at the far end of the narrow balcony. George, the owner and chef, promised fresh seafood every time, so there was no need to order. He simply served them.

  Russo slowly placed his napkin on the table. “You really like Phoebe, don’t you?” he asked sincerely.

  “I can’t put my finger on it,” said Stella. “I can’t tell you why.”

  “You don’t mean to tell me this could be—”

  “Don’t you dare say it.”

  “—the L word?” He whistled loud and long.

  Stella slouched back in her seat. “Whatever it is, I think I’ve got it wrong. She couldn’t even tell me she was nicking off.”

  Russo turned deadly pale.

  “Are you all right?”

  “No. Jesus.” He wiped his brow with his forearm. “I didn’t give it a second thought on the ferry. Shit, I’m such an idiot!”

  “Russo? What the hell are you talking about? Is it Phoebe? You’re not making sense.”

  “Look, Stells, honestly, I didn’t think—”

  “For fuck sake, just spit it out,” said Stella. He was scaring her.

  “There was a bloke on the ferry. He came up to me while I was playing cards. Kind of to the side, you know, so I didn’t even really look at him. He asked had Phoebe Lancaster boarded the ferry. I didn’t think anything of it.”

  Stella was almost speechless. Almost. “You didn’t think anything of it?”

  “Well, he was kind of wearing a uniform, like a member of staff on the ferry.”

  “Kind of?”

  Russo looked confused. “Well, now I think of it, maybe not an exact uniform.”

  “Well,
what then?”

  “Maybe just something nautical looking, I guess.”

  “And this didn’t seem odd to you?” She rested her head in her hands and attempted to count to ten before she spoke again. She reached three. “What the fuck, Russo? Have you suddenly developed shit for brains? You’d better tell me everything you remember and you’d better damn well remember it all.”

  As it turned out, there wasn’t much to remember. Russo had barely looked at the man. He could have been in his forties, but then Russo reckoned George was only forty-ish and Stella knew for a fact he was pushing sixty. Sure, Russo could tell if a girl was legal or not. No bother there. But a middle-aged man between the ages of forty and sixty and Russo hadn’t a bloody clue.

  Stella Googled an image of Oscar Dean and proceeded to shove her phone in front of Russo’s face. “Did he look like that?” He shook his head, muttering that if Oscar Dean had spoken to him on the boat, he’d know who he was. She was doubtful. Next she found an image of Simon Threadbody. “What about him?”

  Russo looked longer and harder. “It could be. But I’m really not sure. That’s probably closer to the age of the bloke.” He skipped through some alternative images of Simon. “I guess it could be him.”

  Stella was losing patience. “So, let’s just say your ever-diminishing little life was on the line here, big guy. Would you say the man you saw was Simon Threadbody?”

  Russo looked forlorn. “No, I couldn’t wager my life on it.”

  Stella had had enough. “Come on. Let’s go.” She was becoming increasingly worried for Phoebe.

  The fifteen-minute walk back to the hotel was entirely uphill, and after an indulgent dinner, it was the last thing either of them felt like doing. Russo attested that on every occasion, Stella complained the entire journey. Tonight she was too angry to complain, and she knew Russo preferred their banter to her silence, but tonight wasn’t Russo’s night.

  Russo’s phone rang, startling them both. “Hello. What? Hang on. Simon, calm down and start again.”

  “What is it?” Stella straightened. Tour manager mode kicked in.

  Russo’s full attention was on the conversation with Simon. “Where are you? Okay, stay there. I’m about five minutes away.” Russo’s tone became authoritative. “Simon, pull yourself together. It’s not the end of the world.” He hung up.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Simon told Gez he’s gay. He thought Gez might be too. Turns out he’s not. They’ve had words. Gez told him to fuck off and now Simon is upset. I’ll go talk to him.”

  “Fine. Good idea. Maybe keep his mouth off your dick this time, though.”

  Poised to offer a rebuttal, Russo thought better of it and jogged back down the road in the direction of the port.

  Above her, Stella could see the lights of the hotel. Annoyingly, the road weaved back and forth, climbing gradually, so the actual distance travelled was twice the distance required. She sighed. She was alone, worried about Phoebe, and annoyed that bloody Russo possessed a brain the size of a gnat. She wanted to be in her room tucked up in bed, and she wanted Phoebe to call. She half-heartedly hoped Phoebe might have turned up by now, but in the back of her mind, she knew that wouldn’t be the case.

  Stella remembered a cut-through Russo had shown her once. It went in a straight line directly up the hill, through the bushes, avoiding the windy road. She was rarely dressed appropriately enough to go trekking through the overgrown track, but tonight she didn’t care and searched for the opening in bushes.

  Bingo! Stella left the smooth bitumen of the road and, on all fours, climbed up into the thick bushes. Thongs weren’t the most ideal footwear for traipsing through the undergrowth, but she was being careful. When she stopped to catch her breath, she heard a twig snap behind her. She listened intently, and her heart rate increased slightly but there were no more sounds. Probably a feral cat, she told herself. Corfu was full of them, roaming the streets and living off restaurant scraps. She pressed on, and within minutes, finally reached the road.

  Stella was determined to conquer the fast route and walked directly across the bitumen, hoping the opening to the next section of the track would be visible. It was, and again, she hauled herself up out of the narrow ditch and into the bushes. Even wearing flip-flops, she quickly found her stride, weaving through the overgrown trees and shrubs. She was making good time but wished she’d not had that last glass of wine. It sat heavy in her stomach making her feel a little queasy. The exercise was proving a good antidote for Russo’s stupidity.

  Stella guessed she was about halfway when the sound of rustling branches, a thud, and a grunt saw her drop to a crouching position. She immediately told herself she was being ridiculous, but she stayed down regardless.

  “Russo, is that you?” Her tone was nothing short of irritated. “I’ve had about as much of you as I can take tonight. Scare me out of my wits some other time.”

  Silence.

  She waited.

  Another twig snapped.

  She ran.

  Driven by instinct and not willing to wait around and be the punch line to one of Russo’s practical jokes, Stella fled. She held on to the hope it was a joke. In fact, she knew it could be nothing at all, but she also feared it might be a threat. A real threat. She scrambled up the hill, desperately holding her arms outstretched, fending off the sharp, jagged pricks of dried tree branches. It was impossible to hear if she was being pursued. Her breathing was laboured, the trees swished past, and her heart pounded as if it were a bass drum. The dissecting road wouldn’t be far away. There she would wait and see if Russo showed his face. There she would berate him so much the whole of Corfu would know he was an asshole.

  The moment she reached the road, escaping the claustrophobic bushes, Stella stopped running. She stood with hands on hips waiting for Russo to emerge.

  Russo didn’t emerge. Instead, Stella heard footsteps. Loud, twig cracking, thumping footsteps. Someone was in the bushes, and if it wasn’t Russo, who was it and were they following her or simply minding their own business, oblivious to her increasing fear?

  She decided not to find out.

  Stella turned left and followed the road. Her thongs were a hindrance, but fragments of broken glass glistened in the dim street lamplight, so removing them seemed pointless. Panting, unable to draw enough oxygen, she slowed to a jog as she reached the second to last tight bend in the road. The lactic acid build-up in her thighs burned like fire, and eventually, she had to stop.

  This was a mistake. All the wine she drank at dinner gurgled, and as her body convulsed, great volumes of vomit spilled from her. She glanced around, wiping her mouth and expecting to hear the sound of footsteps rapidly closing in. The pounding of her heartbeat filled her ears, and her eyes darted back and forth but she could detect no movement. Even Russo wouldn’t string a practical joke out this long. She saw nothing move. Not even a tree swaying in the breeze.

  She was beginning to wonder if it were all her imagination. Even more determined to reach the solace of her room, Stella brought her weary legs to life and continued up the hill. As her pace quickened, her feet tangled beneath her, and she fell hard on her hands and elbows. She felt ill again, and it occurred to her that perhaps it wasn’t the alcohol, but fear. She couldn’t be sure that Russo or anyone else was following her, but with everything that had happened so far on the trip and with everything that Phoebe had said, fear gripped her insides. The tears produced when vomiting turned into tears of despair. Again, she paused and remained quiet long enough to reassure herself no one was following. Why aren’t any of the others around? Where’s Russo? Stella brushed off the gravel, slightly comforted by her close proximity to the hotel, and forced one foot in front of the other.

  Common sense told her that the middle of the road was the safest place, so with heavy legs protesting every step, she trudged up the hill. Stella glanced nervously over her shoulder, and every time she saw an empty road, her pulse slowed. There was nothing there.
Please tell me I’m not going insane. Halfway to the final bend, Stella began to relax. In the distance, she could hear the faint throbbing bass of the poolside sound system. She guessed most of the group was back at the hotel, dancing or swimming while the bartender produced deadly cocktail concoctions.

  Without warning, out of the darkness, something smashed into Stella’s side, propelling her through the air. She landed awkwardly and with force, stunned, but before she could orientate herself, gather her thoughts, or even fight back, she was set upon. She knew it wasn’t Russo, not a violent act like this. Whoever it was scrambled the length of her body, and with a pain she had never before experienced, her neck snapped back from the force of a fist connecting with her jaw. A punch like that, she guessed, was only the beginning. Her brain bounced back and forth inside her skull, causing her eyes to roll upward and briefly impair her vision. Stella fought to remain lucid. She covered her face and attempted to roll onto her stomach. All she could think about was escape, and now that something terrifying was actually happening, her mind snapped back to the incident in Nice, then on to Phoebe and Simon Threadbody. One event, shit luck. Two, coincidence, and three, this was number three and Stella was convinced this was no random attack.

  Her legs were so heavy from running, she willed them to function, but whatever had hit her was on them, on her, and her legs had been rendered useless. Stella lashed out with arms and fists of her own; she refused to take this beating without a fight. She attempted to scream, but she had bitten her tongue when the first blow struck her head, and it swelled so that her scream was barely audible. When eventually she connected with something, it winced and hit her again. This time her arms provided some protection, deflecting the contact.

  Unexpectedly, she felt enormous relief on her legs, and as they became free, she thrashed them about too, again connecting with something. But her win was short-lived. Within moments, agony forced her to withdraw into the foetal position. Her side, centimetres above her hip, stung with sharp, piercing pain. She felt the full force of someone’s foot smash violently into her ribs. Some kind of fabric was forced deep into her mouth and tied behind her head. She could barely breathe. Before the pain could even begin to take hold, Stella was scruffed by the back of her shirt and lifted onto unsteady feet. Her head throbbed, and she was defenceless against her assailant who wrenched her head down. In one easy move, her upper body was rendered immobile by a powerful headlock.