Sandy Barker - One Summer in Santorini

I could picture myself on the bow of the yacht wearing my new tangerine bikini and duty-free Prada sunglasses, which both looked fantastic on me by the way, the wind whipping through my hair like Kate Winslet in Titanic . Only before the iceberg. And about a hundred years later. Oh, and sans Leo.

Finally, after what felt like a millennium, my bag appeared. Good thing too, as my yacht fantasy was degenerating into an 80s music video. I grabbed for the handle, fumbled with it a bit, then lugged it off the carousel. It wasn’t big, but it was filled to the brim with the perfect Greek Island trousseau: the obligatory summer dresses, bikinis, shorts, flowing skirts, cute tops, and a sunhat. I was a travelling cliché and I didn’t care. Did I mention I was going to Greece?

I dragged the backpack over to one of the airport trolleys, swung it aboard, plopped my beautiful new leather handbag on top, and headed for the ‘Nothing to Declare’ exit. The only thing I had to declare was that I was going sailing on the Aegean, and I didn’t think the Customs agents gave a crap about that.

Cat was waiting behind the silver railing on the other side of the security door. We look almost identical, except I am five-foot-six and she’s five-foot-nothing. She says she’s five-foot-one-and-three-quarters, but she’s not. She did get the good hair, though – cow. It’s the only thing I hate about her. While I’m stuck with masses of curls – the really curly ones that do whatever the hell they like – she has thick cascading, chestnut waves. Like I said, cow.

‘You’re here!’ she declared, ducking under the railing and throwing her little arms around my neck. I stopped pushing the trolley and returned the hug. We stepped back and regarded each other.

‘You look fab!’ I squeaked, tears in my eyes.

‘You too!’ she lied.

‘I just got off a twenty-eight-hour flight. I look like crap.’

‘You’re right, but it’s nothing a shower and a good night’s sleep won’t cure. Come on.’ She took over pushing my trolley, and I followed obediently as she parted the crowd with a series of slightly rude ‘excuse mes’.

*

Back in her Docklands flat, my hair wet from the best shower I’d ever had, I sat on her couch, a cup of tea in one hand and a chocolate biscuit in the other. We emailed and FaceTimed regularly – we weren’t estranged or anything – but nothing was the same as actually being together, and we chatted non-stop, catching up on all the things that sisters chat about.

‘So, tomorrow you fly to Athens and then what?’

‘I pretty much fly straight to Santorini. The stopover in Athens is only four hours. I thought about sightseeing but knowing me, I’d get caught in a traffic jam on the way back to the airport and miss my island-hopper.’

‘You probably would.’

‘Thank you. No really , I mean it,’ I replied, my voice thick with sisterly sarcasm.

‘What? You do tend to have shitty luck when you travel.’ See? But impending bad luck aside, I happily realised that excitement was thrashing anxiety’s ass.

‘Cat, I’m going to Santorini tomorrow!’

‘So, that’s where you’re going,’ she said, giving me crap. Jealous. I ignored her.

‘It’s just … It feels like I booked this trip ages ago. And, yeah, I was excited at the time, but it’s been months . After a while it stopped feeling real.’ I grinned at her. ‘Until now. I can’t believe I’m really going!’ Then I stopped grinning. ‘I’m not being too obnoxious, am I?’

She smiled. ‘No, I’m happy for you. Really , I am.’ So not jealous, then.

‘I wish you could come.’

‘So do I, but there’s no way I could.’ Cat was a teacher like me, but while I was on holidays, her school year had just started.

‘Probably for the best. It could be a huge disaster of a trip.’ My inner pessimist was back, the lurker.

‘Don’t say that. It won’t be a disaster.’

‘You don’t know that. You just said I have shitty luck. And I do! Every time I travel somewhere, things go wrong. Look at last time in Peru! Plus, I won’t know anyone, and …’

‘Sarah, it’s not every time. I was only teasing. And Peru was ages ago. It’s a little bad luck now and then …’ She trailed off, shrugging. ‘Besides, you used to run tours for weeks at a time – for fifty people! You’re an experienced traveller .’

‘I know, but …’

‘But nothing. Random bad luck aside, you’re you . You know how to make friends with strangers. And you’ve been around.’ I threw her a stern look. ‘You know what I mean. I mean you’ve literally been around . You’ll be fine.’

See? Tough love. Everything she said made sense, but …

‘But what if it’s completely horrible?’ She laughed at me. I probably deserved it. No, I definitely did.

‘It’s not going to be horrible. It’s going to be amazing, and you’ll probably meet some really cool people.’ Then she hit me with the one thing I didn’t want to hear. ‘You know, you might meet someone.’ And then she gave me that look – you know the one.

And in an instant, my sister, my best friend in the entire world, joined the ‘poor Sarah’ pity party.

‘Did you really say that?’ I asked, shooting fiery daggers from my eyes.

‘What?’ She feigned innocence, her eyes widening.

‘You know exactly what !’ I didn’t think it was possible, but her eyes got even bigger. ‘Do you know how many people have said that to me since I booked this bloody trip?’

She shook her head, giant eyes fixed to mine.

‘A bazillion!’ Okay, so sometimes I tend towards the hyperbole. It was probably more like twelve, but in my world, that’s a lot of people.

‘Fine!’ she retaliated. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realise it was such a sore point.’

‘Well, it is. I’ve been single for, what, a few months? Right now, I just want to be on my own.’

‘Great!’

‘I mean, can’t I go on this trip, and have it be about me? Seeing somewhere new and hanging out and sailing and shit?’ I was whipping myself into quite the little frenzy.

‘All right. Yes. I’m sorry. I hope you don’t meet anyone.’

‘Thank you.’ It came out angry.

‘And, especially not someone cute, who makes you laugh, and is an all-round great guy. Actually, I hope all the men you meet are old and mean and ugly. No! Better yet, I hope there are no men. I hope you sail around the Greek Islands with a bunch of lesbians! I hope you go to Lesbos and are surrounded by lesbians!’ She pinned me down with a ‘so there’ stare, and after a beat, we both fell about laughing. My laughter quickly turned into a yawn. ‘How are you doing over there?’ she asked.

‘Good!’ I replied with more enthusiasm than I felt. She looked dubious. ‘Okay, I’m shattered, but I need to stay up and get on European time. I’ll be fine. The tea’s kicking in.’

‘How about a top-up then?’

‘Yes! Definitely more tea.’ I drained the last of my mug and handed it to her. She took it into the kitchen and put the kettle on.

With her back to me, she asked, ‘So, as long as you’re staying up for a while, do you want to talk about it?’

‘It?’ She turned to face me, looking mildly uncomfortable, like she was holding in a fart or something. ‘What?’ I asked, knowing exactly what she meant.

‘ Neil .’ My break-up with Neil was literally the last thing I wanted to talk about. I would have put a lively conversation about Trump’s presidency, or the Syrian crisis, or even Brexit ahead of talking about the pile of shit I’d called my boyfriend for almost a year.