Sofka Zinovieff - Putney

When they woke, they shared Ralph’s last Gauloise and he licked her salty shoulder. ‘You could make a scent called Summer Beach,’ she said, listing the ingredients: ‘seawater, hot pine trees, suntan oil. And a tiny bit of cigarette smoke.’

‘Genius girl. We should do it and become millionaires. Imagine a bottle of that in London in February. People would die for it.’

On the way home, Ralph bought some vegetables, using Daphne as his interpreter.

‘I love hearing you speak Greek here. It’s so different to when you do it in London. You make sense as a part of this place.’

‘He’s my English uncle,’ explained Daphne to the curious greengrocer, kyrios Kostas, who made deliveries to her grandmother’s house and knew the whole family. ‘My aunt’s at home with the baby.’ Daphne wasn’t sure how far to go with the lies; it was easy to get caught out on an island. And kyrios Kostas did start asking about the baby, and how long they were staying, and was the aunt English too, until Daphne changed the subject by requesting bunches of spearmint, dill and parsley as Ellie always did for a green salad. He went out to the back to fetch them from the coolroom.

‘Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea coming here,’ she said. ‘We should have gone somewhere nobody knows us. I hate all this.’

After they showered, Ralph made them both tea.

‘Tea! In this heat? Ach, thees Inglees tzentelman must have his cup of tea,’ Daphne teased in a Greek accent, echoing Frosso’s remark.

‘It’s the most refreshing thing when the weather’s hot. Surely you know that? You greasy little Greek!’ Daphne threw a glassful of water at Ralph’s head in retaliation for the insult and squealed as he yelled and chased her in mock anger. Racing up the steps to the loggia she felt a stab of actual fear, as though her pursuer wasn’t the man she knew, but an attacker. She made it to the upstairs landing and ran into her grandparents’ room, locking the door and leaning against it, heart drumming. Hot tears slipped from her eyes.

‘Little pig, little pig, let me come in. Or I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your house in,’ Ralph called. She didn’t answer and tried to smile, but it still didn’t feel like fun.

‘Fuck off, Wolf! You can’t come in, not by the hairs on my chinny chin chin.’

‘Just a little kiss for your wolf?’

‘No!’ Her voice wobbled and, after the briefest pause, he said, ‘OK, my lovely little piglet. You win. I’ll see you downstairs. I’m going to prepare supper.’

She mooched around the room, picking objects off her grandmother’s dressing table, examining boxes, bottles, hairpins and tweezers and sniffing the rosewater and cold cream. The wardrobe smelled of mothballs when she opened it, and she slid the clothes along the rail, fingering the old jackets and slithery dresses. She recognised the housedress in blue and white sprigged cotton, worn so thin it was delicate as muslin. Removing it from the hanger, she took it into her bedroom and tried it on. As she did up the buttons and felt the fabric skim her ankles, there was a peculiar transformation, as though she was leaving behind the vulnerable, fearful girl and becoming a confident woman. She decided not to go down for a while, but to stay in her room and write.

It was clear to her that tonight was likely to be the night they would make love. He had shown her the packet of ‘French letters’ in his rucksack and, though she approved of the plan, she was nervous about going through with it. She was spilling over with emotion and desire, but it was definitely ‘weird’, as she wrote. There was such a fuss about ‘losing’ your virginity, but where did it go? Why are you one moment ‘intact’ and the next penetrated, pierced, different for evermore? And would it hurt? she wondered. More than almost anything, she hated the idea that there would be blood, especially given Ralph’s fastidiousness. She pictured his expression of revulsion when confronted with the gory flow produced by a punctured hymen. Would it pour out? It all sounded so medical.

For a brief moment, she felt out of her depth and wanted her mother. She pictured Ellie’s strong, tanned arms holding her tight, her comforting maternal smell and the things they would talk about if they did that sort of thing. It was true that Ellie had always been open with her about sex: ‘You can ask me anything you like,’ she’d said when Daphne was curious about the subject as a young child. But although she asked her mother a few questions, they’d never had a serious discussion. She didn’t know what Ellie thought about the value of virginity, let alone what she would advise her to do – or not do – that night. It would probably be her usual recommendation (in Greek) to ‘Find your own road.’

When she reappeared downstairs, she was wearing her grandmother’s old dress. It was much too large for her, but she’d tied it with a belt and had wound a silky scarf around her head. She’d also found an ancient lipstick and her lips were a provocative, pillar-box red.

‘So who are you now, my darling Daff?’ he laughed. He was in his element in the kitchen. A bottle of red wine was open and he was chopping onions and herbs and singing something very uncatchy. Daphne poured herself some wine and took a couple of large gulps.

‘Steady on, old girl,’ he said in the tones of a bumbling military man.

‘OK, Sergeant.’ She reached for a cigarette from the packet of Karelia they’d bought at the kiosk, and sat on the edge of the table, enjoying the rush.

The alcohol and nicotine transported her somewhere away from fear and broke the anxious chains of inexperience. They allowed her to stop observing.

Ralph didn’t comment and continued with his cooking, throwing together an omelette, jazzy with tomato, green pepper and feta. When he had dressed the herb-filled salad with olive oil and lemon, they carried the meal into the courtyard. She made the marble table pretty, lighting candles and bringing out her grandmother’s white napkins; then, sitting opposite each other, they clinked glasses. His face was the most beloved thing in the world. The air thrummed with a shrill cicada buzz and was heavy with jasmine.

The evening cooled and quietened, despite the rhythmic thudding of an open-air disco in the distance.

‘The cicadas are going to bed,’ said Ralph. He rose, drained his wine glass and, like a prince in a fairy story, stood humbly before her, holding out his hand until she took it. He helped her get up and, holding on to her waist, led her into the house and up the stairs. She was drunk enough to be relaxed and sober enough to be glad the lights were off. The moon lit their way into the bedroom.

She sat on the edge of the bed, the crocheted cover lumpy under her legs, and observed Ralph as he unbuttoned her borrowed dress and kissed her breasts.

‘I want you so much.’ He looked directly at her. ‘Do you still want to?’ She nodded and he delayed tactfully, before digging out the dreaded packet and placing it on the bedside table. They continued kissing and he put her hand on his cock. ‘Like that.’ When he ripped open the wrapping and started rolling on the condom, it was as though he was masking a strange animal. Fascinating but bewildering. He climbed on top of her and pushed between her open legs. ‘I don’t want to hurt you.’ She didn’t reply. More pushing against something that felt closed.

After a few minutes of stubbing himself hopelessly against an impassable door, Ralph groaned and rolled off, peeling away the sticky layer of rubber.

‘I can’t stand this awful thing,’ he said, flinging the offending item on to the floor. ‘I love you, Daff.’ She felt a failure. This prospect was worse than the discomfort she had experienced and it was miserable to leave it like this. She put her arm across his chest, moving her body against his, and then laid herself on top of him. This provoked a sudden change of tempo. He flipped her over and, with new determination, entered her.