The Secret Cove in Croatia
Having explored her little kingdom with utter delight, Maddie decided to treat herself to that G and T and to start reading the crew manual before heading into Split to meet Ivan who’d already gone to see his family. He’d circled a point on a tourist map for her and told her to ring him when she got there because she’d never find the family apartment.
Split was buzzing. Wandering along the crowded promenade, as she’d left herself plenty of time, she stopped to listen to a live band playing. They weren’t in the first flush of youth, but played enthusiastic covers of the Rolling Stones, ZZ Top and Steve Harley, all of which Maddie recognised as favourites of her rock chick mum’s. It was tempting to join in the dancing along with the hardened crowd at the very front but then Maddie could picture her mum, leather-jacketed and chain-smoking, who’d have been tapping her feet in time, no doubt head-banging to the music and flicking fag ash around her with careless laziness. Besides, she needed to find Ivan’s house and didn’t want to be late.
Maddie turned away and carried on walking along the busy promenade past the many restaurants, from which delicious smells spilled as waiters, trays held high, whizzed in and around tables with speedy efficiency. To her left, the sea sparkled in the low sunshine, an incredible blue that had her fingers itching to grab a paintbrush and capture the scene. She’d stowed her watercolour pencils and sketchbook in the drawer under her bed in the cabin in the hope she might get some days off, although from reading that manual it was looking less likely. Ahead of her, she could see the busy port, with queues of cars waiting to board and another stream of cars disembarking from a recent arrival. A large white ferry was chugging away out towards the islands that could be seen in the distance. This was the gateway to the Dalmatian islands and she couldn’t wait to set sail and see them for herself.
Busy, busy, busy. And she loved it. There was a sense of life and vibrancy about the place. It had that European smell, the joie de vivre and the delicious warmth in the air. She’d missed living in Paris. Missed the cosmopolitan lifestyle. Now, here was her chance to live it again.
‘Welcome, welcome, Ivan’s friend. Come, come.’
Maddie, wide-eyed from leaving the thronging crowds of the narrow street and stepping into the cool quiet calm of the ancient apartment building, offered the bunch of flowers she’d bought in the market around the corner and stared curiously around at the stone-lintelled windows and the big archway over the door.
Ivan’s apartment, at the top of worn stone steps, was in the middle of a wild warren of streets dating back to Roman times, lined with stone buildings within the boundary of Diocletian’s Palace, which she’d glimpsed briefly on her way here. It was like stepping back in time.
Modern manners and the proffered bunch of flowers brought a torrent of smiles and Croatian from the prune-faced wiry lady who stood at the heavy wooden front door.
‘This is my grandma, Vesna. She speaks a little English,’ Ivan said.
‘Hello,’ said Maddie, smiling as the tiny woman studied her with dark raisin eyes before dragging her in through the door and closing it behind Maddie.
‘And this is my wife, Zita.’ A tall dark-haired woman appeared from the other room. Maddie guessed she was in her early forties although, with her flawless olive skin, it was difficult to tell.
‘Thank you for having me,’ said Maddie, feeling a little uncertain and worried that she was encroaching on family time.
‘Company is always good,’ said Zita with a broad smile, her dark brows lifting. ‘You’re very welcome. Both grandma and my mama are here today. They’re very excited to meet you.’
‘Really?’ asked Maddie, frowning and glancing at Ivan in question.
Zita laughed. ‘We love company and any excuse to celebrate together with some food. This is the Croatian way. We love our food and we love our family.’
‘Gosh, your English is amazing.’
Zita tossed her heavy black-brown hair over her shoulder. She was a striking-looking woman with dark eyes and strong features and when she spoke her face danced with lively animation. ‘I went to university in London, UCL. That’s where I met Ivan. We worked there for some years and then came back to Split when our family was young and that’s when Ivan bought the boat. He hires it to the charter company but skippers for them. I work at the airport, so I use my English. Every year the airport gets busier and busier.’
Maddie followed her through to the kitchen, a hive of bustling activity where diminutive Vesna and another, much taller, lady presided over two big pans like a pair of mad professors, throwing in seasoning and bay leaves from a large glass jar on the side. They were both talking away, shooting shy smiles towards Maddie and patting a little boy on the head every time he came within their reach, as he darted backwards and forwards through an archway to a long table with handfuls of cutlery clutched between his chubby fingers.
‘This is my mother, Tonka, and that’s Bartul, our son. He likes to be busy and help Nona Tonka. Both Nona and Mama are very excited because Ivan said you wanted to learn about Croatian food.’ Zita spoke a few rapid words of Croatian and Tonka turned round and responded, waving her hand towards the big steaming pan in front of her.
‘She says she hopes you like fish. She wants to show you a traditional fish dish brujet.’
‘Can you tell her that I’d like to learn, though I don’t know much about fish?’
When Zita relayed this, Vesna looked horrified.
Zita translated again. ‘She says, “But you live on an island”.’ They all laughed at that.
Vesna beckoned Maddie over as she grabbed a large plastic bottle and poured a generous glug of dark green liquid into a large frying pan.
‘Is that olive oil?’ asked Maddie, looking up at a shelf of assorted plastic bottles in varying sizes, all containing the same liquid.
‘Yes.’ Zita handed her the bottle. ‘Smell.’
The distinctive fruity smell of olives hit her. ‘Wow, that smells good. Fresh. Like … well, like real olives. You can almost imagine them being crushed.’
‘Picked last October.’ Zita tilted her head with a definite hint of pride. ‘Here every family has their own piece of land with olive trees. We have a plot on Brač, up in the hills. In the autumn the whole family goes to the island for the week – everyone helps. And then the oil is pressed at a local co-operative. You must take a bottle back to the boat.’
‘Thank you, that would be great,’ said Maddie, thinking she’d save it to make a really good salad dressing.
‘And you must have a glass of wine.’ Zita pointed to a row of outsize glass jars tucked behind the archway.
‘Wow,’ said Maddie, eyeing the big jars of deep blackberry-coloured wine with their traditional wicker weave which looked fabulously rustic. ‘What do you call those? And is the wine homemade as well?’
‘In English you’d call them demijohns.’ Zita laughed and shook her head. ‘And yes, the wine is homemade but not by us, but there is a family connection of Ivan’s – his cousin makes the wine.’
‘Here, try.’ Ivan thrust a thick glass goblet of the wine into her hand, having poured several from a jug on the side.
‘I don’t know much about wine,’ said Maddie, gingerly tasting it.
‘All you need to know is if you like it,’ said Ivan, lifting his glass. ‘Živilli.’
‘Živilli,’ said Zita.
‘Mmm, that’s good,’ said Maddie.
Zita took a sip from her own glass. ‘Dalmatian red wines are very good. We have many. The white is different and will often be served with water in the restaurants. The tourists get cross because they don’t like it to be watered down. The red, I think, is the best.’ She shrugged. ‘Ivan and I, we prefer the red. You must take some wine back with you as well.’
Maddie was handed an apron and ushered over to the oven, where Tonka had begun to fry several pieces of different fish. Her impromptu cookery lesson featured lots of sign language and laughter as Tonka and Vesna attempted to teach her how to cook the dish. After that, to Maddie’s surprise, they showed her how to make fresh pasta.
‘I thought pasta was Italian,’ she said to Zita.
‘We’re very close to Italy and our history is very intertwined. The Venetians ruled here for over three hundred years. We do eat lots of pasta although, when it is a main dish, it is made with meat and shellfish, not fish. We do add what we call rezanci, vermicelli in Italian, to some of the fish stews and my mother has her own special ingredient, which I know –’ Zita’s eyes twinkled with amusement ‘–she’ll want to show you.’
Tonka was certainly an enthusiastic teacher, patting Maddie hard on the shoulder at regular intervals, while Vesna stood by and nodded approvingly.
‘Mmm, that tastes amazing,’ said Maddie when Tonka offered her a spoonful of brujet. The simplicity of the dish in terms of ingredients was belied by the fragrant, fresh flavours. ‘I’m not sure mine will be this good,’ she said, pulling faces and pointing to herself, to the amusement of Tonka, who patted her on the shoulder again and nodded in reassurance, while pointing to the fish and the herbs on the side.
‘Mama says if you use good fresh fish from the market and lots of seasoning, you can’t go wrong,’ translated Zita.
Maddie smiled her thanks towards the older woman. ‘That’s what she thinks. But at least I know what fish to buy now.’ Thanks to Zita, she had a page of copious notes and a list of fish to ask for at the market, as well as several recipes that Tonka had dictated, waving her wooden spoon at Zita, who’d painstakingly translated them all under Vesna’s watchful eye. It was a real team effort.
Shaking her poor cramped hand, Zita looked up. ‘Mama wants to show you her finishing touch. You’re very honoured. Some of these recipes are closely guarded secrets and this one she’s never given to me before.’
‘Come, come,’ said Vesna, pointing to the table as she started to ladle out the fish broth into wide soup bowls.
Maddie sat between Tonka and Zita and listened to the flow of Croatian around her, with Zita’s occasional translations to keep her involved.
‘Mama is talking about her neighbour, who she met in the market; she has trouble with her son. He started work on the top floor of his mother’s house to turn it into an apartment for him and his wife, but he has stopped halfway through the work and there is water running down the walls.’
Tonka was shaking her head and said something else, with a dramatic roll of her eyes. Zita giggled. ‘Apparently he’s a plumber.’
‘Oops,’ said Maddie. ‘I can see why he’s not very popular.’
Zita translated and Tonka let out a delighted laugh.
‘It’s very common in Croatia for families to have big houses and the next generation moves into the top floor,’ explained Zita.
‘God, I’m glad that doesn’t happen at home,’ said Maddie with a slight shudder.
Despite the language barrier, Maddie couldn’t remember an evening where she’d been made to feel so welcome. Without being unkind, she could have guaranteed that not one of her family would have been willing to try the fish or if they had they’d have stared at it with deep suspicion because fish came in batter with mushy peas and chips from the chippy.
‘Is good, yes?’ asked Vesna.
Maddie nodded. ‘Very.’ She patted her tummy in a Winnie-the-Pooh sort of motion that had everyone beaming. ‘If anything I make turns out this good, I’ll be very happy. Perhaps if I get stuck, Ivan can give me some help.’
Zita sniggered, translated for her mother and Ivan’s grandmother and there was a very pregnant pause before all three women burst into uproarious laughter.
‘That would be a no, then,’ said Maddie, joining in the laughter as Ivan shook his head.
‘I’m the captain of the boat.’ He winked at her. ‘I don’t do the cooking.’
Chapter 4
This was heaven. The whole boat to herself and the pick of the sun loungers. Maddie sipped at her gin and tonic, stretching out, enjoying the feel of the sun on her skin. She’d earned these few precious hours of sunbathing. The crew manual had been absolutely invaluable, as had her visit to Ivan’s house. She smiled at the thought of last night. She’d got it all sorted. Menu plans. Shopping lists. And, thanks to Zita, a complete selection of recommended markets and shops in all the different ports they were likely to visit. And first up, as soon as she got to a fish market, she would be making a fish broth.
Despite the delicious glasses of Ivan’s family’s red wine, which had slipped down rather well last night, she’d set her alarm for six and by eight-thirty this morning she’d checked all the cabins were clean, made sure every bathroom had fresh towels and planned today’s and tomorrow’s evening meal and lunch as well as early evening canapés, shorthand for olives, fresh anchovies and a plate of meat and cheese for the guests’ arrival at five-thirty.
As she reached for her drink, tilting her book up against the sun to shade her face, she became aware of voices and the rumbling rhythmic thud of suitcases being pulled over the wooden planks of the jetty. Ignoring them, she turned another page of her book and sipped at her gin and tonic.
She’d read several more pages of her book and was starting to consider setting the alarm on her phone to have a little snooze when someone called out, ‘Ahoy there, Avanturista. Anyone home?’
She froze, huddling rigid, back into her seat. Surely it couldn’t be guests. Ivan had been quite specific. No one checks in before five-thirty. Looking anxiously from side to side, she worked out that no one could see her from the quayside.
‘Hello, is anyone there?’ called a second, female, voice.
Maddie sat tight. It was only three-thirty. It wasn’t as if it was ten to five or anything. No one was supposed to be here and even if they’d made their way here by accident, this was far too early.
Unfortunately, it was impossible to relax now. Feeling resentful, she pressed herself back into the sun lounger, not even daring to use the straw in case she made an inadvertent noise. She listened, praying they might decide to turn around, but there was absolutely no sign of them shifting. Curiosity was also killing her. Who were the guests? She’d been wondering all day what they’d be like. There were no clues from the manifest as to whether the people were couples, family or a group of friends. Did she dare peep over the top and have a look? But she couldn’t because what if they saw her? Then she’d have to explain that they weren’t allowed on board and … well, she didn’t think she’d be able to hold her own against posh people who were paying her wages.
Basically, she was stuck on the deck in a new bikini she’d bought on a whim and would never have worn in public. With big bones, Maddie was never going to be a size ten; she was a healthy twelve to fourteen and her stomach had never, and was never going to be, flat and, yes, she had muffin tops – double chocolate chip muffin tops. All bought and paid for.
Now she knew they were there it was impossible to concentrate on her book. She hardly dared breathe as she listened to the two people talking. She couldn’t make out the words but one of them was getting quite irate and the other frustrated. Darn it and now she really wanted to pee. The more she tried not to think about it, the more she wanted to go. It was psychosomatic; she didn’t need to go. Her bladder disagreed. Oh, why, oh, why hadn’t she brought out her T-shirt to cover herself up? That would teach her for being so cocky at having sole run of the yacht.
Could she slide onto the floor and commando crawl her way across the deck to get to the stairs? The Mission Impossible tune unhelpfully played in her head. But then she’d have to slide down each step head first on her stomach. It was no good; she had to go to the loo. Gingerly, she lowered herself onto the wooden deck and, like a caterpillar, inched her way towards the stairs. How would Tom Cruise manage this? She regretted her initial decision to manoeuvre down the stairs on her stomach. Now she’d started, there wasn’t enough room for her to stand back up again.
Thankful to reach the bottom, she kept herself pressed up against the stairs. If she could see the pile of matching, very flash luggage, could they see her? She stiffened and then stared. Lord, was it really Louis Vuitton? Having spent enough time in Paris, she knew that was seriously expensive stuff and just how many cases did they have between them? She didn’t own that many clothes. Leaning forward just a touch, she held her breath, although why she did that she had no clue – did she think she was some sort of spy or something?
She could just see the tops of two people’s heads. Neither were looking up, so she risked another peek. The taller man had sandy blond hair and, beside him, looking like a delicate waif, was a teeny, tiny petite woman with lots of blonde hair glistening with golden lights, wearing white jeans, which looked considerably more expensive than Maddie’s Tesco numbers and a floaty silk top that had designer written all over it. From here, she couldn’t tell if they were famous or not, but they were certainly wealthy.
But, wealth or not, this ship was not yet open for business, so they could sit tight. Hugging the walls, she inched her way along until she reached the next stairwell that would allow her to cross to the other side of the yacht, where there was no chance they could see her.
She was going to use one of the cabin bathrooms on the lower deck. Creeping along, she froze when she felt the boat dip slightly as if someone had jumped on board.
The cheeky bastards. Ivan had been quite clear. Check-in was five-thirty. And she’d planned her day so that she’d have this last hour uninterrupted to make the most of the sundeck. Who did these people think they were? Just because they had money it didn’t mean that they could do what they liked.
She listened hard. No! Someone was winching down the gangplank.
Throwing back her shoulders, the pressing engagement to relieve her bladder forgotten, she marched along the corridor and mounted the short flight of stairs to the bow and flung open the wooden door, only then remembering she was in nothing more than a very small bikini.
‘Excuse me,’ she said, quickly taking in the scene.
The blond man turned guiltily, the gangplank now lowered into position onto the jetty.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’
His face flared red and he opened his mouth but, before he could say anything, an aristocratic drawl interrupted.
‘We’ve been waiting ages. Didn’t you hear us? Who are you?’
On six, maybe even seven-inch heels, the woman marched across the gangplank with the ease of a mountain goat, a feat that had Maddie gawping in surprise, as well as at her sheer effrontery. Flipping heck, the woman was take-your-breath-away stunning. Maddie stared, unable to help herself – this was the sort of person you saw in magazines or in films. She had to be famous or something.
Just the sight of her and her imperious, entitled manner had Maddie’s confidence leaking away with every second, horribly aware of her semi-nudity and less than perfect body.
‘Well, don’t just stand there. Are you going to let us in or not?’
Maddie clenched a fist behind her back. Remember, she told herself, paying customer. Remember the manual. It had been quite specific about the treatment of guests. Basically, suck up to them or else.
‘I’m terribly sorry but check-in isn’t until five-thirty. You’re supposed to wait at the main reception and everyone is brought over by the skipper.’
‘Well, what are you doing here?’ The woman arched a scathing eyebrow.
‘I … I’m one of the crew.’
‘Oh.’ In the one word, the woman managed to capture a wealth of disapproval and disdain.
‘No one is supposed to come on board before check-in.’
‘Well, we’re here now and I am not trooping all the way back over there, not in this heat and not in these shoes.’ She eyed Maddie’s bikini with a sneering look, her eyebrows raising as if in surprise as she focused on the swell of flesh just above her hips. ‘It’s not as if you appear to be terribly busy at the moment.’ The clear implication being that Maddie was just being lazy. She tossed her hair over her shoulder and held out her hand to the man, with mute, winsome appeal, who took it to help her over the last half metre of the gangplank, even though she’d been perfectly capable for the previous few metres.
Maddie swallowed. There’d been nothing in the manual about this.
Nick was feeling fed up and, if he were completely honest, slightly embarrassed at being caught out by someone on the boat. Since arriving at the airport Tara had been quite demanding, insisting that they got a taxi into Split in case she was recognised, and he still couldn’t believe that she’d brought three suitcases with her. He’d brought one piece of hand luggage. Shorts, that was all you needed on holiday, although he still wasn’t sure about the shorts Tara had persuaded him to buy or the cap-sleeved T-shirt. If his brothers had caught sight of them, he’d never have heard the end of it. The words big girl’s blouse sprang to mind, but Tara seemed to like them and their shopping trip had gone much more smoothly once he’d acquiesced to her taste. After all, she worked in fashion, she knew what she was talking about and shopping was his least favourite thing.
Since they’d arrived in the baking heat at the marina Tara had been quite piteous and he’d been really quite worried she might faint or something. But now they were here, what was the harm in going up on deck? It seemed entirely reasonable. They could just dump their luggage in the bow and at least have a cold drink or something. Surely Douglas, who had chartered the boat, could do the check-in stuff.
‘Look, I don’t make the rules, but the skipper made it quite clear,’ said the girl in the bikini, looking red and flushed in the face. He frowned. They’d clearly interrupted her important work – sunbathing.
‘Why don’t you leave your luggage here and go back to the marina to wait to be checked-in properly?’
‘Because, as Tara pointed out, we are here, we are hot, the boat has been paid for and we’d like to sit down somewhere cool and wait for the rest of our party,’ said Nick firmly, deciding to take no nonsense. He wasn’t at home now. This was Tara’s world and he’d seen how her friends acted. Imperious and direct. That was how you got things done in this world. ‘Is it going to inconvenience you hugely?’ He gave a pointed look at her bikini, immediately regretting it when the girl glared at him, her face turning pink.
Now she was making him feel guilty. He couldn’t bloody win. One thing he knew for sure was that his mum would not have been impressed with his behaviour. Refusing to meet the girl’s eyes, he turned and stalked down the gangplank to collect Tara’s luggage. At this very moment, he would have been happier in a pub on his own with a large pint of beer.
Tara swanned ahead and was already climbing the wooden stairs to the deck. As he wheeled one of her cases onto the gangway, she’d reached the rails and was waving down at him.
‘Oh, this is lovely. Come up. Oh, you couldn’t bring up my little case, could you?’
By the time he’d carried all the cases on board and went up to the first deck, taking with him Tara’s small cabin bag, she had settled in the air-conditioned lounge and kicked off her shoes – quite literally, they were lying in the middle of the floor – stripped off her jeans and was lounging on a white leather sofa, all long tanned legs and a tiny pair of briefs.
Nick blinked at her, not sure where to look.
‘Oh, darling, isn’t it lovely to have nothing to do.’ Peering up at her phone, held in one hand above her head to take a selfie, she stretched lazily. For a fleeting, disloyal second, when her white top rose to reveal a smooth flat stomach and the minuscule scrap of lace and silk masquerading as underwear, he wondered if she’d done it deliberately. His mouth went dry and he realised he was staring.