Hearing the slam of my car door, Georgios glances up, and for a moment, I swear a look of pure joy crosses his features before he schools his expression into a nonchalant mask.

  “The others are already over on the island” is his typical peevish greeting.

  “Good morning to you, too, my love,” I reply breezily.

  It’s as if I haven’t spoken. “I knew you’d be late, so they caught the shuttle boat and went on ahead.”

  I peek at my watch and frown. I’m in trouble already; he obviously hasn’t forgiven me for nagging him about the restaurant yesterday afternoon. Deciding to ignore his mild rebuke, I hop in and settle down on the narrow bench.

  “I’ve brought us a picnic,” I wheedle, hoping to regain his good books. “I’ve got all of your favourites in here.”

  “I’m still cross with you,” he states obstinately.

  “I know,” I respond, smiling. “And I still love you anyway.”

  Rolling his eyes, he sharply tugs on the outboard motor pull cord, and we set off. The voyage across the small stretch of calm blue waters to Moni Island takes all but twelve minutes, yet I’m predictably nauseous within five. Georgios smirks at me, fully aware of my discomfort and enjoying every minute of it. He’s not always pure and sweet and gentle, evidently. And I’m convinced he deliberately hits the top of every tiny wave to make me feel even worse. Breathing in the salty warm breeze, I try to ignore my queasiness by concentrating on looping a melody in my head over the rhythmic thrum of the diesel outboard. And by admiring Georgios’s delightful rear view from behind my Aviators as he expertly negotiates his tiny vessel towards Moni, less than a kilometre away.

  I can’t recall a time when Georgios and I weren’t best friends. He’s been a constant my whole life. We are actually second cousins, although that doesn’t mean much on Aegina, as it seems everyone is related to everyone else at some point along the family tree. I spent every single holiday here as I grew up, and all my memories are filled with weeks and weeks of glorious sunshine and…Georgios. Swimming and snorkelling in the sea, day and night, cycling all over the island, camping on the beach under the stars, or hiking up in the mountains. Endless days of strawberry gelatos and gyros, sleepovers and sun cream.

  My glamorous, young mother, Cora, is one hundred percent Aegina—a cousin to Simone, Georgios’s mum. The original bad apple, she was a rare, precocious beauty, and something of a wild child, who found herself impregnated at the age of sixteen by handsome and virile Felix Bergmann, a German lad only a couple of years older, whose ridiculously wealthy family had been holidaying on the island for as long as anyone could remember. To cut a long story short, her upstanding Greek parents disowned her. It was the scandal of the year, and as a consequence, she left the island in disgrace. Following her young, impressionable heart, she shacked up with Felix back in Germany and gave birth a few months later to a most wonderful baby boy. That will have been me, of course.

  Unfortunately, this tale of star-crossed lovers does not have a happy ending. When I was about three months old, Felix Bergmann, my young dad, dropped dead in the middle of a supermarket due to some sort of spontaneous massive bleed into his brain, leaving my teenaged mother alone in a foreign country and with a baby to care for.

  The bleed was a freakish ‘base of skull aneurysm’ apparently. I’ve been checked out and, fortunately, have not inherited the condition; otherwise, I possibly wouldn’t be here today as I’ve already outlived him by six years. Which feels pretty weird when I’m only twenty-four myself. He’s never felt real to me, just a name and nothing more; my mother has none of his belongings or even any photos of him.

  Anyway, the period of my mother’s life immediately after Felix’s death is when the story always becomes a little vague. For reasons I can’t fathom, nor have had elaborated further, she somehow acquired a whole pile of money, which I gather softened the blow of my father’s sudden demise somewhat. I’ve always assumed my wealthy German Bergmann grandparents had no desire to acknowledge their deceased son’s illegitimate progeny and paid my mother to disappear. They’ve never featured in my life since, and although I’m genetically half German, I don’t speak a word of it and have never lived there.

  Scarcely pausing to grieve for the lad who was possibly, in retrospect, never more than an ill-fated holiday romance, Cora used her best assets and reinvented herself as a beautiful and wealthy Athenian socialite. Before much time elapsed, she met and married Henry, my British stepdad, who has since considerably added to her already substantial coffers. Having said all of that, my mum’s accidental teenage pregnancy can’t be the whole reason why every member of Georgios’s family, apart from Georgios himself and possibly Simone, acts like they hate her and me. It seems a little harsh to say the least. I can’t be blamed for the circumstances of my birth, and my mum, Cora, was just a kid herself. No, there is definitely more to the inherent antipathy than that, but I’ll be damned if I can work it all out.

  Not only am I unable to recall a time when Georgios and I weren’t best friends, but I also cannot recall a time when I wasn’t in love with him. I knew I was gay, and so did everyone else, from the moment I announced to my stepfather that I wanted to grow up and marry Prince Harry. I was probably about ten years old at the time, and to his credit, my stepfather didn’t bat an eyelid. I’ve made marginally more progress with Georgios than I have with Prince Harry, but it’s a close-run thing.

  The biggest obstacle to my own happy ever after is Georgios’s determination to be straight, even though I am convinced that in his heart of hearts, he knows this isn’t strictly true. I can sort of understand why he’s in denial. His traditional Greek family would not take the news in the same chill manner as my stepfather, that’s for sure. So, he has continued his pretence of straightness, and I have continued to pine for him and seek solace elsewhere. Until quite recently…

  We’ve snogged three times, although the first time doesn’t really count as we were only fourteen years old, and a minute later, he passed out cold on cheap Tsantali wine that we’d nicked from Papa Marcos’s restaurant when no one was looking. And although he has no recollection of the incident, apart from copiously vomiting afterwards, that fumbling, drunken, sloppy kiss was a cornerstone of my early teenage wank bank for months and months.

  The second time we kissed was on New Year’s Eve when we were a much more sophisticated seventeen. He was drunk again, definitely, but I like to think he was not so drunk that he didn’t know what he was doing. We were stumbling home along the beach at stupidly late o’clock, arm in arm, when I tripped over a rock and found myself face first in the sand, dragging him down with me. For some reason (the vast quantity of alcohol obviously), we’d both found this hilariously funny and rolled around in the damp sand roaring with laughter until he was suddenly straddling me. Until this day, I swear it was him that initiated the kiss, but I guess he would deny it if I asked. And I’ve never asked—we’ve never mentioned it. But what a mind-blowing kiss; how could so much love and tenderness be conveyed in such a sweet, short moment? That kiss kept my right hand busy for about two years.

  And the third kiss? Well, that happened only about eight weeks ago, the last time I’d spent a few days on the island, and that time, both of us were stone-cold sober. Georgios had swung by my house to drive me down to the port in time for the first ferry of the morning back to the mainland. He often uses my jeep when I’m not here—it keeps the engine ticking over and is the only car he ever has the opportunity to drive. We’d parked up at the port, and after checking I had all my stuff, I leaned across for a manly hug. Nothing unusual there. Except the manly hug somehow morphed into a manly kiss, totally one hundred percent initiated by him. It was only a very quick one, but a definite, deliberate firm press onto my closed mouth, his hands either side of my face, holding me still. He’d pulled away in alarm, his face scarlet, and had started apologising immediately,

  “God, Max, I’m so sorry. Gosh, um…forget I just did that, will you?”

  He was so agitated and utterly mortified, and I’d been so taken by surprise, all I could offer in return was a mumbled,

  “Yeah, sure, forgotten already, mate.”

  And then I was out of the car and stumbling onto the ferry before it had really sunk in. But obviously it wasn’t forgotten, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since. And if I took away one message from that tantalising brief brush of his warm lips against mine, it was that from now on, no other lips would do. Of course, a day or two later, I had to go out and test that theory, but fortunately, the fates intervened and decided to deal me a couple of short, sharp shocks. Hence me, here, now, wanting to commit all I had to the pretty Greek man currently trying his hardest to make me puke.

  I’m relieved when the little boat phut-phuts to a stop; I’d be vomiting over the side if the trip took any longer, and Georgios throws down the anchor before we wade the short distance to the shore. Moni Island is tiny—consisting of a craggy mountain, a curved strip of sandy beach with one beach bar (selling extortionately priced drinks and snacks), some rocky coves around the other side of the island, and a cluster of abandoned and graffitied tumbledown buildings, which were once part of a campsite way back in the swinging sixties. A couple of swarthy lads wave their arms lazily at our arrival, and we make our way over to the collection of sun loungers.

  I recognise most of these boys, Georgios’s old friends from school, and they greet me with handshakes and friendly smiles before resuming their heated debate about Olympiakos’s impending Champions League battle against Galatasaray, a grudge match if ever there was one. A couple of girls, who I don’t recognise, sit slightly apart, but they are clearly part of our lively group. They’re probably in their late teens, and Georgios casually introduces me to them in Greek, throwing me a mischievous wink as he does. I stand next to him, saying nothing, pretending I don’t understand. We’ve played this game before—his mates have seen it countless times too; they won’t spoil it for us.

  “This is Max—he’s a friend from England. He’s on holiday here. I met up with him in the restaurant yesterday.”

  Not strictly a lie—we did meet up yesterday after all. He turns to me, and in his adorable, heavily accented English, he introduces the girls. “Max, meet Marina and Agnes. Agnes is my…um…my girlfriend, well…sort of.”

  I’m glad we’re playing our game because I have something to distract me from the sharp pain that appears from nowhere and stabs me deep under my ribcage when he mentions a girlfriend. It’s not the first time it’s happened. He’s beautiful to other people, not just me, but a little happy part of me dies every time, nonetheless.

  I nod my greeting politely and busy myself with sorting out towels on the loungers set aside for Georgios and me. I strip down to my rather fetching polka-dot shorts and await the inevitable. I’m being terribly immodest by saying this, but I’m a good-looking lad. My Aryan paternal blood has ensured I’m tall and strong, and with my mane of yellow hair, I’m an unlikely Aegean.

  “Bloody hell, Georgios,” says Marina in Greek. “Your English mate is, like, gorgeous! Thanks for bringing me some eye candy! Is he staying on Aegina long?”

  “Hell, yes!” replies Agnes, giggling to her friend. “We need to message Iona. She said she might come and join us if there were any hot guys at the beach. I think he fits the bill, don’t you Marina? God, I love all that that blond hair!”

  “Hot doesn’t come close, Agnes, have you seen that arse in those ridiculous shorts, like, wow!”

  Georgios has impeccable timing, and although his mates ostensibly carry on with their football chat, they are all waiting. As the girls finish texting their friend, still giggling and covertly assessing my body, he stands and turns to me before casually suggesting in his own language, “Fancy a dip, Maxi? It’s going to be a hot one today.”

  “Sure, any of you boys and girls joining us for a game of frisbee?” I reply, just as casually in perfect Greek. It takes the girls a second to catch on, but the look on their faces is priceless.

  “So, how long have you and Agnes been a thing?” I enquire sharply, as I spin the frisbee at him with rather excessive force. We’re thigh-deep in water and out of ear shot. I’m so irritated by this girlfriend charade of his that I’m almost disappointed when the frisbee misses his face and he deftly catches it. Flicking his wrist sharply, he spins it back with just as much power, the subtext of this minibattle writ large.

  “Uh…you know, a few weeks. I met her one night over at that bar you like in Agia Marina. She’s a nice girl, don’t you think? Great body.”

  I shrug. “I guess so, if you like that sort of thing. Have you shagged her yet?”

  I have nothing against girls per se, although I couldn’t eat a whole one. Hah! However, I’m very happy to admire a pretty one, to flirt even. I enjoy observing them in action: the subtle undermining of their friends, the more subtle manipulation of their boyfriends. I actually tried shagging one a few years back, which only cemented my conviction that my ten-year-old self had displayed wisdom beyond his tender years by setting his cap at Prince Harry.

  “I do like that sort of thing,” Georgios replies mildly, nearly taking my head off with the frisbee. “And whether I’ve shagged her or not is really none of your business.”

  “But have you though? Come on! You can tell me; I can keep a secret.”

  “I’m not telling you, Max! We’re not fifteen anymore. It is none of your business; so stop asking me!”

  “I’ll take that as a ‘no’ then. Is it because she doesn’t want to, or that you don’t want to?”

  “I’m not answering that, so shut up. I’ve told you—whether I’ve shagged Agnes or not, I like that sort of thing!”

  And he proceeds to demonstrate just exactly how much he likes that sort of thing for the next hour or so as he takes up position next to Agnes on a sun lounger and does a pretty good attempt at playing the attentive boyfriend. I’m not fooled, and after a while, to Marina’s disappointment, I turn my attention to a young Australian backpacker seated at the bar, who is as camp as a row of tents. Not my type at all, but he’s amusing nonetheless, and every time we laugh loudly, I’m satisfied to see that it rattles Georgios, though he tries his hardest not to show it.

  I’m not all bad, and it’s nice to see Georgios having a break. He works such long days for so little reward that no one can begrudge him a day off for sunbathing and relaxing with a few mates. But I’m restless as usual, my fingers tapping, and as the sun hits the sky directly overhead, my suggestion to hike up Moni Mountain is greeted with a predictable chorus of disapproval.

  “Just you and me then, Georgie boy,” I say without a shred of disappointment.

  A steep rocky outcrop, Moni Mountain covers almost the whole of the northern half of the island. It is home to tame peacocks and muntjac deer, which come down from the mountain to roam the island freely, scavenging food from tourists. Scrubby trees and brush cover the lower slopes, narrowing to piles of giant boulders at the top. Climbing experience is not required, although serious footwear is recommended as the paths are virtually non-existent and the rock faces near the top very steep and slippery. One false move risks a sheer drop down to the ocean and probable death on one side or, if the gods are smiling on you, an undignified tumble through two hundred metres of loose scree and prickly scrub on the other. Naturally, we are wearing flip flops. Walking shoes are for tourists, and with the extreme heat at this time of year, very few of those can be bothered to venture to the summit.

  But the incredible view from the top is always worth the scrabble across the bare rock, and after hauling each other up over the last few metres, we collapse in the shelter of one of two WWII German lookout posts. As insignificant as the little island of Aegina seems today, it was once considered a vital stronghold for the Axis powers. Whichever navy ruled the waters around Aegina also controlled the shipping in and out of the important mainland port of Piraeus. Hence, in 1941 when the German army invited themselves as unwelcome guests on Aegina, they built these concrete bunkers all the way up here.

  I’m knackered and coughing like a consumptive, regretting my impulsive exertion. Irritatingly, Georgios tripped up the last few metres like a genetically blessed mountain goat and is smugly neither out of breath nor sweating like a pig.

  “Maybe you should lay off the fags for a bit, Maxi, boy?” he observes as I struggle to get my breathing under a semblance of control.

  “Fuck off,” I gasp, reaching into my rucksack.

  We wordlessly glug down a couple of refreshing bottles of Fix before I’m feeling able to fully appreciate the view. And not just the view of my pretty boy stretched out next to me, although that’s rather fine too. From up here, not only can I look back at Aegina and the mainland beyond but also take in several of the verdant Saronic islands smattered around the Aegean Sea. The beach bar and Georgios’s friends are mere specks in the distance, and a few yachts dot the perimeter of the islands; otherwise, we are totally alone and on top of the world.

  “Mad dogs and Englishmen and all that,” I remark as I catch my breath. Georgios has no idea what I’m going on about, and I can’t think of an equivalent Greek quotation.

  “It is bloody hot,” he concedes, wiping the smallest trace of perspiration from his brow. Noel Coward couldn’t have put it better himself.

  “You live here!” I laugh. “You’re supposed to be used to the heat!”

  “I am,” he grumbles. “But no self-respecting Greek bloke would climb this mountain in the heat of the day. Toss me another of those beers.”