Until I kissed Max properly that is. Until his delicious kiss and the touch of his body pressed against mine through our layers of clothing was enough for me to climax into my jeans. The thought of that even now makes me cringe, yet I can’t help torturing myself by reliving it over and over, sporting an erection every time. Goodness knows how I’ll cope when we get onto the other stuff, some of which makes me nervous as hell, and I’m determined not to think about just yet. I’d definitely like to give him a blow job, for some reason the idea of being on my knees in front of him and giving him that pleasure turns me on more than anything else, even though I’ll probably be rubbish at it.

  It’s as if my eyes have been opened for the first time. Across the aisle from me on the ferry, a young handsome Frenchman balances a toddler on his knee. I find myself admiring the flex of his tanned and toned upper arms every time he lifts the child up higher, the sprinkle of fine dark hairs at his bony wrists. And I even notice the older Greek guy in a rumpled suit making his way down the aisle from the toilet. He’s around fifty and tired-looking, but the squareness of his unshaven jaw, his strong fingers as he rubs it absentmindedly, the notch at the base of his throat where he’s removed his tie and undone the top button on his shirt. It’s… well…it’s attractive. I find both men attractive. Why the hell did it take me so long?

  There’s a rowdy queue of clubbers snaking around the street corner when I finally locate the club. I’ve been to Athens many, many times. We (naturally) have some family living here, and I’ve been here with friends for nights out, had shopping expeditions with my mother, school trips to museums, and the like. But this scene is a totally new experience; I’m a proverbial fish out of water.

  My anxiety level soars, surrounded by these cool young men and women, locals and holidaymakers alike, chattering loudly in foreign languages, smoking, drinking, hugging, calling out to friends, and nonchalantly stepping into and out of taxis. These people look like they belong, confident twenty-something’s ready to dance and rave and do whatever else people do in places like this. Posters for Max’s set hang everywhere, pictures of his elegant silhouette against a backdrop of strobe lights. Some of the clubbers even have his image plastered across the front of T-shirts, which makes me kind of proud. Inhaling deeply of the warm night air and wiping my sweaty palms on the seat of my jeans, I ignore the queue and approach the intimidatingly hefty bouncers, half expecting derision, rejection, and a chorus of catcalls when I am summarily turned away.

  But no. Apparently, I am a bona fide VIP, and they were awaiting my arrival! I am promptly swept through frosted glass double doors and then escorted across a plush vestibule by a smiling and smartly dressed woman holding a walkie-talkie. Another set of forbidding doors and a deafening wall of sound greets me, accompanied by a tidal wave of damp heat. The humidity washes through my clothes as she leads me firmly by the elbow around the outer perimeter of the vast nightclub, imperiously moving paying patrons aside to push me through. Disorienting and claustrophobic, people squash together, condensation drips from the walls, beams of strobe lighting flicker across the crowd. I resist the urge to cover my ears with my hands at the deafening noise.

  My guide heads for what appears to be the side access leading to a giant stage. I follow her obediently as she leads me under a silky rope cordoning off the exclusive VIP front section from the rest of the crowd, manned by more burly security guards. Huge letters blazon the word BERG in an unmissable shimmery pink fluorescent glow across the top of the stage. I assume I will be deposited here, but no, she continues on and we ascend a short flight of stairs. The stage set-up resembles the jaws of a giant pearly-pink clamshell, with a semicircle of enormous white speakers and mixing decks giving the appearance of a jagged row of lower teeth. And with a pair of red headphones clamped to his ears and his toned arms twisting sinuously above his head, gently swaying to the rhythm of the pounding beat, is BERG himself, my gorgeous and very own Maximillian Bergmann, running the whole bloody show.

  Despite being closer to the decks and the source of the penetrating beat, it’s marginally quieter here in the dark recess at the side of the stage, and certainly cooler. The lady gesticulates to a chair and hands me my own pair of enormous red headphones before she disappears back the way we came. I’m not alone, though I am ignored, which is fine by me. A few sound and stage crew mill about, important lanyards strung around their necks, and I am merely a curiosity to be briefly regarded and dismissed. I wonder how many other men Max has invited in the past to sit here and watch him. There is an icebox of beer at my feet, and feeling conspicuous and wanting to do something to occupy my hands, I reach down and grab one, then settle in to enjoy the show.

  Max hasn’t noticed me, which gives me a moment to study him freely and to get my nerves under control. I’m relieved to see he’s dressed in a similar manner to me, in his usual loose-fitting Levi’s and a tight white T-shirt with some sort of retro acid-house print on the front. Drenched in sweat, with every beautiful contour of his muscular, athletic torso outlined, already I’m mesmerised by the sensual movement of his hips as he shakes them to the beat. And oh goodness, can my Maxi dance, my dick is solid already.

  Watching him, I’m not surprised he hasn’t yet noticed me. Apart from swigging occasionally from a bottle of water, his attention is entirely on manipulating the decks, the sounds he’s creating and the effect he’s having on the writhing, adoring masses spread out as far as the eye can see ahead of him. He’s the ultimate showman: a conductor, a maestro with total control of his orchestra, the clubbers moving as one to his every change of beat, every drop, every newly introduced bass, every frenzied increase in tempo. I hardly recognise him as my old friend, the one who ran about playing football for hours on the beach with me, the one who taught me to skateboard and laughed like a hyena every time I fell off, the one who not so long ago took me in his arms, kissed me so tenderly, and told me he loved me.

  And then he looks across and spots me, and suddenly I can see that it is my beloved, familiar Maxi after all; his face lights up, and he blows me a kiss. I know I’m flushing as I shyly return it, aware of the gaze of several curious onlookers. Then his eyes are down and back to his task, but his face remains plastered with a huge smile which undoubtedly matches my own.

  If someone had told me six months ago I would be deliriously happy to spend several hours watching a man jigging on the spot while manipulating some buttons on a huge set of mixing decks masquerading as a giant set of dentures, I would have laughed out loud at the ridiculousness of it. But as it is, I can’t tear my eyes away from the vision that is my oldest friend totally focussed on what is essentially his day job.

  A couple of hours in, and the relentless pulsating beat seems to have peaked; the tempo is frenetic, the whole place vibrates, and with a hand signal to someone in the opposite wings, Max removes his headphones, runs over to me, and drags me up by the hand. Smiling wickedly, he pulls me across the stage and athletically drops into the roped off VIP area directly below it, leaving me with no alternative but to jump down after him. The decks unmanned, he pulls me into the centre of the steamy mass of dancers where we are instantly swallowed up, surrounded on all sides by hot, writhing bodies.

  I’m peripherally aware of the bouncers anxiously hovering nearby, but otherwise, it could be only Max and myself in the club as he tugs me close by my belt, his strong arms looping round my lower back, spreading his fingers wide and not giving me an inch of freedom. Not that I want any; making an effort to throw my small-town inhibitions to one side, I place my arms around his neck, clasping my hands together, and lean into his graceful body. His hips are gyrating purposefully as we move together, and our dance becomes so much more than just a dance as I meet his pressure with my own. My mouth is at the level where the skin over his collarbone meets the neckline of his T-shirt, and I’m lost in the feel of his flesh against mine, the scent of his fresh sweat, and his familiar, lemony aftershave. I press my lips to his skin, tasting salt, and he buries his mouth in my hair in return.

  His chest and groin are against mine, and I’m achingly hard, painfully so when I sense that Max is as aroused as I am. I’m determined not to have a repeat of my embarrassment in the Aegina town carpark, but it’s going to be bloody difficult to prevent it as the sensation of Max hotly grinding into me through our layers of rough denim is like nothing on earth. Bowing his head, his lips seek out mine, and we are kissing with a lustful urgency that weakens my knees and tightens my balls.

  And then as quickly as it began, he steps away from me and the moment is gone, which is probably just as well as it’s one thing having an unplanned orgasm in a lonely dirt carpark at the end of an empty port, but quite another to repeat the performance in the middle of an Athenian dance floor heaving with people. Max starts to drag me back to his decks, but fans and friends alike block our route, all determined to touch him despite the efforts of the bouncers. Girls fawn over him, groping him as he politely but firmly tries to fend them off and push forwards.

  An insanely handsome man in one of those French navy striped tops and tight white jeans wraps his arm around Max and kisses him wetly on the mouth. I think I recognise him from the Berg Instagram photos; he has the sort of film star looks that are difficult to forget. Still determinedly pressing forwards, Max warmly returns the embrace before this first guy is elbowed aside by another, an older man dressed in a very expensive-looking silky red shirt, a vast gold watch dominating his forearm. He is way too good-looking as well, and it seems that Max returns his kiss with open-mouthed delight, receiving a possessive squeeze to his arse before a third, much more sober-looking man heaves him off with a playful slap to his rear, and Max is allowed on his way. I think I may recognise this guy, too, as someone who has stayed with Max on Aegina a few times. Despite my hand clearly glued to Max’s in an unmistakeably proprietorial manner, it is apparent I am totally invisible to these sophisticated and confident homosexual men, all clearly intimate with the man who holds my vulnerable heart completely in his hands.

  Max reaches his decks, calmly replaces his headphones, and…bang, it is like that emotional roller-coaster of an interlude never happened; he’s happily changing the beat to a more chilled vibe, and my dick is trying to crawl back inside my body. Stunned, I sink into the chair, my stomach churning, wishing I could disappear. Grabbing another beer, desperate for anything to deaden my feelings until I can get the hell out of here, hot tears prick at my eyelids. From feeling so buoyant earlier, I now know my chances of keeping someone as wonderful as Max all for myself are as slim as my chances of ever being awarded three Michelin stars.

  I study the worn wooden slats of the stage floor for a while, determined to stem the tears threatening to spill over before I sense Max willing me to meet his eye. Reluctantly, I look up.

  “I love you,” he mouths both in Greek and English, making ridiculous heart shapes with his arms over his head like some crazy version of the YMCA song. He’s repeating the words and actions over and over. “I love you, Georgios! I love you! I. Love. You!” He dances until I wave him away with my hand, grinning inanely, my face hot and probably bright red. I exhale with relief. Despite the odds stacked against me, my heart is in safe hands after all.

  Vagia, 14th May, 1942

  I hate, hate, hate Hauptmann Ernst. He’s mean, fat, and ugly, and I wish he was dead. He was here again last night. I could hear him coming from miles away because he was so drunk he was falling all over the place. Mama didn’t answer the door straight away, so he just kept on banging and banging and shouting in German. So much that Mr Kleftis came out of his house in his pyjamas and told him to ‘bugger off’, but he ignored him and carried on banging anyway until Mama let him in. He went straight upstairs, and then I heard Mama crying and Hauptmann Ernst speaking very loudly in quite a scary voice, so I turned the gramophone on in the kitchen and stayed there until he eventually went away. Please come home, Papa, we need you.

  *

  Dimitris had a big argument with Mama last night. I was sent to my room, as if being up there meant that I wouldn’t be able to hear them shouting. Which is ridiculous because

  the ceiling is so thin, and they were shouting really loudly. Well, Dimitris was anyway; Mama sounded more upset than shouty. Maria came home from school and decided to join in as well. They were all arguing about Hauptmann Ernst, that much was obvious. And then Dimitris stomped out of the house, slamming the door. He’s not come back home yet.

  Vagia, 1st June, 1942

  Lots of news today! Melia’s mama came over to our house and told my mama that some of the tyres on three of the fancy German jeeps had been slashed on purpose. Apparently, the soldiers are ‘not very happy’ about it and are determined to ‘bring the perpetrators to justice’, which I think is a complicated way of saying they are going to try to find out who did it and tell them off. Melia’s mama said someone also cut through the wire fence surrounding the army base at Tourlos in the middle of the night, and that was how they managed to cut the tyres with a sharp knife. Very annoying for the soldiers because they use the jeeps to travel all over the island. I’ve never been in a car. I’d love to have a ride in one of the jeeps. They go really fast, although not very fast at the moment, obviously, because flat tyres don’t work very well.

  And then even more news! Maria saw Hauptmann Ernst when ‘she went for a walk’ in the woods. She never just goes for a walk in the woods so I know what she was really doing, but I don’t think Mama and Melia’s mama thought it was odd. Mrs Tzabó would be pleased that I recognised ‘go for a walk’ as something called a euphemism, which means she was actually meeting Jürgen Bergmann but didn’t want anyone to know. Anyway, on her way there, she walked past Hauptmann Ernst and Hans Schmidt and another soldier she didn’t know going in the opposite direction, but Hauptmann Ernst had cuts all over his face as if he’d been in a fight. He usually looks really smart and all pink and shiny. I suppose he is a soldier, and their job is to fight, but there hasn’t been any war fighting on Aegina. Maybe he just tripped over when he was drunk and landed on something sharp and hurt himself that way, but Maria says he had some bruises too.

  I thought Mama would be pleased that he had been hurt because I’m pretty sure he has hurt her, but instead, she just went very quiet until Melia’s mama went back home. After she had gone, Mama asked me whether I had seen Dimitris. I haven’t; he’s been gone for four days now. I miss him, although he’s not as much fun as he used to be. But I suppose I will have to get used to him not being here soon anyway because after his next birthday he will be old enough to be a soldier, too, and he really wants to go to join the war. He’ll definitely let me have one of his buttons. I’ll have to ask Mr Kleftis if Greek soldiers have buttons as nice as the German ones.

  Vagia, 3rd June, 1942

  I’m so tired! I got told off today by Mrs Pathitis when I fell asleep during our maths lesson. Maths is very boring, and I’m not very good at it, so I tend to think of other things. Usually, she tells me off for daydreaming, but today was actual proper dreaming. I didn’t tell her why I’m so tired. It’s because for the last three mornings, Maria has woken me up really early by being sick in the chamber pot she keeps under the bed for middle of the night wees so we don’t have to go outside. She looks terrible. I hope I don’t catch it; I’m staying away from her. Nobody else has been sick, fortunately, so maybe it’s just her.

  *

  Dimitris is back. I don’t think him and Mama are talking to each other right now.

  *

  Gosh, why has life become so…complicated? Maybe that just happens as you get older. I mean, I’m ten and nearly eleven now. But when I was nine, none of this sort of stuff happened. Papa was here, Mama used to laugh a lot, Dimitris used to play silly games with me, and Maria, well Maria was always a bit mean to me. I don’t think she likes having a younger sister. But these days, she’s not even bothering to be mean to me. She doesn’t really say anything to me at all; she just lies on her bed until Mama finds her a job to do. I asked her why she was poorly yesterday. She didn’t answer, but looked like she was going to cry, so I left her alone and got on with colouring my flags.

  My second favourite flag is the Jamaica one, although it is definitely one of the hardest ones to draw as it has two people in the middle of it and they are both nearly naked! Jamaica is thousands of miles away, and the capital is a city called Kingston.

  *

  Jürgen Bergmann and Hans Schmidt stopped me and Lydia on our walk home from school today. Jürgen Bergmann asked me where Dimitris was, and I said he was at home. But he said he wasn’t because he had just been there looking for him. I have no idea why Jürgen Bergmann wants to see my brother. Everyone knows Dimitris doesn’t like the German soldiers. He also asked us who Dimitris’s friends were. For some reason, I felt a bit scared. Jürgen Bergmann wasn’t as friendly as he usually is. And so I pretended I didn’t know who his friends were, that he used to be friends with two boys in the village, but they have joined the army, and so now he has new friends from Aegina town I don’t know. He said if I find out where Dimitris is and tell him, he’ll give me one of his shiny buttons, which is very exciting. He showed me the button I could have, and it is gold. Gold! Even better than a silver one! Lydia is so jealous, I could tell, although she tried not to show it.

  Max

  I’m bloody furious with Vincent. And Michael, especially Michael. I could have punched him when he slobbered all over me and fondled my arse. He’s old enough to know better. I can only assume he must have been absolutely hammered or coked to the eyeballs as I really couldn’t have made it more obvious that I’m with someone. The sheer misery on Georgios’s face summed it all up perfectly. But if I’m honest, the person I’m most cross with is me for stupidly imagining I could go down to the dance floor in the first place with him and get away with it. After all, whenever I’ve done that before, it’s only ever been with the intention to nail someone with whom to share bodily fluids after the set. It’s not Vincent or Michael’s fault that they didn’t know I’m not in the game anymore.