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nation’s
essence captured upon a few square feet of proudly beating canvas. 
Camille, in contrast, frolics, a splash of fluorescent pink, in the shallows
with a couple of brown-skinned Greek kids she’s befriended from among the other
guests.  Adam puts down his phone, too hurriedly, and instinctively
glances across at where Monique and her new colleagues are having their
meeting.  Incongruously, it seems, they’re locked away in stifling
conspiracy behind mirrored screens of glass; all that is visible is more blue
and white in reflection, such vital surroundings not admitted.
    Despite her group’s proximity, a
mere twenty yards away, he feels excluded by this one-way barrier.  A
little earlier they’d broken out for coffee and cigarettes and spilled
chattering onto the terrace outside the meeting room.  Monique had made
eye-contact with him, listening attentively as she was to Simone, the
Secretary, and had then stayed conversing brightly amidst the group. 
After maybe ten minutes, she’d broken away and floated gracefully over,
balancing a filled cup of coffee for him and a glass of iced orange for
Camille.  He’d noticed she attracted some trailing glances: her flimsy
white silky dress moulded against her breasts and thighs by playful zephyrs,
caressing her curves with customary Greek cheek (apparently she’d been
propositioned by the taxi driver when they arrived, while she was settling the
bill and he shepherding Camille and their cases into the hotel foyer).  As
she’d bent to place the drinks on his little table he’d reached a hand behind
her neck and drawn her to him for a light but ostentatious kiss.  She
hadn’t resisted but he wondered if she would have initiated the act in sight of
the others, or even if she had been a little irked by his proprietorial
gesture.  Though she hadn’t indicated any dissent, she’d slipped his
embrace and headed for where Camille was playing at the far end of the pool,
and had knelt down to speak with her.  One of the guys from the meeting
– Ignacio the Spanish representative, with whom he’d briefly exchanged
small-talk the previous evening – was already making animated
conversation with Camille.  Adam heard Monique introduce him and tell
Camille that he also had a little girl her age.  After a couple of minutes
more it was time for the meeting to resume; the main corpus had snaked its way
into the narrow entrance created by one of the sliding windows; Monique and the
Spaniard made their apologies and detached themselves from a protesting
Camille, promising to swim with her later.  From across the pool Monique
called to Adam that she’d see them at lunchtime, that they could join the group
for a buffet with all the other partners.  She’d mouthed ‘Love you’. 
Adam had forced a smile and signed a laterally inverted ‘L’ with his right
thumb and index finger.
    Ordinarily he would soak up
half-speed poolside days, when time is marked only by the sun’s seemingly
unwilling and imperceptible progress towards mañana; but thus far this morning
he’d rather wished Helios would materialise and whip his charge
westwards.  The remaining hours now stretch unappealingly ahead, a parched
path littered with unaccountable anxieties.  He’d woken with a feeling of
uneasiness; the lack of distractions and the unaccustomed role of WAG had done
little to mitigate this faint but persistent sickness in the pit of his
stomach.  Then came the realisation that he’d rarely if ever seen Monique
from such a fly-on-the-wall perspective: at work, independent, in company of
others – males; now listening with a wide-eyed devotion, now holding
court, charming, joking, endearingly the new girl, unwittingly yet unashamedly
flirting.  He’d felt like a prisoner, peering between bars, helpless to
intervene and assert ownership, the manacle of managing Camille emphasising his
confinement.  Under normal circumstances he’d enjoy her company, but today
her presence