by Mandy Baggot
‘The wine is not always good,’ Elias told her. ‘The wine is usually terrible. But no one complains, either because they are locals and have been drinking it for thirty years and have got accustomed to the terrible wine, or they are tourists and they think it is meant to taste like that because the grapes have been crushed by hand – or foot – or by goats.’
His mother sat down in the seat opposite him, hands still gloved.
‘Mama,’ Elias said softly. ‘What is going on?’
‘Nothing is going on. Eat your stifado before it goes cold.’
There was not going to be anything cold about this dish for at least an hour judging by the amount of steam that was coming off it and misting his eyeballs. It was good he wasn’t wearing his glasses.
‘My father is living in a storage shed,’ Elias said boldly.
‘Did he take you there?’ his mother asked, tutting and shaking her heavy head of hair, the style unchanged in all the time he had known her. ‘He has a luxury mattress, a fridge-freezer and a poster of Nana Mouskouri on the wall.’
‘Mama,’ Elias said again. ‘Why is he living there? Why is he not here with you?’
‘I expect he told you a grand story about how he is completely innocent in all of this. I am guaranteeing that he said I am going crazy and it is my hormones, or inherited from my mother or… both of these things.’
‘He said very little,’ Elias answered, picking up a fork. ‘He said I should ask you.’
‘See!’ his mother exclaimed, raising both gloved hands in the air then, seeming to suddenly realise she was still wearing them, she shook them off onto the table where they knocked over the pepper pot. ‘He blames this all on me, like always.’
And Elias still had no idea what had transpired to cause a solid marriage to be on such unstable ground… in his father’s case, ground that was covered in ants marching to and fro with some of the dregs of the smaller contents of his fridge-freezer. If this separation had happened, why wasn’t his father staying in Elias’s house? His late grandmother’s house. The one he had been given as a wedding present. The one he wasn’t sure he could ever go in again. He opened his mouth to speak.
‘Why are you here?’ his mother asked him. ‘Did someone from the village contact you? Was it Areti? Because I told her if she contacted you, I would make her drink a tea made from the juices of the cooking of lamb lungs.’ She sucked in a breath. ‘I should have known she likes this! She must drink this all the time!’
‘No one contacted me,’ Elias replied. ‘I am here for business.’ And he was. He needed to stay in Liakada because it was near Chad’s villa. The ‘happy’ coincidence was seeing his parents and setting foot back in the village that had all but ostracised him. It was a challenge and a challenge he was accepting. Except he hadn’t bargained on coming up against this separation issue.
‘You have a property you are helping to sell?’ Now his mother was fully turning the attention away from her marital problems. And here was the other white lie he had laid down when he had set up his own business in London. His mother didn’t think he was an estate agent, but she did think he was still in conveyancing. He knew if he told her his speciality was now divorce, that she would make something of that. And there was nothing to make of it…
Before he knew it, he was saying: ‘Yes.’ He physically cringed at himself and had to adjust his position in the chair and top up his wineglass as the humidity of the night seemed to increase ten-fold. There was no air-conditioning in this snug of a shop-cum-bar just a couple of fans that had seen better days whirring slowly. Even the mosquitos were able to evade the barely moving blades, almost dancing around in the air between them, mocking. Elias cleared his throat. ‘It is a house not far from here. One of the villas near the sea. An English woman lives there. Mrs Carmichael. I really need to meet with her. Has she been here at all?’ He reached into the pocket of his trousers to retrieve his phone. He had a photo he had plucked from Chad’s Instagram ready to show.
‘Why do you not go to the house?’ his mother asked. ‘If she is living there, waiting for you to come to help with the sale of her house?’
His mother was as astute as ever and was now looking at him like he was ten years old and still the naïve boy who had had his hand slapped for taking still-warm baklava from the oven.
‘It is… a difficult case,’ he answered coolly. ‘There is more than one owner involved and I want to… get a feel for… how she is.’
‘How she is?’
Elias fanned the neck of his shirt, needing some movement of air. ‘Yes.’ He thumbed icons on his phone, calling up the photo.
‘You are expecting her to bark at you like a stray dog?’ his mother asked. ‘Or snap at you with venom like a viper?’ She chuckled then, seeming to find his show of uncomfortable amusing. ‘Such a fuss over bricks and stone!’
‘Have you seen her?’ he asked. He held out his phone with Kristina Carmichael’s photo on it. His mother grabbed it, holding it close to her eyes, closer than she had held things to her face before. He couldn’t deny that both his parents had aged since he’d been gone.
‘I know this woman,’ his mother announced almost immediately. ‘But you are calling her the wrong name.’ She handed the phone back to Elias. ‘Her name is not this Car-Michelle you keep saying. Her name is Ms O’Neill.’
Elias nodded. So, Kristina must have already started using another name before the divorce was even halfway to being finalised. It made perfect sense with everything that Chad had been telling him about her distancing herself for the longest time.
‘And she is not here,’ his mother continued. ‘She has not been here for the past two weeks and she is not coming back for at least the next two more.’
This was terrible news! How was he going to sweettalk her over the distribution of marital assets if she wasn’t here in person to be charmed? Although, perhaps it wasn’t all bad. If the house was empty that meant easier access for him to assess exactly what assets were there. He had long suspected, with Kristina’s passion for high-end shopping, that maybe Chad was right and there could well be items in that villa her husband knew nothing about – expensive items his client was due a share of. He would take a walk there tomorrow.
‘Now, eat your stifado,’ his mother ordered. ‘I have a bar to run.’
And just like that, his mother stood up and left the table. Now there was no chance for him to ask any more questions about what had happened between her and his father. Elias had learned all his avoidance techniques from his mother, but she was still the master.
He put a fork to his food and hungrily guided it to his mouth. Closing his eyes, he let all the richness coat his taste buds, before chewing and enjoying the light texture of the meat and the gentle pop of the baby onions. There really wasn’t anything like his mother’s stifado.
Something was bothering him about Kristina not being at the property, though. What was she up to? And there was something familiar about the name Ms O’Neill. It was niggling at him that he had heard that name before. But, right now, he couldn’t think where.
Thirty-One
Taverna Kerasia, Kerasia Beach
Becky was the kind of fuzzy drunk that made you feel like a luxuriating cat who had been so well-fed that all it could do was lay out, belly upwards, eyes closed and doze under a warm sky. Perhaps Petra’s cat Plato was doing that right now back in Athens… Becky had all those feels, however she wasn’t laying outstretched on the white pebble beach, nor was her belly out, but she was mellow, humming inside from the delicious white wine she and Petra were sharing and the sound of the waves tumbling gently on the shoreline.
They had found the car. Or rather the car had found them. It had been half-hidden by vines and Petra had walked into it, her slight form rebounding off the bodywork and crumpling onto the patio. It was kind-of-red, kind-of-green-with-mould and looked like it hadn’t been driven in at least a decade. Neither of them had had the energy to start peeling off foliage to even s
ee if it was moveable, so instead of heading to any shop or supermarket, they had taken steps down to the beach and had arrived at this picturesque shoreline. They had gazed out over the water, drinking in the serenity – Petra skimmed some stones again but without getting maimed – and then the heavenly aromas coming from the taverna had pulled them in. They were now sitting at a table closest to the water, under softly glowing lights, feeling all of the holiday contentment. At least Becky was. It had been at least twenty minutes and a whole slab of feta cheese since she had thought about It’s A Wrap and her pending pitch to the nursing home that she really needed to get on with. Perhaps now she had the stability of a house to work in instead of an aircraft, inspiration would strike.
‘I’ve gone from famished to fat in like ten minutes,’ Petra announced, putting her hands on her flat-as-a-Portobello-mushroom stomach and exhaling.
‘We’ve been here an hour,’ Becky said, finally taking a look at her watch. Back home in the UK she was forever looking at her watch. It was almost a compulsive tick. How long did she have to finish buttering the rolls? What time was Megan back from her meeting? How much time to kill before she could reasonably go to bed with a book and not feel guilty about not being a twenty-five-year-old party animal?
‘Have we? Shit. Time flies when you’re eating and drinking yourself stupid.’ Petra grinned and filled her wineglass up with more.
‘And we still don’t have… ouzo and shit for the house.’
Petra laughed. ‘Living together is going to be so much fun now you’re all loosened up.’
Living together. She only had two weeks. As fun as Petra was, they were very different people. And did Petra really see her as someone who was more tightly wound than a Coleen Rooney tweet? Was that the vibe she gave off to everyone? Maybe that’s what had made Elias run away and sucker his lips to someone who was free and easy and didn’t think through every scenario possible before making a decision? And why was she still thinking about Elias? He was someone she had met for a couple of days. Free and easy. Time to get back to How to Find the Love of Your Life or Die Trying. One of the crucial steps, the book said, was knowing when to cut your losses…
‘Where are you from, Petra?’ Becky asked her, sipping at her wine. ‘I mean, when you aren’t travelling the globe. Where’s home?’
‘I… don’t really have a place of my own right now,’ Petra admitted. Her mouth went back to her wineglass and she took a swig before giving Becky a small smile. ‘I bet you have a place of your own though. You seem like someone who would be solid in the sorted stakes.’
Sorted in some ways but completely floundering in others. ‘I’ve got a tiny flat. And when I say tiny I mean tiny. My bed touches both walls and there’s no room for a wardrobe so I have to fold and roll all my clothes into a chest of drawers.’ Becky smiled. ‘But it’s mine. So, do you live at home in-between voyages of discovery?’
Petra shook her head, her expression tightening a little. A heavy silence seemed to descend and Becky waited for her to say something. It appeared nothing was forthcoming and the young girl was now picking at breadcrumbs on the tablecloth.
‘Well,’ Becky started, ‘I moved out of home because my mum was moving away and because… my dad died.’
Petra looked up then, her eyes wide, her body language giving off that she was reengaged. ‘Oh… that’s sad.’
‘Yes,’ Becky replied with a sigh. ‘It was sad. It was very sad. But, he had been… not himself for quite a while and although we did everything we could to give him the best quality of life we could after his initial stroke… I don’t know.’ She took a breath. ‘Sometimes I think he was carrying on for us. That maybe the enjoyment he showed in trying to improve was for our benefit not his. He couldn’t do any of the things he loved anymore.’
Becky suddenly felt Petra’s skinny fingers in hers and the girl squeezed her hand tightly, reassuringly, as emotion threatened to get the better of her.
‘It’s alright,’ Petra said softly. ‘I lost my dad too.’ She blinked damp eyes before continuing. ‘And when I was little, he told me that… everyone we lose turns into part of the moon.’ She paused. ‘You probably think that sounds like something cheesy from a chick-flick, but that’s the reason he gave for the moon changing size and shape. I know it’s not a scientific fact – I’m not that stupid – but I like it.’ She smiled, eyes going skyward. ‘And when I look up at the moon, I imagine everyone up there having a big party and looking down at us waiting for us to come and join in.’
Becky’s heart was fracturing little piece by little piece. It was a beautiful thought that her dad and Petra’s dad and everyone else’s loved ones were part of something bigger, something they could all see every single night.
‘Any-hoo, enough nostalgia. I don’t do the past,’ Petra said, withdrawing her hand. She banged on the table then raised a hand in the air. ‘Waiter!’ She looked back to Becky. ‘I know I said I was feeling fat but let’s have some more little plates. How about some mussels or something? They don’t make you feel bloated.’
‘Petra, I couldn’t eat another thing,’ Becky told her.
‘Ice cream!’ Petra continued. ‘How do you say “excuse me” again? Everyone always has room for ice cream. Why isn’t “waiter” an international word?’
Petra was suddenly all frenetic energy, waving spaghetti-like arms, as she tried to attract the attention of one of the servers. Gone was the soft, emotional Petra as quickly as that side of her had arrived.
‘You need to say signomi,’ Becky told her. She had been reading the little vocab section at the back of her guidebook. Now the waiter was approaching, another good-looking Greek that Petra had flirted with when he’d taken their order earlier.
‘Hello, yes, we would like some signomi please,’ Petra ordered, seeming a little less than her confident self.
‘Ti?’ the waiter asked, looking confused.
‘No,’ Petra said. ‘Not tea. Signomi.’ She turned to Becky and pulled a face. ‘Are you sure you got the word for “ice cream” right?’
Suddenly, Becky understood. ‘Signomi isn’t the word for “ice cream”. It’s the word for “excuse me” or “sorry”. For you to call the waiter over.’
‘You would like some ice cream?’ the waiter asked.
‘Yes please,’ Petra purred in response. ‘We’re not picky about the flavour. Whatever you recommend.’ She smiled with her eyes as well as her lips. ‘Make it a couple of big, round balls each.’
Becky almost choked on her mouthful of wine as Petra delivered Smut 101. And then her phone began to ring. She checked her watch – habit again – before picking her phone up and seeing it was It’s A Wrap’s number. It would be six o’clock in the UK right now, no one should be in the premises unless they were running behind schedule for pre-prep for the next day, or they had an evening event to prepare for. Or perhaps it was Megan. Maybe this was the phone call from her sister she had been waiting for. Megan would apologise, Becky would apologise – even though she didn’t think she needed to – and all would be well.
‘Hello,’ she greeted.
‘Thank fuck! I don’t know what I would have done if you didn’t pick up! Probably called the emergency services and hoped police, fire or ambulance knew something about pairing honey roasted ham with… marmalade.’
It wasn’t Megan. It was Shelley and she did sound hyped up. More hyped up than Shelley usually sounded.
‘Shelley, what’s wrong?’ Becky asked, standing up from the table and moving to the steps that led down to the beach below. She always hated it when people took phone calls in restaurants. Hopefully when she returned to the table Petra would have eaten all the ice cream…
‘Megan’s getting all hands-on with sandwich-making,’ Shelley hissed. ‘She came in when Hazel was creating Barry’s half-vegan, half-mystical bagel this morning. She asked Hazel what she was doing and Hazel had to say she hadn’t managed to have breakfast and it was for her. So, then Megan goes off on one sayi
ng Hazel’s eating her profits and what was this mysterious mixture anyway, and I had to tell Megan it wasn’t made from It’s A Wrap ingredients, it was something the triplets had made at school. To be fair, that shit Barry likes does look like something the triplets would mash up and make a bird feeder out of.’
Becky closed her eyes. This was what she had feared if she went away. Without her there to coordinate the tight ship, hide the detailed contents of some of food orders – or get the suppliers she knew best to call everything ‘cheese’ on their invoices – Megan was going to realise that they were selling far more elaborate products than she knew. And this was entirely Becky’s fault. Not just the not being there now, but the not having the courage to tell her sister that her basic business model and use of traditional sandwich fillings hadn’t been cutting it in the catering arena for a long time and that Becky’s secret ingenuity was what had been tiding the firm over. She had always planned to tell her – maybe – and she was definitely not going to interfere with the army contract. Well, not unless sales slid a bit…
‘Oh, Shelley, I’m so sorry,’ Becky said, looking out to sea. What had she been thinking assuming Shelley and Hazel would be able to keep what they did every day under wraps – literally – while she was away? It wasn’t fair to make them as complicit in deceiving her sister as she was. They didn’t get paid enough to put up with dealing with the stress of it. It was different for Becky, she needed Megan’s business to succeed for so many reasons…
‘It’s OK,’ Shelley breathed. ‘Well, it’s not OK because she’s coming in at 6 a.m. to help with prep, so that’s why I’m still here now. Hazel’s coming back in in a minute, after she’s had her corns done. We’re going to do as much as the preparation for the “other” rolls as we can tonight, but neither of us can find the list for tomorrow and I know you sent them all to me on my phone, but I can’t find it on there either. I’m low on storage and one of the triplets probably deleted it and replaced it with sixty-five selfies of them with their fingers up their nose.’