Out of the Blue

by Belinda Jones

  ‘Oh my god!’ It’s littered with coloured streamers and somewhat deflated balloons. He did all this for me?

  It makes it all the more mystifying why he then jumped into bed with Jules. Unless while I was busily falling for him, his feelings were evolving from lust to friendship. Maybe I’m the first female friend he ever had, hence the big celebration.

  It’s then I notice the envelope on the bed. I hurry over and, heart pounding, tear it open. The image on the card is of a glowing moon in a dark, shimmery sky.

  ‘To my beautiful moon goddess,’ I read, clutching my heart. ‘I am honoured to be experiencing your birthday with you. I hope that I may make this evening as special for you as these past few days have been for me – tonight we go dancing!’ And he has signed off, ‘From your Greek protector.’

  ‘Oh Aleko,’ I cry out loud, eyes brimming with tears. Loulou puts her chin on my knee, by way of comfort.

  I’m about to slump into fantasies of what might have been if I’d only sent Jules a text saying, I’m falling in love! instead of making out that I needed saving – she hardly would have turned up if she thought I was mid-holiday romance – but then it dawns on me that Greg is patiently waiting for me.

  I get to my feet. I can’t ignore the facts – Alekos may have meant all this at the time but he went on to sleep with Jules and he hasn’t even replied to my text from two nights ago. If he wanted to see me he could have easily made it happen. But he made his choice patently clear, again, last night. As lovely as the card is, I can’t go idealising something that wasn’t ideal.

  All the same, I find myself tucking it into my bag as a keepsake.

  I’m tempted to set the cake down for Loulou to snuffle through, but instead return it to the fridge before I set the house and car keys on the table, along with my brief note.

  ‘Gone to Athens to do the interview.’

  Loulou gives the piece of paper a sniff as if to say, ‘That really is brief, isn’t it?’

  ‘I know,’ I shrug as I set down her food, ‘but I honestly don’t know what else to say.’

  I feel even more of a wrench leaving now but I know this trip to Athens is the sane choice.

  ‘Alright?’ Greg enquires as I step into the car. ‘Well, obviously it’s not alright, but is there anything I can do?’

  ‘No, oh shit!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just drive!’ I instruct, ducking down in the passenger seat. I’ve just seen Alekos’ dad Petros strolling in our direction. I can’t risk an encounter, however brief – he’d ask me why I was leaving and even though I have a legitimate reason, I suspect he’d be able to read the underlying motivation.

  ‘All clear,’ Greg announces as we round the corner.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ I grimace as I sit back upright.

  Greg can’t help but smirk a little. ‘You’re not dull to be around, I’ll tell you that.’

  We have one more stop en route – Greg dropping off his spare villa key for his pals just in case they need somewhere quiet to recuperate from alcohol poisoning, STDs, etc.

  As I lean out of the window to watch the parade of radioactive sunburns and sloganed T-shirts, a bare-chested guy pulls level with me on his outsize quad-bike.

  ‘Hey – aren’t you the watersports girl from the booze cruise?’

  ‘Not any more.’ I attempt a smile.

  Immediately I’m transported back to that crazy day with the never-ending parade and trade of sopping life-jackets, the subsequent raki dinner in Plaka, and then the idyllic moonlit beach. Enough! I have got to stop pining and reminiscing like this. It’s over.

  ‘Do you mind if I drive?’ I ask Greg when he returns to the car. I really feel I need to concentrate on the road rather than stomach-churning memories.

  ‘I would be delighted if you did!’ He looks relieved. ‘Would it be awfully rude if I fell asleep?’

  ‘Not at all. Drink some more water, have a kip and hopefully by the time we get to Athens you’ll be feeling human again.’

  He smiles gratefully and then closes his eyes.

  I hope the sleep does revive him. I want Greg to feel as good as he can – it’s not every day a film fanatic gets the chance to walk on to the set of a movie . . .

  22

  ‘Let Greeks be Greeks, and women what they are.’ – Anne Bradstreet

  ‘That’s such a trip-off-the-tongue name, isn’t it?’ I test my pronunciation skills as I attempt to read the official name for Athens airport. ‘Eleftherios Venizelos.’

  Rather more visitor-friendly is the metro system whisking you directly into the centre of town.

  ‘It says here that it wasn’t until they began excavations to make the city more traversable for the 2004 Olympic Games that they discovered not just the odd chipped vase, but also whole streets, houses, cemeteries, aqueducts – all buried!’

  ‘Like an ancient underworld!’ Greg enthuses.

  ‘Exactly. And many of the artefacts are now displayed in their corresponding stations.’

  The Akropoli stop, where we’re headed, is like a museum with genuine marble statues alongside the ticket booths and the kind of hip, blown-up photos and groovy lighting typically found in a design hotel. It is thus all the more of a shock when we step out into the present day and discover layer upon layer of cramped, shanty-shabby cubical living – endless shoeboxy blocks of flats stained with city life.

  ‘Gosh.’ Greg grimaces. ‘It’s like the modern Greeks looked at the architectural accomplishments of their predecessors and thought, We can’t top that so what’s the point in trying?’

  But then raised up on a hill in the midst of it all and emerging like a sculpture hewn from a vast chunk of raggedy limestone are the unmistakable pillars of the Parthenon.

  We both burst out laughing, unable to believe that we’re so close to such an iconic structure.

  ‘You know, Acropolis actually means high city,’ I tell Greg.

  ‘So let’s dump our stuff and get high!’ he cheers.

  It’s so nice to be around someone so even-tempered and easygoing. The hotel is equally understated in latte, mink and muted heather tones. Greg checks into his room, me into mine. No propositioning. No ridiculing. No nakedness. I tut myself for adding to the statistics of women who fall for the wild womaniser type, thinking they can change him, thinking they’ll be The One who makes him want to settle down. What a battle. Is that any way to live, fearing that if you have one less-than-alluring moment he’ll run off with someone else? I’m glad I’m out of his reach now. I take a breath and await the sensation of returning to my saner self. This is more me. Culture. Shopping. Chaotic, dirty, impatient traffic.

  It all rushes busily around me as we step back on to the street and yet instead of making me feel more at home, I feel the strangest pang for the simple soporific pleasure of the beach. It’s just culture shock, I assure myself. That could never be enough for me – shingle and sea. It can’t be.

  ‘This way!’ I swiftly lead Greg away from the exhaust fumes, down a leafy pedestrian street lined with pavement cafés, gift shops and kiosks crammed with all manner of portable snacks.

  ‘If in doubt, just follow the crowds!’ I give him my tip for getting to the major tourist attractions without the aid of a map. Unfortunately this causes us to con-template an incline on a par with the approach to Zeus’ cave. The man at the ticket office tells us about a more gentle route but I’m on such a mission to get Greg a glimpse of the film crew scheduled to shoot here today, I decide we should press on – literally pressing my hands on my thighs as we wrench upward in the garish midday heat.

  ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ Greg checks on my panting frame.

  ‘I’ve survived worse,’ I say, taking a deep inhalation of pine needles and honey and sun-baked earth, before clomping determinedly up to the next stage.

  ‘So here we have the Theatre of Dionysus,’ Greg pauses to consult his leaflet.

  ‘Yes, yes, the birthplace of drama as we know it, w
here the tragedies of Sophocles and Euripides were first performed,’ I breeze through the highlights – one quick glance shows me that the open-air ledges that once seated seventeen thousand are decidedly free of men in berets with clapperboards so I continue pacing, calling back to Greg: ‘We can linger longer on the way down.’

  ‘But what if we come down a different path? There seems to be more than one route –’ He stumbles around in the rubble, obviously a little overwhelmed by the scale of the place.

  I reach out and steady him: ‘These sites have been here since the fifth century BC, they’re not going anywhere in the next hour.’ The film crew, on the other hand, could relocate any moment . . .

  ‘Well, if you’re sure . . . ?’

  ‘Trust me, I have my reasons.’ I just wish I also had aerial vision. Perhaps it was rather naive of me to think this would be a simple game of hide and seek among the Doric columns – as if diva movie stars are going to just be scuffing up dust with the rest of us.

  ‘It looks a bit of a building site, doesn’t it?’ Greg nods ahead to the cranes and scaffolding tattying up our vista as he muses, ‘Restoration and decay occurring simultaneously . . .’

  ‘Mmm,’ I concur absently, continuing to scan the horizon.

  We’ve now reached the sprawling plateau at the top of the hill, just a stone’s throw from the most legendary pillars of all time, but Greg is preoccupied with the Porch of the Caryatids – six columns carved in the shape of voluptuous Athenian maidens.

  ‘This was used as a harem during the Ottoman occupation.’ He’s taken over the reading now, just as well since I am so distracted. ‘Do you think that’s why it is known as the Erechtheum?’ he enquires with a twinkle. ‘Apparently these statues are made of concrete, the real ones are in museums. In fact, there’s one Caryatid in the British Museum along with the Elgin Marbles!’ His jaw gapes. ‘Oh my god! I always thought they were literally talking about little glass marbles – they mean big Greek statues and, jeez, two hundred and forty-seven feet of a frieze that once decorated the Parthenon. No wonder there was such a scandal!’

  I too am having a revelation – I’ve just spied one of those Meccano-style extendable make-up cases and a camera tripod. I feel an inner whoop of excitement – we’ve made it! All we need now is the popcorn!

  ‘There’s something I want to show you . . .’ I go to pull Greg on.

  ‘Can I at least take a picture here?’ he resists.

  ‘If you’re quick,’ I tsk.

  He cocks his head at me. ‘Are you this brusque with all your tour groups? I thought the idea was to savour the moment, really let yourself imagine what life was like—’

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake!’ I despair, grabbing the camera out of his hand and taking an arbitrary shot of him and half a Caryatid. ‘I’ve told you, we’ll do all that on the way down.’ I jog him onward, keen to keep pace with a man with a walkie-talkie and a swinging ID pass, though it’s not easy to scurry elegantly on such uneven ground.

  ‘Careful!’ Greg cautions as I go to trip for the third time.

  I know I’m rushing, I know I’m a little manic, but I’m worried that if I stand still I’ll get engulfed by heartbreak again – I feel it creeping up behind me like a dark shadow, but if I keep moving and keep distracted I should be able to hold it off, though some strange part of me is looking forward to getting back to my room tonight so I can lose the brave face and let the tears flow.

  Even thinking about that has my eyes turning glassy. So I take a deep breath and try desperately to latch on to the details of where I am right now.

  I must say, in all the tours I’ve taken to crumbling ruins, this one seems to have inspired the greatest sense of occasion in terms of dress code. Of course there are the classic T-shirt-and-khaki-shorts brigade and I even notice one middle-aged lady in a swimming costume and a sarong flapping in the excitable breeze, but I also see a young woman in a fine-knit camisole with pearls and a clutch bag, and another in high-waisted, wide-legged navy pinstripe trousers with a red satin blouse. Perhaps they, too, heard about the filming and are hoping to be discovered?

  While Greg gawps skyward at the classic symbol of Greek democracy in all its milky-gold glory, I am equally awed at the ground-level sight of the makeshift movie camp, complete with canvas-backed actors’ chairs. It’s just like the website said and, even though it’s a peak-season Saturday, they haven’t cordoned anything off from the public – we’re right in amongst it.

  All I have to do now is wait for the drachma to drop.

  ‘Looks like they’re filming something . . .’ Greg notes casually as he checks through the shots he’s just taken. ‘Probably some documentary for the History Channel.’

  It’s time to unveil the surprise. ‘Actually, you’re witnessing history in the making right now.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ He looks up at me.

  ‘Well, Mr Film Fan, this just happens to be the first ever Hollywood movie to be granted permission to shoot at the Acropolis!’

  ‘What?’ He looks befuddled. ‘This is a real movie?’

  ‘Yes!’ I throw my arms out wide and zing, ‘Ta-daaaa!’ as if I arranged the whole thing just to amuse him.

  He’s still sceptical. ‘You mean with real movie stars?’

  ‘Have a look around.’

  It’s easier for me to spot the actors because I Googled the cast list last night but I want to see if Greg can identify the faces on his own. ‘That woman,’ he begins, pointing to a sophisticated blonde off to our left. ‘Wasn’t she in Schindler’s List?’

  ‘And a little film your daughters might have enjoyed . . .’

  ‘The Princess Diaries!’ he exclaims. ‘She was Mia’s mum.’ He clicks his fingers as he accesses her real-life name: ‘Caroline Goodhall!’

  ‘Yes!’ I cheer.

  He looks around, ready for the next. ‘Alistair McGowan!’ he gasps. ‘Just stood right there! He looks pretty tanned.’

  ‘I think he’s playing a Greek guy.’

  ‘Who’s the leading lady?’

  I look around to see if I can spot her. And then, right on cue, the crowds part, offering us a total movie-star moment: there she stands, fair glowing in a turquoise dress, shins gleaming bronze, feet tilting forward in steep brown leather wedges, perfectly composed as a make-up artist finesses her glossy brown waves, tucking a lock behind her gold-hooped ear before staining her pouting lips crimson with what looks like a felt-tip pen.

  ‘It’s the lady from My Big Fat Greek Wedding.’ Greg grins.

  ‘Nia Vardalos,’ I confirm.

  ‘She looks beautiful,’ we both coo together as her face illuminates with a heart-spillith-over smile.

  I know we both look instantly starstruck but she just seems so warm and engaging – look at her checking on everyone else, bantering merrily, playing with the scraggy stray that makes Loulou look ready for Crufts.

  ‘My wife is going to freak. She loved that film.’

  ‘Ex-wife,’ I correct him.

  ‘My ex-wife is going to freak!’ he titters joyfully. ‘So what’s this one called – hold on, let me guess. Acropolis Now!’

  ‘No,’ I laugh. ‘Think romantic comedy.’

  He chews his lip in deliberation and then offers, ‘Athens, I’m in Love? Kiss Me Aegean?’

  ‘No, but I like them!’ I laugh, impressed by his wit. ‘It’s actually all-too-relatably called My Life in Ruins!’

  ‘Oh, that’s great! My Life in Ruins,’ he repeats gazing back at the Parthenon. ‘And to think I thought I was just coming to see a heap of rubble. So what’s it about?’

  ‘All I know is there’s a jaded female tour guide who is transformed by the love of a Greek man.’

  We both look at each other. I hadn’t even made the connection until I said it out loud.

  ‘Only you’re not jaded,’ Greg observes. ‘At least as far as work goes.’

  ‘No,’ I agree. ‘And my leading man has run off with –’ I hesitate. I can’t even cal
l Jules my best friend any more.

  ‘A piece of set decoration?’ Greg helps me out.

  ‘Exactly.’

  Greg shakes his head. ‘I still can’t believe this is happening – how did you know about this?’

  ‘I literally only found out yesterday at the villa when I was looking up opening times – I did a quick cross-check and up popped a press release announcing the filming.’

  Suddenly there’s a loudhailer in our face, making an announcement in Greek.

  We look a bit concerned until the man translates for us: ‘Remember to not look at the camera.’

  We frown back at him.

  ‘Just keep walking in this direction.’

  ‘Oh my god,’ I grip Greg’s arm, ‘I think we’ve just become extras!’

  ‘I feel so Ricky Gervais!’ he chuckles back.

  As we wander onwards oh-so-nonchalantly, we find ourselves burrowing deeper into the film camp, so deep now that we are standing beside Nia and a man holding a big black umbrella to shield her both from the melting sun and the dusty wind. Greg edges off to get a better look at the tail end of ‘our’ scene and I’m about to join him, fearing I may have overstepped the proximity mark, when the umbrella holder is summoned and, mistaking me for crew, enquires, ‘Could you?’

  ‘Of course,’ I say, taking control of the umbrella.

  I’ve read enough Empire magazines to know that certain stars forbid minions to look them in the eye but the second I’m in position she beams directly at me – I’ve never seen brown eyes look so bright and sparky and all too soon I hear myself gushing, ‘I love your dress!’