Out of the Blue

by Belinda Jones

  ‘Isn’t it gorgeous? The costume department sewed it in two days!’

  ‘It’s perfect – the colour totally pops on you,’ I enthuse. ‘But I have to ask – how do you get around in those shoes?’ I point to her wedges. ‘It’s so precarious around here!’

  ‘I know!’ She rolls her eyes. ‘I fell down some stairs yesterday.’

  I look horrified.

  ‘Just four steps but it felt like I fell for a month.’ She leans closer. ‘We have a deal that when filming is over we’re throwing them into the sea!’

  I laugh at the vision of this ceremonial offering and then fret that I’m getting over-pally. ‘I’m not disturbing you, am I?’

  ‘No, no,’ she assures me. ‘I always say a set is like having a party and I love to host – I want to make sure everyone has finger food!’

  She seems so happy and energised, but then again she is slap-bang in the middle of a dream-come-true.

  ‘So how did you feel when you first heard you’d got the authorities to lift the ban on filming here?’

  She smiles as she flashes back. ‘I instantly had a dream that the camera crane swung into the Acropolis and I woke up thinking, I broke Greece!’ she gurgles. ‘Really, it was a tremendous sense of responsibility mixed with euphoria!’ She still looks incredulous at her good fortune. ‘It was such a crazy wish!’

  But it came true. ‘So it really does pay to wish out loud,’ I decide.

  All of a sudden I feel like I’m visiting an oracle in this secret umbrella world and dare myself to ask about the concept of her character being changed by the love of this Greek guy, not that I have a vested interest or anything. But does she really think it’s possible?

  ‘I think we all change every day – I’m going to change as the result of meeting you,’ she asserts. ‘Every day, if you just take a moment to absorb what happened, you usually have changed in some way, but you don’t always realise it.’

  I nod, definitely feeling these past five days have changed me, I’m just not quite sure what to make of it all yet.

  She gives a little wave to a broodingly handsome man in a Brut-style denim shirt having his dark mane further ruffled.

  ‘Is that your leading man?’

  ‘Alexis Georgoulis.’ She gives an appreciative growl.

  I smirk to myself as I see all the surrounding women eyeing him admiringly. Just like you-know-who. ‘What is it that’s so appealing about Greek men?’ I sigh.

  ‘It’s the way they own their sexuality,’ she answers without hesitation. ‘They just walk in a room and they’re not afraid to announce their sexual beingness!’

  I blink back at her – so it’s not just Alekos. And apparently he can’t help the way he is – it’s a national trait!

  ‘Nia!’

  She’s being called for her scene.

  ‘Break a leg!’ I say as she thanks me for the shade, and then fret that a) that’s more a phrase for theatre luvvies and b) she may well do just that in those shoes.

  ‘You’re not the only friend of the stars!’ Greg reappears holding up two autographs made out to his daughters.

  ‘Does that say Ian Ogilvy?’ I squint at the first.

  He nods ecstatically.

  ‘Big fan of The Saint, are they?’ I frown.

  ‘Nooo,’ he tuts. ‘You know he writes children’s books?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh, we’ve read them all,’ he raves. ‘Daisy’s favourite is Measle and the Slitherghoul.’

  I can’t help but chortle at the title. ‘Was he nice?’

  ‘I thought he’d be an old smoothie but he seems a real gentleman, almost shy. He’s playing the husband of Caroline Goodhall.’

  ‘Is that the other autograph?’

  He nods. ‘She told me a hilarious story about Richard Dreyfuss!’

  ‘Hark at you!’ I splutter.

  ‘I know! I was just standing next to her and she started chatting to me like I was her guest at some fabulous Agatha Christie dinner party, she’s just so classy!’

  There’s another loudhailer announcement, this one unmistakably requesting quiet on set so we decide to slope off to the outer edge of the Acropolis and sit on the wall where we can chat comfortably without messing up a multi-million-dollar soundtrack.

  ‘Isn’t it funny, you really can’t tell the real tour groups apart from the actors,’ I say as we look back at the crowd.

  ‘Except that group are clobbering Alistair McGowan with their handbags and rucksacks.’

  ‘Apart from that . . .’ I grin. ‘That big grey boom thing really helps you spot where the star is, doesn’t it? They may as well have a big arrow on a stick.’

  ‘Holding for the cloud!’ we hear the next announcement and watch the white veil swish across the sun.

  ‘Athens looks so different from up here, doesn’t it?’ I say, turning to survey the wondrous panorama.

  There’s still enough cardboardy-looking manila for you to think half the city was made from office supplies but now we get to see the roof gardens and restaurant terraces, the terracotta tiling and even the occasional dome.

  Greg points out one of two lush green hills emerging from the city and I name them both – Lycabettus and Filopappou – trying to win back some tour-guide credentials.

  ‘And look – you can even see the sea from here!’

  I nod in the direction of the shimmering splay. To think that only yesterday I was listening to the guide at the Yachting Club Villas speak of the Athens coast and now I’m looking at it. What a difference a day makes, indeed.

  I suppose you really never know what is around the corner, good or bad. One minute I’m on the ship, ticking over, slight sense of something missing but looking forward to seeing Jules, then she diverts to Mauritius which seemed like such a loss at the time but then I gained the amazing experience with Alekos, only to lose it again, thanks to Jules. She seems to have a knack for whipping things away from me lately. But then if that hadn’t happened I wouldn’t be here right now, making a nice man’s dream come true. So maybe everything has worked out for the best.

  I smile as Greg climbs a level higher to get a better look at the view, only to wince at a sudden high-pitched whistling-shriek.

  ‘Oh my god!’ Greg covers his ears. ‘Is that what they do here instead of yelling Cut!?’ He looks over to where the crew are packing up their equipment.

  ‘Actually, I think it’s directed at you!’ I spot an official making ‘get down off the wall’ gesticulations.

  ‘Oops.’ He blushes, jumping back on to the sandy earth.

  ‘Well, at least you can say you got whistled at on holiday!’ I console him.

  ‘I can say a whole lot more than that now.’ He smiles earnestly as he turns to face me. ‘Seriously, Selena, I couldn’t have wished for more than this. I just hope I can repay you in some way.’

  ‘You already have by coming here with me.’

  ‘Oh.’ He waves my words away, like it’s nothing.

  ‘Honestly, I don’t know how I would have got through the day without you.’ My eyes are prickling now. The thought of wandering Athens alone with my sorrows is too grim to contemplate.

  ‘So you know what I do when my girls need cheering up?’ he asks as he smudges a baby tear from the corner of my eye.

  I shake my head.

  ‘Take them shopping. And not for anything tasteful!’ he hastens to add. ‘The most fun thing to do is to pick something ridiculous that will make you smile every time you look at it. And from what I saw of the giftshops on the way here . . .’

  I nod understanding. ‘I know just the place!’

  23

  ‘Friends are as companions on a journey, who ought to aid each other to persevere in the road to a happier life.’ – Pythagoras

  The old district of Plaka may be tourist central but it is also pristine and characterful, its paved streets home to a multitude of gift shops, cosy cafés and skinny cats slinking between the open-fronted restaurants waftin
g fragrances of stewed lamb and caramelised onions. The only slight drawback is that the name of the area puts me in mind of Alekos, but then doesn’t everything?

  Fortunately, I am soon tuning in to Greg’s challenge – the Grecian sandals in trendy metallics and embroidered cheesecloth smock tops both make me smile but perhaps aren’t ridiculous enough. I have more luck with the Demis Roussos-esque crinkle kaftans and colourful pom-pom slippers – I buy a pair in a donkey brown and lime colourway that I definitely find amusing and Greg gets pink and purple for his girls. For himself, he can’t resist a set of amber worry beads and a T-shirt printed with:

  To Do Is To Be – Socrates

  To Be Is To Do – Plato

  Do Be Do Be Do – Sinatra

  This is just the overstimulation I need. Everywhere I look a different Grecian god gurns back at me – I pause beside a display of masks with facial features fixed mid-cackle, snarl or moan, all crying out for a water feature to be piped through their lips.

  ‘I think my mum has that urn!’ Greg laughs, handling a piece of the black pottery painted with animated figures.

  ‘Mine too!’ I giggle. ‘It’s funny, when you’re a kid you think these things are precious family heirlooms akin to museum pieces and then you see them in their country of origin for under a fiver!’

  ‘I suppose back in their day they were really unusual,’ Greg decides.

  ‘Maybe even tasteful.’

  Next door is a shop selling nothing but natural sponges, another has beauty products made from olive oil including one poorly named ‘Heavy Leg Cream’. If I had stayed in Elounda and stared at the sea, all my emotions would have been reflected back to me; here I am fascinated by the array of products – not least the satyr-shaped bottles of ouzo.

  ‘Do you think you pour the drink out of the penis like a spout?’ I cringe. ‘That’s just not right.’

  All of a sudden Richard Dreyfuss bursts from a shop in full gladiator costume, goofing around at full volume with a young co-star.

  And to think I worried about us ever finding the film crew – now we can’t avoid them.

  After they yell ‘Cut!’, I hear a member of the crew sympathise with the Oscar-winner that he has to act like an idiot in front of dozens of gawping tourists and nonplussed locals but he’s having none of it.

  ‘I’m not embarrassed.’ He shrugs chirpily. ‘They pay you a lot of money, you can do anything!’

  Much as we’d like to stay and gawp, hunger urges us to sidestep the cameras and ponytailed men dangling assorted ropes and wires and proceed back up Ariadnou Street in search of a restaurant table that won’t be appearing at our local Odeon.

  ‘What about here?’ Greg stalls beside a quaint corner taverna.

  I’m instantly enamoured of its trailing vines and tartan-blanket-clad tables and pronounce it ‘Spot on!’ Though when we sit down, the street is so slanty we actually have to perch with a foot out like a strut to avoid toppling over. I’m not exaggerating – when the waiter pours the beer there is no need for him to tilt our glasses because they’re already set at an angle.

  ‘Ready?’ He prepares to take our food order.

  ‘We’d like the fish soup,’ we decide.

  ‘With or without the fish?’

  Greg and I look at each other.

  ‘The first, the cheaper one is made with fish stock,’ the waiter explains. ‘The second has actual pieces of fish in it. Is good. Is swordfish.’

  ‘With,’ we confirm.

  Greg chinks beer with me and then takes a rousing breath. ‘This has to be one of my all-time best days. I mean, how often can you say you bumped into Richard Dreyfuss while you were out shopping? I don’t know how many times we’ve watched Jaws.’

  ‘You and your girls?’ I’m shocked.

  ‘No, me and the guys!’ he laughs. ‘You know, they said they would come back to Elounda for the last night. You have to come over and tell them everything we saw or they’ll never believe me!’

  ‘Um.’ I look awkward.

  ‘What?’ He looks confused and then his shoulders slump. ‘You’re not coming back with me, are you?’

  I shake my head. ‘I can’t. I have to keep going.’

  ‘But where will you go?’

  ‘I haven’t quite decided yet. Maybe New Zealand.’

  ‘Gosh!’ Greg baulks. ‘When you go, you go!’

  I smile weakly. Just thinking about the trip leaves me drained.

  ‘You don’t look entirely convinced,’ he ventures.

  ‘I’m just a little bit lost at the moment,’ I sigh. ‘If there was a rehab facility for the broken-hearted I’d check right in, but in the meantime . . .’

  ‘Perhaps, if you decide to go back to England, you could come and stay with me for a bit?’

  ‘Really?’ I brighten. Now there’s a new option!

  ‘Marcia has the girls for another week towards the end of the holidays, or you could come while they’re there. Aside from the vomiting they really are delightful!’

  I chuckle. Suddenly I think how nice it would be to have someone to bring home those dolls in traditional dress I always find myself drawn to when I’m abroad but never have anyone to buy them for. With this prospect on the horizon I could start today.

  ‘That really would be lovely,’ I tell him, warmed by his friendship.

  The soup is surprisingly filling with whole potatoes bobbing in the tasty broth but we still manage a fig ice cream as we wander the backstreets and snoop around the intriguing Anafiotika neighbourhood – cut directly into the Acropolis bedrock, it’s like discovering a secret world of cliff-dwellers, only they live in little whitewashed houses with graffitied walkways rather than caves.

  I innocently reach out to stroke a potted geranium petal but find myself getting a flash of Alekos running his fingers through every basil bush we would pass. It’s time to go back to the hotel . . .

  The sky is a misty dark violet and the Parthenon glows gold with its evening floodlights as we take a last look back.

  ‘What a great day!’ Greg yawns as we enter the hotel.

  Despite my wobbles I, too, have a satisfying sense of a job well done. And what with our early start, we both feel entirely justified settling for an early night.

  I don’t even switch on the main light as I enter my room, just head for the bed, grateful for the exhaustion because it means I only have the energy to read Alekos’ card once. Though, inevitably, I do tuck it under my pillow . . .

  In the night I dream that Alekos and I are the romantic leads in a movie, but every time we are about to kiss, the director yells, ‘Cut!’

  And the director looks a lot like Jules.

  I sigh as I drag myself upright the following morning and wonder how long this pernicious grasp on my heart is going to last? Even when I’m having a good time with Greg I can feel it tightening and tugging me back. I’ve felt a degree of this before, generally when I’m leaving a place I’ve formed an emotional bond with – sailing away from mysterious Venice or the island bonhomie of St Lucia. But it’s been a while since I felt this for a person.

  I want to hate Alekos for sleeping with Jules but it was certainly one way of keeping his word about ‘no funny business’ with me. Apparently I should have made him promise not to get it on with my friends either. Or any other woman for that matter. How very reasonable of me – I don’t want you but I want you to want me and no one else! I shake my head and snuffle at myself as I get to my feet and fling back the curtains to blinding sunshine.

  Closing my eyes I let the glare infuse me, absolutely determined not to let self-pity ruin my last day in Greece.

  Fortunately, Athens continues to be on my side and presents us with one of the most gorgeous locales of any coastal town I have visited – the harbour of Mikrolimano.

  ‘Holy mackerel! When the concierge said we’d have our choice of fish restaurants, I wasn’t expecting quite so many options!’ Greg laughs as we contemplate the curve lined with fishing boats and at le
ast twenty equal-sized dining rooms opening directly on to the water. They all seem to have been part of some large-scale Changing Rooms project – each ‘room’ has its very own distinctive style – a mermaid fantasy with iridescent shells next to white wicker and monochrome stripes, leopard print and purple velvet alongside shabby chic and glass mosaics . . . In essence, something to suit every colour palette, star sign, age group and financial disposition – from tatty old-school trestle tables to fine dining with a besuited greeter who hands out a business card as you pass. We opt for a pared-down nautical theme made hip with Sixties-style white mouldings.

  ‘I can’t believe we’re going to eat lying down,’ Greg laughs as we slip on to a pair of padded sunloungers just millimetres from the water’s edge. ‘This is so decadent!’

  As the waiter takes our order across the street to the restaurant kitchen, we lie back and take in the comfortingly traditional view.

  It’s a little unnerving to feel so full and so empty at the same time. But I know I’m in the best possible place – there is something about the fluidity of water that suggests ever-altering possibility. It’s like the situation I find myself in now: I didn’t predict this so why worry myself about the week to come, even if I do have to make a decision about where I go next by tonight.

  ‘The water really glitters like diamonds in the sun, doesn’t it?’ Greg sighs. ‘I think the next time I’m feeling blue at home I’m going to take myself off to the nearest beach.’

  ‘And where would that be?’ I ask.

  ‘Morecambe,’ he replies.

  And then we both burst out laughing.

  ‘Ah, here are our starters!’ I cheer, beholding a heap of deep-fried fish no bigger than your little finger, which you crunch whole.

  Greg takes one daintily by its crispy tail, goes to speak and then halts himself.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘No, I was just going to ask if you’d heard from anyone in Elounda since we left but I’m sure you would have said if you had, so then I thought it’s best not to mention it if you’re not thinking about it. But now I have. And so you will be and—’