Claudia's Big Break

by Lisa Heidke

  ‘Marcus?’ said Tara. ‘Why would you buy him a present?’

  ‘Hello! He’s the one who made this holiday possible.’

  Reluctantly, I walked over to Sophie, who’d been taken in by a street vendor enthusiastically offering her his ‘best price’ for nuts, strawberries and coconut sticks. She handed over several worn Euros, then saw her purchases for half the price three stalls along.

  Twenty metres down the road, Tara succumbed to an outrageously overpriced battery-operated ornament — a dancing Last Supper. ‘Mum would have a fit,’ she smirked. And I didn’t feel so bad about all my impulse buys.

  Armed with bottled water, trinkets, T-shirts and enough nuts and strawberries to last several lifetimes, we made it to the Acropolis. I glanced at the others as we staggered through the grand entrance of the Propylaia and along the dusty winding path leading to the Parthenon and Acropolis Museum. Even though we were hot and sticky with perspiration trickling down our backs and legs, the three of us were grinning. We’d made it! It was a complete travesty that the Acropolis wasn’t one of the Seven Wonders of World.

  Despite the damage, scaffolding and pollution, the visual impact of the entire area was breathtaking. I was standing in front of the Erecthion — the most sacred site of the Acropolis — where Poseidon and Athena had their contest over who would be patron of Athens. Breathing deeply, I allowed my mind to drift back in time to when this place had been the centre of Greek culture and religion. I found it fascinating and almost unbelievable that these structures still existed thousands of years later. It made my almost thirty-nine years on Earth seem insignificant. Tara, Sophie and I would have been happy to sit and stare for ages, but unfortunately Levi had other ideas. He’d been trapped in his undersized stroller too long.

  ‘Please stay where I can see you, Leev,’ Sophie said, unbuckling him, and he promptly ran off and disappeared behind a caryatid. Sophie stood up, mumbled something about filling out a Prozac prescription, and set off to find him.

  Even with sightseers dotting the hill, the Acropolis didn’t feel overcrowded. People kept to their own space, which is more than could be said for the roaming cats.

  ‘How do they manage to survive up here?’ I wondered out loud.

  ‘I guess people like us throw them scraps of food and they live on that,’ said Tara.

  ‘But it’s so dusty and hot. See that one.’ I pointed to a black and white moggy, only just out of reach.

  As Tara turned to look, the cat pounced on an unsuspecting pigeon and attacked the bird with such force we heard the pigeon’s neck snap. It was over within seconds. Then we watched as the cat dragged the dead bird to his hideout somewhere underneath layers of ancient sandstone. Within moments dozens of cats appeared as if from nowhere, presumably to fight over the remains.

  ‘So that’s why the cats around here look so healthy,’ Tara said. ‘Pigeon parties.’

  ‘The Angel of Death,’ I said. ‘Spooky.’

  ‘Coincidence, more like it.’

  I stood still, watching and listening, as nearby tourists gathered in clusters taking holiday snaps. Photo after photo featured smiling couples and groups standing in front of the Erecthion, the Parthenon and temples such as Nike Athena.

  Instead of focusing on the famous buildings, I nervously began side-stepping camera-weilding tourists. It seemed every time I turned around, someone was snapping and I’d inadvertently get in their way. I guess it was inevitable I’d end up in a stranger’s happy snaps but I felt uncomfortable about being immortalised in someone’s photo album, or worse, their Facebook homepage.

  6

  ‘I hate these little planes,’ said Sophie, holding on tight to Levi’s arm as the plane took off for Santorini.

  ‘I’ll second that,’ I said, digging my nails into the armrest. I peered out the window as the plane accelerated into the wind and lurched from side to side. My stomach heaved, so clearly that wasn’t a good idea. I closed my eyes. The uneasy feeling I’d been aware of yesterday at the Acropolis had stayed with me. Maybe it was the Angel cards or the cat and the pigeon — whatever it was, I felt weirdly uncomfortable. I’d been so looking forward to exploring the Acropolis but after the slaughter, I became aware of hundreds of people hanging around taking photos, speaking in foreign languages and pointing.

  I got to thinking about Con. We were on a plane to Santorini and I still hadn’t heard from him. I wouldn’t relax until I had his signature as Marcus had instructed. It was supposed to have been a simple exchange in Athens. I didn’t relish having to hang around waiting for him in Santorini. Then I thought about Marcus. Was he missing me?

  ‘My God! Bumpy, isn’t it?’ shouted Tara, as the plane unexpectedly hit an air pocket, flinging Levi’s crayons into the air.

  ‘Close your eyes and try not to think about it,’ I said, as much to myself as to Tara.

  ‘Mummy, I’m being sick now.’

  True to his word, Levi promptly vomited all over his tray table and most of Winnie, Tigger and Eeyore. For the next fifteen minutes, the flight attendants really earned their pay. Even after Levi had been cleaned up and his toys rinsed and bundled into a plastic bag, the stench remained.

  I’d been intrigued and fascinated by Greece for years. It had been a dream destination for as long as I could remember. At university, I’d been struck by Greece’s mythical nature, the beauty of the Aegean Sea, and the teachings of Plato and Socrates. But despite all I’d learnt about ancient Greece, my knowledge of Santorini was vague. I had intended to use the flying time to swot up on Santorini, but the plane was swaying too wildly to read, and the vomiting incident had left me feeling a little nauseous myself. I knew it was a beautiful island with white homes dotting rugged cliffs. And that it was one of the two thousand islands stretching from the Ionian Sea in the west to the Aegean Sea in the east (I happened to glance at half a page of Greek propaganda as we boarded the plane), but aside from that, I hadn’t done a lot of research.

  I’d seen Captain Corelli’s Mandolin (Nicolas Cage is one of my favourite actors) so was familiar with Kefallonia, or as familiar as you can be after watching a ninety-minute Hollywood movie. And of course I’d seen the musical Mamma Mia too many times to count. I also knew Ios was the party island because my younger sister, Sarah Sunbeam, had shown me photos as proof. But Santorini? Everyone said it was the bride of the Cyclades.

  Given the ferocious crosswinds during the plane’s descent, we all clapped after Captain Kangaroo had bounced us to a standstill at the gate. We had finally arrived.

  Our hostess, Marcella, the proprietor of the aptly named Marcella’s Hotel where we’d be staying the next thirteen nights, had arranged for us to be met at the airport. As we were being driven to our villa I was captivated firstly by the seemingly inhospitable rocky outcrops and then, as we got closer to Fira, the island’s capital, by the white stucco homes with blinding blue shutters and the bright purple bougainvillea that climbed the walls and snuck onto rooftops.

  When we arrived, I was further blown away, and not only by the incredible scenery. The fierce wind was so strong it was difficult walking in a straight line. Marcella’s, a quaint block of four apartments, each perched precariously on Fira’s granite cliff and with its own enormous terrace facing towards the impressive pool below and the Mediterranean beyond, was prettier than I ever could have imagined.

  ‘Welcome!’ beamed Marcella. With her radiant smile and petite features, she could have been anywhere from her mid forties to late fifties. ‘You have a good journey, no?’ she asked in broken English as she led us to our apartment.

  We all nodded, overcome by the astounding views.

  ‘It may look pretty but it’s fucking freezing,’ Tara whispered as we followed after Marcella.

  Unfortunately, she was right. Even though it was the middle of the European summer, it was freezing. Thirty degrees would have been nice. Instead, it was about ten degrees below zero and the wind was getting stronger. In the couple of minutes we’d been here,
a sturdy beach umbrella and several wooden chairs had blown over and bounced along the entire length of the marble terrace.

  ‘Again with the language!’ Sophie hissed, and pointed to Levi, who was spinning around in the blustery weather.

  ‘Well, it is,’ said Tara, trembling in her chinos and Lady Penelope T-shirt. ‘I hardly brought any warm clothes.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ve brought an extra couple of pashminas you can borrow.’

  ‘Oh, I am thrilled,’ said Tara. ‘I’ve always wanted my own pashmina but somehow never got around to buying one.’

  ‘Please yourself,’ replied Sophie. ‘You can be rude and shiver or you can graciously accept my offer. Take it or leave it.’

  We walked, hunched over, to the edge of the apartment’s terrace. ‘Get a load of this view,’ I said, ignoring the appalling conditions and patio carnage. ‘It’s even more dramatic if you stand on the edge. Absolutely mind-blowing.’

  ‘It would be if it wasn’t so freakin’ freezing. The travel guides don’t mention that, do they?’ Tara growled. ‘Can we hurry up and move inside?’

  While Levi twirled in the wind, Marcella unlocked our painted wooden front door (blue!) and then lifted the latch so the door swung open. I was bursting with excitement. Downstairs was a kitchenette, bathroom, bedroom off to the side, and a combined lounge and dining room that opened out onto the huge terrace with the stunning views; upstairs were two more bedrooms.

  ‘You like?’ she asked, smiling.

  We all grinned.

  ‘It’s gorgeous,’ I said.

  Finally, we’d have our own rooms. In Athens we’d shared two tiny rooms, which was fine, at a stretch, for two nights, but there is such a thing as too much togetherness. Here we each had a cosy bedroom with built-in wooden cupboards and bookshelves. Mosquito netting draped elegantly over the four-poster beds. Perfectly romantic — not that any of us would be seeing any bedroom action, but it was nice to know the setting was there, just in case.

  Sophie and Levi chose the downstairs bedroom, close to the bathroom and kitchen, while Tara and I took the rooms upstairs. As we’d found during our short stay in Athens, no matter how late Levi went to bed, he’d still wake before dawn. Here, he and Sophie could access the bathroom and kitchen and breakfast on the terrace early in the morning without waking us.

  Although simply furnished, the apartment, with its polished marble floors and high decorative ceilings, felt comfortably relaxed and struck a perfect balance between traditional and contemporary (clearly I had spent far too much time reading Tara’s magazine).

  Marcella gave us sightseeing brochures, the bus timetable and several other useful pieces of information. She handed us the keys and smiled at Levi. ‘A gorgeous boy, no? I look after him. You ask me.’

  Obviously Marcella couldn’t smell the vomit because of the howling wind, which was just as well. When you got up close, Levi really did stink. The stench didn’t seem to bother him, though — he was already playing with his cars and dinosaurs on the floor.

  ‘It does not fill my eye,’ Marcella said, opening the front door and walking out onto the terrace.

  ‘Pardon? Sighnomi?’ I said.

  ‘Here,’ Marcella gestured. ‘I am not happy with this cloud.’ She threw her hands into the air. ‘Clow-di-a, there is nothing I can do. Tomorrow, weather much better.’

  Nodding, I walked back inside, smiling to myself. The Greek Isles. I didn’t care that it was blowing a gale. I was finally in Santorini!

  I dragged my bag upstairs to the front bedroom overlooking the cliffs, which Tara had graciously insisted I take. ‘Finder’s fee for bringing us along,’ she said. I didn’t argue.

  Downstairs, Sophie was saying, ‘Levi, wash yourself! You smell. No. Stay in the bath.’

  No doubt he was struggling to escape his mother’s clutches. I felt a fleeting twinge of sympathy for the poor kid. It wasn’t his fault the plane ride had been so bumpy. On the other hand, he did reek.

  Looking out my bedroom window onto the terrace below and further south to the cliffs and water, I could see rows of dazzling white houses perched on reddish-purple rock. On the southern side were more houses, and to the north, at the other end of the island, another white village, Oia, clung to volcanic cliffs. According to my map, the island I could see in the distance was the volcanically active Nea Kameni; apparently, if we were feeling energetic, we could scale the volcanic cone and crater. And maybe throw Levi in, if he continued vomiting in confined spaces.

  I couldn’t wait to get out and explore. But maybe I’d wait until the wind died down, the clouds disappeared and brilliant sunshine returned, as the pictures on the postcards promised.

  After I’d unpacked, I wandered downstairs just as Sophie was walking out of her bedroom.

  ‘He was asleep before his head hit the pillow,’ she said, shattered but triumphant. ‘I’ll just light a candle, do some deep breathing and all will be fine.’

  Sophie produced a Jo Malone grapefruit candle and, after lighting it and exhaling deeply three times, sat down on the lounge and opened her knitting bag. ‘Peace at last.’ She rummaged around for her wool and needles.

  ‘He’s a good kid, Soph,’ I said, breathing in the citrus aroma.

  She screwed up her face. ‘I know, but sometimes I want to strangle him.’ Her blonde curls appeared more tightly wound than ever as she twisted a ball of wool until the threads were at breaking point.

  ‘Have a shot of ouzo instead,’ said Tara, walking in from outside.

  ‘You ventured out into those conditions?’ I said, impressed. ‘Well done!’

  ‘Yeah, it’s enough to freeze your tits off but my need for sustenance was greater than my need for comfort. Also, I found this,’ Tara twirled to show off the extremely bulky and ugly aqua parka she was wearing, ‘in the wardrobe.’

  ‘You chose to wear that hideous creation,’ Sophie said, her nose in the air, ‘over my pale pink pashmina?’

  Tara shot me a grin and plonked several bags on the dining room table. ‘We have wine, red and white; ouzo, local and imported from the mainland; as well as olives, dolmades and pasta. In fact, we have all the essentials, as well as a couple of bits to keep Levi going until morning.’

  Soph and I gathered around, marvelling at the array of goodies.

  Tara held up a can of sardines and a bottle of ouzo that had been shrink-wrapped together, then shrugged. ‘Go figure. I tell you, there’s everything you could want and then some — honey, candied fruits, sausages, olives. I was overwhelmed with all the choices.’

  She opened a bottle and we raised our glasses. ‘Here’s to Santorini and to us,’ we shrilled and swallowed our first sip of Santorini retsina.

  Sophie spluttered. ‘Oh. My. God.’

  ‘A hint of car oil, pig swill and cat piss,’ Tara said, taking another swig. ‘However, it is alcohol.’

  True. We all gagged but that didn’t stop us drinking the contents dry within ten minutes. Then we placed the empty bottle in the centre of the table, rather like a shrine. Or a silent reminder never to buy it again.

  ‘It’s really stunning here,’ said Tara as we sat by the closed window and stared across the bleak Santorini sky.

  ‘It is. But you’re right, it’s bloody cold,’ said Sophie.

  ‘And extraordinarily windy,’ I added.

  ‘At the shops I overheard a couple of tourists say it’ll be sunny and wind-free tomorrow.’

  ‘I’ll drink to that,’ said Sophie. ‘And as long as Levi can manage a full night’s sleep, I’ll be happy.’

  ‘Full on, isn’t he?’ Tara mused.

  Sophie nodded. ‘Sometimes I think little boys are sent from hell to test our patience and sanity. I can’t imagine what poor Colette goes through.’ Colette was another friend from our schooldays who had three boys, the oldest of whom was six. The other two were twins, Levi’s age.

  ‘No wonder she drinks,’ said Tara.

  ‘It’s overwhelming,’ said Sophie, picking up
her knitting. ‘I sometimes think how much easier my life would be if I didn’t have Levi. I could do anything. Be anyone. Instead, I have to be responsible, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. It’s never-ending — the screaming, tantrums, vomiting, washing, cooking, consoling, cajoling. Sometimes, I want to run away and never come back.’

  ‘And what better place to run than Santorini,’ I said brightly. This wasn’t the time to get maudlin. For goodness sake, we were staying on one of the most gorgeous islands in the world. Although, come to think of it, now that it was dark, and given the dismal weather, we really could have been anywhere.

  ‘Your life may have been easier before Levi was around but it wouldn’t be as much fun,’ I reminded her.

  ‘Fun? I doubt it,’ she said after biting into a green olive. ‘No, I just have to accept that some women are natural mothers and others, like me, are not.’

  ‘You are a natural, Soph,’ I said. ‘Levi adores you.’

  Sophie exhaled. ‘I thought being a litigation lawyer was tough but it was a cake walk compared to this. Most of the time Levi calls me an angry monster. I’d hoped it’d get easier as he got older, not harder. When he was a baby I was forever exhausted because of the sleep deprivation, but it’s way more tiring now. Levi’s demands are endless. Meanwhile, the TV’s blaring. The phone’s ringing. The dog’s dying because he hasn’t been fed for two days. And to top it off, Alex is asking me where his socks, jeans and life have disappeared to.’

  Tara laid out a huge bowl of tomato and basil pasta and green salad on the coffee table.

  ‘Need help?’ I asked.

  She shook her head and pulled out several plates from the sideboard.

  ‘And then there’s Jake to deal with. I know it’s only one weekend a fortnight, but . . .’ She trailed off before snapping back with, ‘Jeez, listen to me. I have a healthy, energetic little boy and a wonderful husband. It’s just that —’ Sophie took a moment. ‘It’s hard being married.’