by Mandy Baggot
‘You are OK?’ he asked. The weight of her body was pressed against his, the laptop the only thing separating them.
She nodded and gave a small smile, indicating the computer. ‘Please don’t drop that now. Not after I’ve carried it the entire journey.’
He passed it over to her then reached forward, his fingers at the fastening of her helmet.
‘Be gentle,’ Tess said. ‘Last time I caught my hair in it.’
‘I will be gentle,’ he whispered. Why wouldn’t his fingers work to undo this? He could feel her warm breath on his skin and his insides were rolling like the waves on the shoreline. What was happening here? Finally, the clasp came loose and he removed the helmet, Tess’s hair falling out of the confines of the plastic and framing her beautiful face. He swallowed, just drinking her in. It would be so easy to just put his fingers back to her hair, tease it gently away from her neckline and …
‘Thank you,’ Tess said, taking a step back from him. ‘For the laptop, and for showing me your house.’
He smiled. ‘You are welcome.’
‘We’ll see you tomorrow. Did Sonya decide on three o’clock?’
He nodded. ‘Three o’clock.’
‘A Greek three o’clock or an English one?’
‘If you wish to see Paleokastritsa we should make it an English one.’
‘Goodnight, Andras,’ Tess said, waving a hand.
‘Kali nichta.’
Tess wasn’t going to turn around. She was going to keep walking through the entrance archway and down the path to their apartment without looking back. Her heart was hammering in her chest. When Andras had taken off that moped helmet, his fingers brushing her jaw, his face so close, she thought her insides were going to explode. She had wanted him to kiss her again. She had willed him to kiss her again, which proved she totally sucked at mind-influencing. And then her own mind had been infiltrated by thoughts of Sonya, on her own in their room with baklava bits, and she had moved, quickly, before she did something she was surely going to regret in the morning. What was wrong with her? When had she grown a conscience?
Hearing the moped start back up, she hugged the laptop to her chest and raised a hand, knocking on the door of the apartment.
Within a few seconds the lock turned and Sonya appeared.
‘I am so sorry I was so long. This giant tortoise escaped and Andras insisted on taking it to his house and—’ She stopped talking, observing her friend closer in the orange glow coming from the wall lamp above the door. ‘Sonya, what’s the matter?’
Her friend shook her head. ‘I’m OK. It’s nothing. It has to be nothing, doesn’t it? Because … because he’s almost engaged to me.’
‘Sonya, tell me what’s happened,’ Tess begged.
‘He’s checked in again.’
‘Checked in? In Margate?’
Sonya shook her head, tears spilling from her eyes. ‘On Facebook.’
‘Oh, Sonya, I do that all the time. Especially at nice restaurants. I would have done it at Georgiou’s if I’d actually managed to get signal.’
‘It isn’t another restaurant,’ Sonya blubbed. ‘It’s a hotel. Four stars.’
‘Well, you knew he was in Margate and—’
‘And this time he’s tagged someone.’
‘O-K.’
‘Someone called Ceri.’
Thirty-six
Taverna Georgiou
Andras smoothed down a tablecloth and gently pushed the condiments on table five closer together. It was almost 8 a.m., and soon holidaymakers would be making their way into the restaurant for breakfast. It was another hot day and, as he looked out over the shore, his boat gently swaying with the motion of the ocean, he half-wished he was escaping out on the water again. Yesterday had been good, more than good; he had really relaxed for the first time in a long time. Perhaps he had needed it far more than he realised.
He took out the specials card, wafted it in the air and then replaced it again. Why had he done that? It was fine. He was just being overcritical. The restaurant hadn’t been a state when he had arrived at 5 a.m. to collect in the bread order. His staff had managed well, and Dorothea would be sure to give him a full rundown of events when she got here. Perhaps this was proof that he needed to let go a little. Nothing was perfect and, if he managed to secure a new business partner, he had to be prepared to be adaptable. He might need to compromise, accept change, perhaps change that wasn’t driven by him. He swallowed. The same theory ought to apply to relationships, except with Elissa he had offered every compromise he could think of and it still hadn’t been enough.
‘There is a mark!’
He looked up at his mother’s voice. What was she doing here this early? What was she doing here at all? He stepped quickly towards her.
‘Good morning, Mama.’
‘This is not good enough, Andras,’ Isadora continued.
‘Mama, what are you doing here?’ Andras asked, watching her as she moved on to another table, eyes scrutinising the settings. ‘Last night you said you had wedding plans with Kira today.’
‘I do,’ she stated. ‘Later.’ She sucked in a long, slow breath, looking around the room. ‘I have come to view things.’
‘What do you mean?’ he asked lightly. ‘You come to the restaurant almost every day.’
‘Yes,’ Isadora agreed, swinging around to face him. ‘But when I have come here before I have come here to see you or to eat – most of the time, both – and this week I have visited to plan the wedding celebration.’
‘And now?’
‘And now I am here with the eyes of an investor,’ she made clear.
‘Mama, I know that Spiro has talked to you about the restaurant but I—’ Andras started.
‘You have found another business partner?’ Isadora asked bluntly.
What did he say? He hadn’t. But he wanted to. Needed to. To retain his independence. But he didn’t want to lie. He was already deceiving her with Tess, albeit because he had been backed into an impossible corner.
‘Not quite,’ he responded.
‘Not quite,’ Isadora repeated. ‘That means no.’
‘No, it means …’
She waved a hand, as if to dismiss him and headed off to another table, lifting the edges of the tablecloths and blowing away what he hoped was imaginary dust. ‘You are tied up with the woman from England.’
He felt immediately defensive. ‘You mean Tess.’
‘This is what you call her now? Not Trix?’ She huffed. ‘So, is that what I am to call her?’
‘I am sure she would like that.’
‘And her last name. It is Parks?’
Andras baulked. He had no idea what Tess’s last name was. He could neither confirm nor deny and now he was perspiring.
‘There is nothing on the Interweb about someone who brands called Patricia Parks.’
‘What?’ Andras exclaimed. ‘You’ve looked Patricia up on the Internet?’
‘Not me. I do not know how these things work.’
Then he understood. ‘Marietta.’
‘I know what her plan is,’ Isadora said, beginning to move table mats from table twelve.
‘What her plan is?’ Andras asked, not following the conversation.
‘Patricia is not her real name, it is obvious,’ Isadora said. ‘She is duping you.’
His first instinct was to laugh. His second was to wonder where on Earth this was going. ‘What?’
‘Crumbs, Andras,’ Isadora said. She ripped off the tablecloth like a magician doing a trick where all the crockery remained in place. ‘There are crumbs on this tablecloth. It needs to be washed.’
‘I’d rather go back to talking about how I am being tricked by Tess.’
Isadora let out a long, low, almost sad sigh. ‘Andras, I know how you have been since Elissa left you.’
Did she? He felt the need to stand a little taller, straighten his back, pull in his feelings.
‘You have been looking for a replacement �
�� many replacements – quite often, if the village gossip is to be believed.’ She pointed a finger. ‘But I am telling you, this replacement cannot be found in a tourist.’ Isadora sighed again. ‘A woman on holiday is looking only for one thing.’
Now he wanted the conversation to stop altogether. He turned his attention to the beach scene. Milo was just coming along, setting up the loungers and parasols for the day. The sun was high in the hyacinth sky and within an hour or so the small strip of beach would be filled with another day’s sun-worshippers. Boats would be docking as soon as lunchtime came around.
‘Andras! You are not listening to me!’
He turned back. ‘I am not being tricked by Tess.’
‘Pa!’ Isadora exclaimed. ‘You are a man! A man is easily led by his ego being massaged, like in some of those places in Kavos.’
‘Mama—’
‘She wants your money,’ Isadora continued. ‘She has been grooming you over the Interweb. I have read about it.’ She sniffed, nose going down to a candle. ‘She knows you have this place, the house, you’re a single man who is vulnerable. She has given you a fake name so she can work her way into your affections and then take away everything. Well, I will not stand by and let that happen again.’
A seed of discontent was growing quickly in his gut.
‘She is the same as Elissa,’ Isadora continued. ‘Elissa comes here with her fancy clothes and her fancy ways and her career.’ She scoffed. ‘She is Greek on the outside but not Greek on the inside. And that is what you need, Andras. You need someone like you.’
‘Someone like me,’ he repeated.
‘Yes.’
‘Who is it that you think I am?’
‘What sort of a question is that?’
‘One I am expecting an answer to.’
‘You are a Greek man who needs a wife who will support him.’
‘Is that it?’ Andras asked. ‘Is that all you think I am?’
Isadora picked up the candle she had sniffed and passed it over to him. ‘This one needs to be replaced. No scent.’
He took the candle, moulding his fingers around it. ‘I cannot run a business with you, Mama.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous! If you have not found another partner then you have to run the business with me!’
He shook his head. ‘No.’
‘No? What does that mean, no?’
He pushed the candle back to her. ‘You want to run the business? Have it for the day.’
‘What?’
‘You are in charge,’ he stated, passing her a batch of menus. ‘I am going out with Tess.’
‘Wait. Andras, you can’t just walk out on your responsibilities. I have wedding planning to do and—’
With anger and frustration fuelling his every step, he left the restaurant.
Thirty-seven
Kalami Cove Apartments
BB.
BB.
Blackberry Boudoir.
Tess squinted at the screen on Andras’s laptop, the sunlight making it almost impossible to see. Not that seeing mattered when she just about had no idea where to start with this rebrand. She felt it wasn’t now just a case of getting rid of the ill-shaped fruits, she wanted to rip up everything that had gone before and start afresh. She needed to be the one to make this right. Because at work, if not in her personal life, that’s what she did. She put things right.
She glanced away from the computer, turning slightly in her terrace seat, to look into the apartment. Sonya was still asleep and it was no wonder seeing as they didn’t get into bed until gone 3 a.m. There had been so many tears and a Facebook stalk of the woman named Ceri, who Sonya had turned into the Antichrist by 1 a.m. She hated Joey right now. Whether this friend was platonic or not, you didn’t check into four-star hotels with another woman when your almost-fiancée was feeling particularly insecure. Especially when habitually you were a Premier Inn kind of guy.
Sonya stirred, her red hair shifting on the pillow. Her friend had eaten all the baklava bites by herself and drank their whole supply of wine, but Tess had successfully talked her down from sending Ceri a message threatening to hollow out her insides with a crochet hook. Aware of Sonya’s intimate knowledge of all things Hobbycraft, even she was a bit afraid.
She clicked out of the McKenzie Falconer system she had eventually managed to log on to at a geriatric, handicapped snail’s pace and looked at her online banking. And there it was: eleven thousand eight hundred and fifteen pounds. She should feel some sense of achievement. With her apartment to pay for, she had forgone literally everything else to stash away that cash. The designer wear she’d needed to fit in in London was all second-hand from eBay and she had sold her car when she’d moved to the city. She was the career woman faking it on a shoestring, and it was no more than she deserved. But the pot was still thirteen thousand one hundred and eighty-five pounds short. She swallowed the guilty lump that immediately sprang up in her throat. She had thought about paying her parents back in instalments. She had even gone so far as to work out a repayment schedule, but that involved contact, talking about what had happened with Adam, not just leaving a catch-up message on a voicemail. No, it needed to be over in one go. Once she had every penny she would pay it back and hope for a full and final absolution.
She flicked over to Facebook and there was Rachel, her mouth being forced apart by some sort of plastic contraption. A quick scan of the comments told her it was a game called Speak Out. There seemed to be wine involved and four others were tagged in the post including someone called Pete ‘Mudda-Fudda’ Ames. Her sister looked well. Drunk, but well. Perhaps she was finally turning a corner regarding the Phil situation. She hovered over the comments box. Should she say something? Maybe just a smiley face? Or was that stupid? She sighed. Her sister didn’t need her. She was having fun with someone whose nickname was Mudda-Fudda. She clicked back to the fonts she was working on. Still nothing looked right. Maybe she should really take Russell’s advice and do this the old-fashioned way with pencil and paper.
‘Ow! It hurts!’
Tess turned back to Sonya who was moving, barely, one arm emerging from the sheets like a robot with severe battery drain.
‘What hurts?’ Tess asked.
‘Everything.’
‘Your little toe?’
‘What?’
‘Does your little toe hurt?’
There was a hesitation. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘See, things are looking up already.’
There was more groaning as Sonya finally raised her body up from the bed, hands sweeping away a bad case of bed hair. ‘It’s hot again.’
‘Yes, we really need to ask about a fan, regardless of anyone’s feelings about artificial air.’ She swallowed. Perhaps she shouldn’t have made reference to Joey.
‘I don’t expect there’s any artificial air in the rooms at the four-star hotel in Margate.’
‘Listen, Sonya, I really think you should call him now,’ Tess said.
‘What?’ Sonya said, gathering up the sheets around her body and walking out onto the terrace, swaying a little and needing to catch hold of the shutters. ‘But that means you think something is going on with this Ceri.’
‘No, it doesn’t mean I think that.’
‘I looked her up again, you know.’
‘What? When?’ Tess asked as Sonya lowered herself down on to the chair, wrapping the sheets around her like she was fastening a toga.
‘I know you thought I was asleep but … I couldn’t. So I waited for you to fall asleep and then I went through her Facebook profile.’ Sonya drew in a breath. ‘She makes quite a number of her posts public. If I was a concerned friend I would be suggesting she tightens up her security.’
‘But you’re not her friend,’ Tess reminded her. ‘You’re someone who wants to gut her with knitting implements.’
‘She’s a member of the Weston Re-enactment Society.’
‘That’s great!’ Tess exclaimed. ‘That means this is som
ething to do with battles and bludgeoning and not gimp masks or paddles.’
Sonya shook her head vigorously. ‘No, you don’t understand.’ She took a breath. ‘Weston are Greenwich’s arch-rivals.’
‘Re-enactment Societies have rivalries?’ She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
‘Not all of them, but Weston, they’re known for being so showy-offy. They have a massive budget and they put on these outlandish events, you know … If we have musicians playing the traditional penny whistle, they’ll have a guy playing some ancient, only-one-in-the-whole-world Neolithic instrument.’
‘I see.’ She didn’t see. She didn’t get the whole re-enactment thing at all.
‘So the fact that he’s spending time with another woman, and a woman who is part of the Weston Society is just … well, he may as well be wearing a jumper stating his allegiance to Nazism.’
‘Sonya,’ Tess said softly.
‘Yes.’
‘I think you’re losing focus here.’
‘He hates Weston,’ Sonya continued. ‘He calls them the Weston Wan—’
‘OK, listen, stop,’ Tess urged quickly. ‘Let’s just look at the evidence here.’ She wasn’t sure she really wanted to look at the evidence but for some reason she really didn’t want to hear Sonya say the word ‘wankers’.
‘He’s in a four-star hotel in Margate with someone with much nicer hair than me who’s a member of a re-enactment society he loathes. It doesn’t get better, no matter how many different ways you try to look at it,’ Sonya sobbed.
‘We don’t know he spent the night at the hotel,’ Tess stated. She was a genius! And if she found out that Joey had spent the night in that hotel she was going to use more than craft supplies to disembowel him. ‘He’s just met someone at one. For a drink or something.’
‘W-what?’
‘Well, what time did he post?’
‘Eleven fifty-nine p.m.’
‘Greek time or English time?’ Was she clutching at straws?
‘I don’t know. Does Facebook change things to your own time zone?’ She was already starting to look more hopeful.
‘I think it does.’ She didn’t have a clue. ‘So that would mean it was only nine fifty-nine p.m. in England.’