by Angela Dyson
I waved the compliment away but was secretly rather pleased and then slipped my arm through hers. “And you Flan look fabulous as always.”
And she did. Dressed in flowing black trousers and a long discreetly beaded black tunic, she was elegant and understated.
I took in the restaurant with a waitress’s eye. Small, only about forty covers with the tables set not too close together. The walls were washed in a soft pink with a stencilling of vine leaves in intricate fronds, weaving their way up to a low ceiling. To the muted strains of traditional music we were politely ushered to a table by a young waiter in an immaculate white shirt and a pair of black trousers that were shiny with wear. Allowing Flan to lead the way, I covertly checked out the other diners. A few couples and what looked like a family group at a table for six and… yes, there he was… The Suit.
Sitting alone at a large corner table with his back to the wall, he had some papers in front of him, a half-empty glass, and a bottle of wine in an ice bucket. He had looked up at the bustle generated by our arrival and I saw him register me in the way a man always notices any moderately attractive woman in his line of vision. Actually, and big headed as it sounds, I knew tonight that I was looking perhaps a little more than just moderately attractive. It had taken work I admit. I have all the usual features in all the usual order: Two eyes of a rather nondescript pale blue above a straight-ish nose and a mouth that allows food in and expletives out – so that works – but there is no doubt that make-up improves my face significantly. I should always wear it, but I don’t. I’m told that my best features are my cheekbones and my legs, that my breasts are comforting (whatever that means) and that I have surprisingly large hands for a woman.
I risked a direct look at The Suit. Not handsome exactly but strong looking. Large nose, dark slightly hooded eyes, square shoulders in a dark suit with a white shirt open at the throat. There was a kind of stillness about him and a confidence that I now remembered noticing from my first view of him. The overall effect was very… what? It took me a minute to recognise a quality that we naturally take for granted in a man, but is so often missing. The Suit was masculine.
I kept my gaze averted but slowed my movements down as I lowered myself into a chair. Our table gave me a sideways view of him, but I made sure for the first fifteen minutes or so to keep my eyes firmly on Flan and on the menu and not betray any undue interest. We decided upon a bottle of house wine, which turned out to be surprisingly good. It was ice cold and dry without that heavy aftertaste of resin that I recalled from the last time I had eaten at a Greek restaurant in Charlotte Street: a drunken hen night where we had all crashed plates, danced on the table to bouzouki music and, to the sullen disapproval of her new sister-in-law, the bride-to-be had ended up passionately snogging one of the waiters.
“Is he here?” Flan hissed in a stage whisper.
“Yes. Act natural.”
“Where?”
“Behind you. No! Don’t look round.” This said as she started to twist in her chair.
“Oh yes of course,” she complied and recovering herself she then groped in her handbag and brought out her silver compact. I watched as she brought it up to her face trying to get a good view of him in its small, magnified mirror.
“Stop that. He’ll see you.”
“You’re right,” she sighed shutting the compact with a snap. “It’s not as easy as it looks in the films.”
In actual fact, it’s considerably more difficult than you’d imagine keeping up an animated conversation in a natural manner, when most of your attention is on something or someone else, but I had forgotten Flan’s inevitable ability to make me laugh.
Mr. Babcock the retired undertaker and rival to Mr. H. for her affections, jealous over the amount of time she’d been spending with Mr. H. lately, had upped his efforts in the wooing department. That morning, he’d given her a great bunch of pale pink carnations, which she’d very much appreciated until from something he’d let slip, she realised that they had probably been lifted off a headstone in the local cemetery. Apparently he still liked to take his morning walk there amongst the vaults and shrines as a reminder of his former trade. “I knew he could be a little close-handed but really, grave robbing!”
We ordered the meze platter to start and, whilst the other tables filled up around us, I managed a few sideways glances at The Suit. After a while a much older man came out from the kitchen bearing a plate of olives, dips, and bread and sat down with him. Whilst they appeared familiar with each other, The Suit seemed quietly in control and I wondered if this was in fact his restaurant. From time to time his gaze flicked over me, the cool speculative gaze of a successful man used to attracting women. Such appraising scrutiny I usually find too full on, too predatory, but in him it was oddly magnetic. Only once did I allow myself to lock eyes with him, keeping my face impassive. All my instincts told me that maintaining an aloof distance was the way to play it. A man like this wouldn’t respond to an obvious flirt. Thankfully Flan appeared to have forgotten all about him and seemed quite content just to enjoy the evening.
After our main course, I needed to go the loo and rose to my feet. A sign pointed to the back of the restaurant meaning that I’d practically have to walk right past him. I took it slowly. I didn’t want to trip over my own feet or cannon into a waiter loaded with plates. I felt his eyes upon me but didn’t look at him.
After washing my hands, I checked my hair, reapplied my lip gloss, checked that the hem of my skirt wasn’t caught up in my knickers, and opened the door back out into the restaurant. I felt ready to trust to the inspiration of the moment.
My eyes sought his table but… it was empty. Damn. He’d gone and I’d blown my chance. I looked across at Flan and then looked again. She wasn’t alone. The Suit was sitting at our table. Now that was impressive. I should have remembered never to underestimate Flan’s ability to ensnare a man, of any age.
He got to his feet as I approached them, but Flan gave him no time for explanations.
“Clarry darling, this very nice man has just offered, as we are newcomers here, to buy us a drink but I positively insisted that the only way we would accept is if he’d sit down and join us.”
“With your permission?” the voice was low with a discernible accent.
I smiled but said nothing, not to be mysterious and distant but simply because I couldn’t think of anything to say. Flan more than made up for my silence.
“Now tell me,” she smiled brightly at him. “Are you the proprietor of this lovely restaurant where we have had such a delicious meal?”
He shook his head. “No but I am connected to Thanos the owner. I am Chris, Chris Lianthos.” He turned to me, “And you are?”
I barely heard him, my brain was buzzing. Lianthos. Mr. C. Lianthos… Chris. Both Cornett and Marble Developments had a director by that name. It had to be the one and the same man. Simon had sold him the two previous houses and was possibly planning to sell him Alwyn Road. Well, this was what I had come here to find out and it had been so much easier than I imagined. His name said it all.
“I’m Clarry and this is Flan and… oh thank you…” this as the young waiter brought some more wine.
Chris poured and lifted his glass to clink with ours. “Yamas.” His eyes met mine. Up close, the quiet confidence and powerful aura of alpha male was reinforced.
“Yamas?” asked Flan.
He laughed softly. “It means cheers in Greek. So, you have enjoyed your dinner?”
She nodded. “I particularly liked all the little tasty starters.”
“Ah then you are probably a Mediterranean at heart. We Greeks like to eat slowly, to linger over our food. Meze is designed to stimulate conversation and to relax the body and mind.”
“What a perfectly civilised idea,” rejoined Flan. “The English simply shovel their food down and don’t talk to one another. No wonder the average Englishm
an is as stolid as the jam roly-poly he eats.”
“Roly-poly? I am not familiar with this.”
Flan opened her mouth and I knew that a blow-by-blow account of exactly how it was made would be immediately forthcoming and so decided to cut across her.
“It’s rather a dull old-fashioned pudding.”
“Which you loved when you were a little girl,” said Flan.
“I’m quite sure Chris doesn’t want to hear about…”
“Oh, but I do,” Chris replied. “I’m trying to picture you as a little girl.”
The glance he flicked over my body was charged with intent.
“Well what I can tell you is that she was a very stubborn child,” continued Flan.
“And are you still?” asked Chris, this time looking directly into my eyes.
“When I have to be.”
His smile was slow and languorous as he picked up his wine glass. “I admire strong-minded women.”
I had absolutely nothing to say to that. And this was the time to ask something intelligent and yet cunning that would draw him in to disclosing the full extent of his dealings with Simon, but what I found myself looking at were his hands. He had strong square hands with very clean nails. “We should be going,” I said and turning from him I flagged down the waiter.
“Must you?”
The waiter appeared with the bill and I settled up. Flan who, breaking the habit of a lifetime, had remained unobtrusively in the background for the last few minutes, now took command of the situation. “Well it’s been lovely meeting you Chris.” Her smile was brilliant as she drew her turquoise scarf around her neck and gathered herself up to leave.
He acknowledged and returned the compliment, but it was evident that he was making his mind up about something.
“Ladies it is Thanos’s sixtieth birthday on Sunday and in the evening the restaurant is closed to the public. We are having a little party to celebrate…” He paused and whilst he glanced at both of us, it was me that his eyes lingered upon. “I would be delighted if you would attend as my guests.”
“Oh how nice,” Flan’s tone was genuinely regretful. “I would have loved to, but I’m afraid Sunday is… is… my poker night and I never miss it.”
I bit back a laugh. She’d never played anything more adventurous than seven-card whist in her life.
“Clarry, you’re free aren’t you?”
“I’m not sure… I’m…”
He turned to me. “Please come.” And just for a second his hand grazed mine.
There was no reason whatsoever to accept the invitation. No reason to meet him again, because although I didn’t know all the details, I knew enough to be sure that he and Simon were involved. And, whilst I had no idea if what they were up to was illegal, Laura certainly would. It was her that I had to think of now. I would just call her and tell her what I’d found out and leave it at that. But then again, I argued with myself, if I did go I might discover some pertinent facts and fill in some of the blanks. Isn’t that what a real detective would do?
“I’ll try,” I said and stood up.
“I will be here from eight o’clock,” he said and turning to Flan continued, “And I promise to look after her.”
“I don’t doubt it!” her eyes glittered as she held out her hand and we said our goodbyes.
Flan and I didn’t exchange a word until I had started up the car and she was pulling on her seat belt, then she said, “Heaven’s darling. What a dish! But rather a dangerous one and I would tell you to be careful of him, but I don’t suppose you’d listen, would you?”
“Probably not,” I agreed.
CHAPTER TEN
The first thing that struck me as I opened my eyes bright and early the following morning was that I was due to phone Simon about the offer on the house. I lay on my back, instantly feeling wide awake and stared up at the ceiling. What was I going to do? Was there any point in going any further with the offer? I stretched out under the duvet and considered the facts I had learnt and as I tried to place them in coherent order, I realised that somehow, in all the intrigue and excitement of the last five days, I had again allowed myself to wander away from Laura’s original brief.
Heaving myself out of bed and trotting through to the bathroom, I thought back over the conversation we’d had at the pizzeria. It was simple. All she had wanted me to find out was if Simon saw her merely as a source of business or if he was genuinely interested in her for herself. I scowled at my refection in the mirror. It was more than possible that he was using her but did that necessarily preclude the fact that he may have developed genuine feelings for her? Even if it had started as a deliberate attempt to win her business it might be that he had been unwittingly drawn to her. The truth was that I had absolutely no way of knowing what Simon felt about Laura and no remote possibility of finding out, short of asking him.
As I stood now under the shower, I toyed with, but then dismissed, the idea of coming on to him. Always a good test of your man’s true level of commitment is to set the classic honey trap. After all, if faithfulness is just a question of opportunity is it of any value?
Then I mentally replayed last night’s meeting with Chris. There was something about him, a brooding sense of power. Should I go to the party at The Vine on Sunday? No time to think about that now. I had to be at Abbe’s for my shift at six and before that I had things to do.
Simon picked up the phone himself this time.
“Good morning Mr. Napier, Gemma Buchanan here.” I rode over his less than enthusiastic greeting and ploughed straight on. “Now what’s the situation with Alwyn Road?”
There was a pause and then he said, “It’s as I thought; the house is no longer available. Ah… that’s my other line going so I’ll have to ring off now.”
I cut across him. “Why? Why is it no longer for sale? Have you had a better offer or what?” I didn’t trouble to disguise the edge of accusation in my tone.
“I’ve told you all you need to know and so there is no point in continuing this conversation.”
“Oh, but there’s every point… I’ll be in your office in an hour to discuss the matter further.”
“I’ll be out on viewings.”
“No problem,” I said nastily. “I can wait.”
There was silence.
“I’m not going to go away Simon. You can either meet me this morning or I’ll just sit in your office until I get the answers I want.”
A long pause and then he snapped, “I’ll see you at the house, in half an hour.” And he actually hung up on me.
Temper, temper, I thought, but my hand was trembling slightly as I put down the receiver.
I was waiting for him as the BMW drew up. We didn’t bother to exchange pleasantries.
Simon headed off down the path with an abrupt, “We might as well talk inside.” But, he suddenly stopped short and turned uncertainly towards me, his voice low, “The door’s open.”
I looked past him and sure enough the door was slightly ajar.
“As far as I know only me, the executors, and the solicitors have keys,” he said. “They would normally have told me if…” He trailed off as suddenly the door was flung open and a scary looking thickset bloke somewhere in his late twenties stood glaring at us. His doughy face was studded with piercings and a riot of inky blue tattoos crept up his neck. Not a solicitor I was guessing. We stared at him.
“What the fuck do you want?” he growled.
Simon hesitated and then demanded, “Who are you? What are you doing on these premises?”
Scary Bloke leant back on his heels with a slight rocking movement in a pantomime of exaggerated indifference and looked Simon over carefully. Then scratching his mousy cropped hair asked, “And who wants to know?”
“I’ve been instructed to sell this house and as far as I’m concerned you have absolute
ly no business being here and I assure you that…” Simon was forced to break off at this point as Scary Bloke suddenly barged threateningly forward, snarling.
“Do yourself a favour mate and fuck off out of here cos I ain’t got time to mess around.” He thought for a moment and then continued in a quieter almost conversational tone. “You see today’s a Friday and I’m not always in the best of moods on a Friday. Never figured out why that is, what with the weekend coming up and all, but here it is; that’s just me. Call it a personality disorder if you like.” He turned his hands palms upwards as if in genuine wonder at the complexity of his own temperament.
Simon and I exchanged looks. This guy was obviously a total nutjob. I was ready to beat a hasty retreat, but Simon, to his credit, held his ground although he’d gone awfully red in the face. “I demand to know who you are and what you’re doing here.”
“You are seriously starting to get on my nerves,” said Scary Bloke. “Now I’ll tell you what’s going to happen.”
There was a pause and I held my breath.
“You two are going to sod off right now and not come back. Got it? Because if you don’t…” He left the sentence unfinished but took a step towards us. Simon and I instinctively pulled back and he laughed. As he turned to go back inside he looked me over. “You can stay if you like darling. I like blondes. And not just on Fridays. I like them any day of the week.” With that, he disappeared into the house, slamming the door behind him with a bang.
I only just beat Simon back down the path. “Not an offer I’ll be taking up,” I said. “Look, it’s way too early for a drink which is probably what we both need.” I smiled at him conspiratorially hoping that what we had both just gone through would have created enough of a bond to induce him to confide in me. “But let’s go and have a coffee, shall we?”
For a moment, I thought he’d refuse, but maybe I was right about the bonding experience. “Where are you parked?” he asked.
“Oh, I didn’t bring my car,” I lied. I certainly didn’t want him clocking the Renault. “Isn’t there a place on the Hill we could walk to?”