by Mandy Baggot
Not my Mr Right but my Mr Right Now. Rich, sexy and … did I mention rich? He has a brother …
There were emojis of a flamenco dancer, the Greek flag, two beers, a martini and a bottle of champagne. Abby’s thumb sat poised above the keypad. She hadn’t replied to Melody’s texts earlier in the week either. Those times it had been photos of their mum trying to do a bottle flip with a Bikos – the Greek equivalent of Buxton. But what to say? Not the truth, obviously. How could she possibly tell her sister she was sat drinking brandy on a Wednesday afternoon having lost her job and her boyfriend?
Her phone vibrated in her hand. She had switched it to silent as soon as she had got back to the flat. It had pinged and beeped and rang all the way down the high street and she hadn’t needed to look to know all the contact had come from Darrell. Her heart in her throat, beating like a frightened deer and an angry cat at the same time, she had rushed along, blinded to anything but her own grief. Only when she was inside her apartment, greeted by the calming sand-coloured walls and palm tree feature paper of the open-plan lounge-diner, did she take a breath, and then, finally, sob.
Abby it’s not what you think. Please call me. D x
God! Did he really think she was stupid? What excuse was he going to give for suckering up to Amber? Perhaps they had both joined the local amateur dramatic society and were rehearsing, or perhaps it was National Snog Your Secretary Day – in 2018 there did seem to be a national day for everything.
No, she was not going to reply. He didn’t deserve her attention. He hadn’t been there for her when she needed him, she had lost her job and he was lunching with Little Miss Just Giving. Perhaps that was her attraction. Abby had always been taught that charity began at home. She never really had the financial stability to set up direct debits for worthy causes. But could it really be a reason Darrell decided to opt for Amber? Was it not more likely his head had been turned by her gym-bunny body and tinkling laugh?
Come out here! You must be due a holiday! Mum would love to see you. I would love to see you! Pretty sure Igor’s brother would love to see you too …
Melody again. And her words hit hard. Corfu, Greece, visiting her sister and her mum or staying here, lonely, contemplating where she went wrong on the hotel ladder and with the man she’d seen a future with. They may not have discussed marriage, but they had rented the flat, bought the sofa and had planned on checking out the Sky Q options if she got her pay rise. Abby took another sip of the brandy then put the glass on the coffee table, sniffing sorrow and regret right up her Eustachian tubes. Thumb working over the icons she made her reply.
Won’t you be busy with the estate agency? I don’t want to be in the way.
It was a hesitant response. A test of the water. From the fortnightly or so phone calls with her mum, their business, Desperately Seeking, was full-on. There were always gorgeous bougainvillea-clad villas being described on their website, ruins in idyllic rural locations, compact beachfront apartments … and it was a whole world away to Abby. To her, when the move was suggested, heading to Greece had felt a spontaneous step too far.
Cum on Abs I’m never 2 busy 4 u. Cum out. It will b so much fun!!!!!!!
Melody had resorted to numbers where letters should be. That usually meant she was busy or drunk. Neither thought appealed. And it was crazy to even consider packing a bag and heading off to the airport, wasn’t it?
And then a shadow cast itself across her back window, momentarily blocking the shaft of sunlight that had been flooding the space. Abby blinked, narrowing her eyes against it. Getting up, she crept across the room, careful not to make a sound. What she saw behind the glass brought another lump to her throat. Behind the net, slowly tip-toeing across the window ledge like he was on a high-wire, was Poldark, tail up in the air, posture set to swagger. And, as the cat reached the next sill along, Abby saw a gnarled hand appear, beckoning with fingers full of corned beef. Mr Clements was just about to complete the triple whammy. No job. No boyfriend. And now, no cat. There was only one thing left to do …
Four
Villa Pappas, San Stefanos, Corfu, Greece
Three weeks later …
To Theo, it felt like his skull had been cracked open and someone other than a neurosurgeon was having a go at operating on his brain … with a screwdriver. Were his eyes even capable of opening? And, if his eyes were truly closed right now, why was it so light in the bedroom? He opened and closed his mouth. Arid like the sand on the nearby beach. His black shoulder-length hair was all over his face and he was hot. What had happened to the air-conditioning?
Then, all of a sudden, he was choking. A sweet yet completely nauseating scent was growing thicker and fuller with every inhalation. He coughed and the screwdriver in his head stabbed harder.
‘Good,’ said a female voice. ‘You are still alive.’
There was a woman in his bedroom. Another one. And she sounded older. Just what had Leon got him drinking last night after the multitude of beers? His senses became more aware. He couldn’t feel the bed sheet. He was naked. He reached out a hand, but nothing seemed willing to move too rapidly.
‘You will get up now. Half the day is gone already,’ the woman continued.
Then the room got lighter still, and Theo’s sticky eyes began to ease themselves apart. The voice echoing around the bedroom sounded familiar. Had he revisited the first one-night stand of this break already? He knew the village was small but there should be enough holidaymakers to avoid making a repeat so soon. Maybe Leon needed to be a better wingman.
‘Theo!’ the voice barked. ‘I said it is the middle of the day!’
Now the tone had kicked up a notch he knew exactly who was in his bedroom and she was not a conquest from the night before. It was his aunt, Spyridoula. His nakedness needed immediate attention no matter how much his head hurt. Snapping his eyes open, retinas pierced by the blinding sun flooding through the bi-fold doors, he grabbed at the white sheet, dragging it up his body.
‘Spyri,’ he greeted, lips barely able to form the words, eyes back to squinting.
‘Ah!’ she exclaimed. ‘Not only does he live, but it appears his mental faculties are still in working order!’
Theo laid his temple against the headboard of the bed as his aunt’s figure span around his vision. This wasn’t good. He cleared his throat and attempted to look compos mentis. ‘Where is Leon?’
‘Working,’ Spyridoula snapped. ‘You remember? That thing most people do between the hours of eight until eight on this island.’
It didn’t matter what he said. He was not going to win this conversation when he was hungover, utterly vulnerable and without excuses. Had Leon let his aunt into the villa as well as got him blind drunk last night? He was going to kill him when he came back.
‘Up!’ Spyridoula ordered. She stalked towards the bed, high heels clacking on the marble floor, bracelets and necklaces of all colours and materials jingling together in a cacophony of noise that sounded like someone running a fork up and down glass. Theo clung onto the bed sheet as his aunt’s face came into focus. Long dark hair twisted up into a chignon, dark eyes outlined with thick kohl and vibrant red lipstick on her mouth. He had forgotten how formidable his aunt was and, he guessed, she was no doubt unimpressed he had been in San Stefanos for three nights now and not been to visit her.
‘Up!’ Spyridoula repeated. This time her hands grabbed for the sheet.
‘Please!’ he exclaimed, gripping tighter to the fabric like it was a tug of war. ‘I am wearing nothing.’
‘And I have seen it all before,’ she replied. ‘Do you want me to list the times?’
He really didn’t and went to open his mouth to protest until—
‘The very day you were born. It was legs first and more screaming than your mother … then there was the pool incident when you were three. You said the bathing suit was too restrictive. Next was when you were sixteen and the older boys stole your clothes for a joke—’
‘All right!’ Theo inte
rrupted. ‘You have made your point. I am moving.’ Wrapping the sheet tightly around his body he eased himself off the bed a lot more quickly than was probably safe in his condition.
‘Good!’ Spyridoula clapped her hands together.
He didn’t feel well. He was doing his very best to stand still without swaying.
‘You will shower.’ Spyridoula threw two items she had plucked from somewhere onto the bed. ‘Then you will put on these clothes.’
Theo looked at them. It seemed to be a polo shirt and trousers.
‘I have clothes here,’ Theo stated. ‘I did bring some luggage.’
Spyridoula sniffed. ‘This is your uniform.’
Uniform? What did that mean? A shiver ran over him.
‘Your father called me last night.’
Immediately his hackles were up. He knew coming here was never going to be a permanent solution, but he thought he might just be able to buy himself some time. More than three nights before confrontation perhaps? It seemed not.
‘He is worried about you,’ Spyridoula continued when Theo failed to answer.
Already Theo was shaking his head. It was his natural reaction to most things these days … except alcohol. Alcohol he seemed only capable of nodding at.
‘He has asked me to keep an eye on you.’
Theo exhaled loudly, all his feelings expelling into the humid air. Why was the air humid? Perhaps his aunt had switched off the air-conditioning in a bid to use heat as a form of interrogation torture. That was exactly the sort of thing she would do.
‘I am surprised he cares,’ he answered. ‘And I do not need an eye kept on me.’
‘No?’ Her eyes went from his bare feet on the tiled floor and slowly upwards seeming to linger on every sheet-covered inch of him. He held onto the material and tried to match her gaze. It was difficult, his aunt had eyes like the hypnotising Kaa from The Jungle Book.
‘No,’ he replied.
‘Humph. That is not what your father thinks … and it is also not what Hera at The Blue Vine thinks either.’ Spyridoula sucked in a breath, the buttons of her pink silk blouse tightening over her bosom. ‘Ten bottles, Theo! Ten bottles of Mythos, then shots!’
Her voice had risen in volume and each one of those bottles of beer began to dance, Zorba the Greek-like, across his cerebellum. He shifted his neck in an attempt to ease the tension.
‘Right! Outside!’ Spyridoula gathered up the items of clothing on the bed.
‘What?’ he exclaimed.
‘Out onto the veranda! Right now! Come!’ She clapped her hands loudly and made steps toward him. He wasn’t having her stripping him bare, so he hurried toward the bi-fold doors. Folding them apart quickly, he stepped out onto the wide balcony, the heat from the sun more intense than any warmth inside the villa. It licked his exposed skin and he automatically closed his eyes, letting the light feeling seep into him.
‘What are you doing?’ Spyridoula’s presence at his shoulder, bracelets clinking, made his head hurt.
‘Nothing,’ he replied, eyelids gradually lifting up.
‘Exactly!’ she snapped. ‘And that is what your father thinks too.’
How was it he couldn’t manage to say anything without it containing a double meaning? He really needed to remember his auntie was just as cunning as his father, if slightly more well meaning.
‘I mean what is going on, Theo?’
He moved up to the brick façade, white marble pillars creating the boundary between air and ground. And there was San Stefanos in all its glory, laid out before him. The horseshoe-shaped bay of glistening blue water shimmered and sparkled like it always had, set in the midst of green hills. There were thickets of lush emerald-coloured bush, barer patches of dusty land leading down to waving eucalyptus trees. A small array of shops, tavernas and businesses sat at the sand-and-shingle waterfront where boats were tethered to various pontoons. Still, here it was all about the water.
‘Nothing,’ he answered softly.
‘You have spent the past few months roaming,’ Spyridoula stated.
He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say. It was true. Since leaving the mainland, his father, the business, he had been drifting and finding that, for the time being, drifting was suiting him just fine. When you drifted no one asked too much of you and he liked that ‘here today, maybe gone tomorrow’ vibe. It avoided him having to think too much. And drinking too much seemed to stop the nightmares invading his sleep …
‘You need a focus.’ His aunt pushed the clothes towards him. ‘Here!’
He took the items, being careful not to drop his hold on the sheet. What were these? He turned them over in his hand, hoping to come to some sort of realisation.
‘You start work tonight at The Blue Vine.’
‘What?!’ he exclaimed. ‘No.’
‘You say no to me?’ Spyridoula narrowed her eyes, looking more foreboding than ever. ‘After your display last night with the Mythos and the blazing sambucas or whatever it is you drink? You are lucky Hera even agreed to let you into the building again, let alone to give you a job.’
‘I do not need a job, Spyri.’
‘Humph! So, what do you plan to do? Because your father says you cannot stay here for free.’ She held out her hand as if displaying the merits of the Corfiot resort in front of them. ‘Do you know how much rent your father could get from this place for the summer?’
‘He never rents out the family villa,’ Theo pointed out. That was one of the reasons why he knew he could come here. He had a key and it had always been for the family to come whenever they needed to get away. Knowing his brother and sister were at home had sealed the deal. It had been time to move on from Lefkada anyway.
‘Your father is a businessman,’ Spyridoula reminded him. ‘For a long time, this property sits with no one in it. If you will not pay the rent he could get this summer, then he is thinking of selling it.’
His heart actually lurched. Whether it was fear at having to move on again when he had hoped he was set for a summer in Corfu or whether it was a lance into the memories of his childhood holidays here he wasn’t quite sure. All he knew was he didn’t want that to happen. But he also didn’t want to work. He was having time off. Working required thought and consideration and involving himself with people. He wasn’t ready to involve himself with people. Only those looking for a good time and not asking questions.
‘There is no choice, Theo,’ Spyridoula urged. ‘Be clear on that. No job, no staying at the villa.’
He didn’t know what to say. What could he say? He was backed into a corner.
‘Good,’ Spyridoula said, taking his silence as agreement. ‘Get showered, get dressed. There is bread and home-made tapenade in the fridge.’ She clip-clopped towards the door of the bedroom.
‘You made tapenade?’ he queried, still holding the uniform.
She turned back to face him then. ‘I said it was home-made. I did not say it was made in my home.’ She smiled then. ‘Your shift starts at six.’
Five
San Stefanos Bay, Corfu
‘Here we are! San Stefanos! The most beautiful place on the entire island of Corfu!’
Abby looked out of the taxi window towards the cerulean water and something stirred inside her. It was still just like it had been all those years ago when she had first visited. She had been twelve and it had been a holiday booked for their dad to recover from a heart operation. A whole long summer in the Corfu sunshine doing nothing more than swimming in the turquoise water, dipping nets to catch fish, eating hunks of fresh bread dipped in tirokafteri and licking ice creams of all different flavours. Their dad had recovered, but only for a while, just two years later he’d passed. Abby hadn’t thought about Corfu again until her mum’s announcement at that fateful Jamie At Home party. I’m moving to Corfu. I’ve bought an estate agency.
And now she was here again. The rent on the flat was paid up for the month, she’d felt the need to tell Mr Clements she was heading to Greece –
Poldark was tush-licking on his sofa seemingly oblivious to it not being his actual home – and she hadn’t felt the need to tell Darrell anything. If he wanted his stuff he would have to ask for it. As it had been three weeks since the bakery break-up and she had ignored the first week of ‘wanting to talk’ texts, she could only assume he had bought a new razor and toothbrush and was leaving the white goods for her.
‘You would like me to drive you around the village? Show you all the best places?’
The taxi driver snapped her out of her reverie and she plucked her purse from her carry-on bag, taking out some euros. They had agreed a price at the airport. It was the new her. Determined not to be taken advantage of by anyone. Not men. Not hotel managers who really didn’t know how to manage …
‘No,’ Abby answered, sitting forward a little and passing over the cash. ‘I’ve actually been here before. Several times, actually.’
‘You have?’ the taxi driver inquired, turning a little in his seat and seeming to pay proper attention.
She nodded, passing over the money. He was in his twenties with dark hair spiked into a rather regimented position that didn’t look like it would move at all, even if a category 4 storm rolled into the bay. ‘It’s been a year or so.’
‘Oh, well, everything has changed,’ the driver told her. ‘There is a Nandos just around the corner and a roundabout at Avlaki.’
Just as the confusion and horror about both of those things near this sleepy resort took hold in Abby’s psyche, the driver let out a high-pitched squeal of a laugh.
‘I jest! I jest!’
Abby swallowed and wondered who had taught him the word ‘jest’. ‘Thank you for bringing me here.’
‘Wait,’ the taxi driver said, unfastening his seatbelt. ‘I will get your luggage.’
Abby opened the door before he could get out and do it for her. Who needed a man faking it at being someone you could count on? Newly purchased gladiator sandals touching the rough concrete she breathed in the wave of heat that greeted her, together with all those delicious summer scents she still recalled – clematis, a gentle brine coupled with sand and fresh coffee. Her eyes went from the gorgeous hoop of shimmering bay to an old stone building with a rather modern sign in Greek blue declaring The Blue Vine. She didn’t remember that bar from her last visit. There had been a more traditional-looking taverna with white tablecloths embroidered with Kalamata olives.