by Mandy Baggot
‘I just …’ Abby began tentatively.
‘Yes?’ Theo asked.
‘Don’t understand why you didn’t tell me that Spyridoula is your aunt or that Dinis Pappas is your father.’
‘I know,’ he breathed quickly. Those two words didn’t contain any of the answers she was looking for either.
‘Do you think I’m a gold-digger?’ Abby spouted.
‘What?’ Now he was confused.
‘Did you think if you told me you were rich I would be trying to get you to buy me designer goods to sell for money to help recover my mum’s business?’
He blinked, looking at her conflicted expression. It was still so beautiful, despite the clouds of war on one side and the utter uncertainty on the other. ‘No,’ he breathed. ‘I did no thinking at all. That was the problem.’ He swallowed.
‘Well, I’m not a gold-digger,’ Abby stated with a sniff. ‘And I don’t ordinarily go on dates with men I’ve only known half a week whether they’re a gardener or an heir to a boat conglomerate.’
‘OK,’ Theo said. He was still holding the box of bottles and it was starting to make his forearms ache. But putting it down would perhaps signal he thought he was staying and that was no one’s choice but Abby’s.
‘And, just for the record, Darrell is my very ex-boyfriend who kissed his assistant when it wasn’t National Snog Your Secretary Day in my favourite bakery, over pink biscuits.’
He didn’t know what to say. After last night, he would give anything to kiss her again, over any biscuits at all. He was thankful for this Darrell’s screw up having sent her to Corfu …
‘He is an idiot.’ His words were out of his mouth and into the air between them before he had realised he was going to speak his mind. He wanted to touch her hair, caress her cheek, run a finger over her bottom lip and draw her towards him … why hadn’t he put the box down?
‘Yes,’ Abby said. ‘He is. And he no longer warrants any of my attention. Especially when I have a party to coordinate.’
He was aching to ask the question. Wondering how best to word it. Desperately wanting pardon, a second chance … another date …
‘We’ve borrowed some glasses from George,’ Abby told him. ‘I’m not sure any of them will be proper cocktail glasses but we have plastic cups too, and they’re free drinks so people can’t complain too much.’
‘I can stay?’ he asked with a swallow.
‘This is a huge day for the family business,’ Abby stated. ‘I can’t afford to turn down any help.’
‘Whatever you need, I can do it,’ Theo answered with a confident nod.
‘We’ll see,’ Abby replied, sounding a little undecided. ‘Set the cocktail bar up there.’ She pointed to one of the tables under the gazebo.
He nodded, moving in the direction she’d shown. She was letting him stay. It wasn’t an immediate acceptance of his apology, but it was something. And, in fact, the very hint of a chance was much more than he really deserved.
Forty-four
‘Can you hear the steel band?’ Melody asked Abby.
Abby shook her head while she ripped up raffle tickets, depositing them into Stathis’s bicycle basket which was, surprisingly, the only thing uncrushed from the coach incident of earlier. Thankfully, the old man had been pushing the bike, not riding it, and was unscathed but naturally miffed that the vehicle he’d been jockeying since the 1950s was no more. There had been lots of sighing and shaking of his bald head with cries of ‘podilato mu’ until Theo had plied him with several Weep No More cocktails. ‘I can only hear Donald Trump wailing “we are fighting fake news” every time someone thwacks him with a sponge and someone singing “I don’t wanna wait in vain” on Spotify.’
Melody laughed, sipping from the straw of her pint glass of cocktail Abby knew Theo hadn’t made. ‘Irie! Shabba Ranks next. Or maybe Shaggy.’
‘Melody,’ Abby said, taking her sister’s arm. ‘We are supposed to be working. Achieving the party atmosphere is only half of the job. Don’t forget we are aiming to give clients the real Greek experience. Selling the calm, relaxing, peaceful, holiday life so they can imagine what it would be like to own their own home on the island.’
‘Mum has been signing people up to the newsletter left right and centre,’ Melody said, nudging Abby and indicating Jackie, under a parasol – held by George – talking to a well-dressed couple who seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the drinks Theo had made that were both purple and pink, layered up like a rainbow cake. ‘The food’s going down well and people are lingering. They aren’t just taking dolmades and hot-footing it to Aleko’s joint.’ She grinned. ‘And Donald is superb, isn’t he?’
Abby glanced over at the lookalike, sat on a chair in a business suit combination the real DT would definitely wear, pouting, posing and fluffing up his very convincing hairpiece for the crowd as sodden sponges headed his way. ‘He is very good.’ Abby sighed. ‘How much is he charging us?’ She had tried to keep a handle on expenses, but despite everyone’s goodwill, costs had mounted up.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Melody said, waving her hand dismissively.
‘Melody! How much was he?’ Now she was really worried.
‘It’s a party, Abs, chill out.’
‘I’ll pull your hair if you don’t tell me,’ Abby threatened, reaching for a strand.
‘You’re crazy, and not ten any more, and that’s not fair.’
‘Melody!’
Melody sighed. ‘I said I’d dance before his next show next week.’
‘Melody! We agreed the dancing was going to stop! That you and Mum were going to focus on the business and we would make do until that started to pay off.’
‘I didn’t agree,’ Melody stated. ‘And now the Russians have been driven out of the village … I can’t live on bread and feta. I miss the chocolate granola.’
‘No more dancing in those awful stripper shoes.’
‘At least I don’t actually strip.’ She took a breath. ‘Completely.’
‘What?!’ Abby exclaimed.
‘Air. Hair, lair.’
Abby’s attention was drawn away from her sister to the arrival of Diana, breathing her trademark greeting at her shoulder. The interjection was enough for Melody to skip off towards more new arrivals.
‘Oh, hello, Diana,’ Abby said. ‘Welcome to our soirée. Please, come and let Theo make you a cocktail of your choice.’ She led the way across the terrace, past a group of village children who were taking it in turns to try on the cardboard Tom mask.
‘Aleko has the most wonderful band playing outside his shop. Traditional musicians, no aid from Bluetooth.’ Diana smiled and Abby longed to channel her inner Amir Khan (when he was good).
‘Well,’ Abby said, trying to maintain professionalism. ‘We are mostly going for the Greek theme here.’ She indicated the harbour just a few metres ahead of them. It was like a beautiful painting, capturing everything that was special about Greece. Clear, turquoise water, clean sand-cum-shingle beach dappled with stones of every colour, the bright wellness-promoting sun making everything a little like a natural version of the Clarendon Instagram filter. She could smell fresh fish being griddled and all at once her mouth began to water. This place was seeping into her every pore whether she was allowing it or not.
‘Playing reggae?’ Diana queried, raising a way too-plucked eyebrow.
She did have a point. Abby should get Melody to stop competing with Aleko’s theme on the musical front and get back to their own remit – selling the Greek dream. ‘The food is traditional Greek and my mum has set up a slideshow of current properties on the screen at the back of the terrace, should you be looking for somewhere to purchase.’
Diana tittered. ‘Darling girl, I already have a property here.’
‘But don’t you sometimes wish it had a little extra space, Diana? Is it one bedroom you have or two?’
Another voice had interjected and Abby turned to see Spyridoula, dressed in an eye-catching emerald-coloured dre
ss, half a dozen of her friends around her. She had one of George’s spicy lamb meatballs in between her fingers.
‘I have two,’ Diana snapped quickly. ‘And a roof terrace.’
‘Well,’ Abby continued. ‘We have a gorgeous three-bedroomed property on our books, at a great price with a garden, a roof terrace and a walk-in wardrobe in the master suite.’
‘A walk-in wardrobe, Diana,’ Spyridoula said. ‘A whole room to put your beautiful, beautiful clothes.’
Diana sniffed. ‘They do deserve to be preserved. Some of them belonged to the late Princess of Monaco.’
‘Where are your friends?’ Spyridoula questioned, eyeing up the Brit. ‘Your Pikilia and Pow-Pow people.’
‘It’s Pow-Wow and Pikilia,’ Diana corrected. ‘It means a “gathering where people talk to one another”.’
‘And where are they gathering right now?’ Spyridoula asked. ‘Because they are missing out on this wonderful food.’
‘They are at Ionian Dreams, taking lots of photos of the rather gorgeous musicians.’
‘When there is the American president to make wet?! This is the funniest thing I have seen all of the year,’ Spyridoula announced with a laugh. ‘We will put this in the local magazine.’
‘You will?’ Abby said, breathing gratefully, if breathing gratefully was a thing.
‘There is no real entertainment here. My ladies like to be entertained,’ Diana said sniffily.
Spyridoula clapped her hands together. ‘Daughter-of-Jackie, Abby has not told you about the dancing?’
‘Dancing?’ Diana and Abby said at the very same time.
‘You have seen my nephew? Working at The Blue Vine? Here, with Leon, making the most divine cocktails?’
Abby looked to where Theo and Leon were serving drinks. Theo was smiling as he juddered two metal cocktail shakers, throwing one in the air, catching it, spinning the second, then deftly pouring the resulting liquid into glasses he had lined up. She could vouch for his skills in making divine cocktails. He was divine too, all swept back hair and square-jawed deliciousness. Except she shouldn’t really be thinking any of that …
‘As much as I love a good cocktail,’ Diana began. ‘I wouldn’t describe the art of mixology as dancing.’
‘No,’ Spyridoula stated. ‘Theo and Leon, they have been dancing since they were three years old. In a short while, they will be teaching everybody traditional Greek dancing.’
Diana did a rather obvious eye-roll where her whole iris and pupil disappeared under her eyelids. It briefly turned her into something from The Walking Dead. ‘We’ve all been to Kostas’s in Kassiopi.’
‘This is different,’ Spyridoula continued.
‘How so?’ Diana asked, sounding intrigued.
‘They will do this … Pappas style.’
Abby swallowed. What was going on? Dancing was not on her timetable. The only two things scheduled were her mum giving a speech about the Desperately Seeking ethos and the raffle draw.
‘Does it entail balancing a stick on their nose? Or a small child on a small chair? Because we’ve seen that too.’ Diana looked completely unimpressed, so much so she folded her arms across her chest.
‘They do this like … strippers,’ Spyridoula whispered.
Abby felt like she had been struck by a lightning bolt. What was it with this village and people taking off their clothes? And now all she could see was a slideshow of Theo in flagrante on the sun lounger at the villa, plus the memory of his hot, hard body tight against hers as they danced last night.
‘They take off their clothes?’ Diana asked. Now her eyes were bulging like a tarsier.
‘Your friends will not want to miss this,’ Spyridoula said confidently. ‘And if you do not have interest in the three-bedroom house with the walking in wardrobe I will tell Cybele Karkaris. She has very many shoes.’
Diana readjusted the handbag on her shoulder and cleared her throat. ‘I will be back.’ She looked at Abby. ‘Do not start the dancing without us.’
‘I … won’t,’ Abby replied tentatively. She waited until Diana had disappeared off the terrace and onto the road before she looked to Spyridoula with concern. ‘Greek stripper dancing?’ she said. ‘That wasn’t part of my plan.’ She sucked in more air. ‘And I don’t think I can allow it. It’s my mum’s business … I’m not sure it’s the right image we’re going for.’ As much as she really wanted to see it.
Spyridoula laughed, slipping an arm around Abby’s shoulders. ‘Come,’ she said. ‘We will tell Theo and Leon what they will do together. Maybe just the shirts … unless the crowd insist on more.’
Forty-five
‘You jest!’ Leon exclaimed in horror. ‘You joke with us, Mrs Pappas.’ He inhaled. ‘Please,’ he begged. ‘Tell me you joke with us.’
‘It wasn’t my idea,’ Abby added.
‘We realise that,’ Theo answered. ‘Because it sounds very much like something my aunt would organise.’ He stood his ground and eyed Spyridoula, changing to speaking in Greek. ‘What if we say no? It is complete exploitation after all.’ He knew exactly what he was going to say next. ‘What if I said you and your ladies were to dance in nothing more than your underwear?’
A worrying smile appeared on his aunt’s face then. ‘My ladies wait for this very moment half of their lives.’ She put her fingers to her lips and whistled. ‘Ladies! It is time!’
‘Wait,’ Abby said. ‘What’s going on—’
Theo bit his lip. He had been expertly played again. He knew Spyridoula had absolutely no intention of taking off her clothes and dancing, but if he really pushed the issue he also had no doubt that she would, and he couldn’t do that to Abby.
‘Stop this madness,’ Theo said, taking hold of his aunt’s arm.
Abby stepped forward, as if trying to get between them. ‘Honestly, please, don’t feel that anyone has to dance …’ She cleared her throat. ‘… half-naked or otherwise, on my account. Diana will just have to be disappointed. I don’t really know why my mum feels the need to please her anyway. I—’
‘No,’ Theo said. ‘We will do this.’ His eyes went to Leon, hoping for a show of solidarity he probably didn’t deserve.
‘Theo, come on, we are not three years old, running around in the garden with nothing to show,’ his friend reminded him. ‘I do not know about you, but I have plenty to show now.’
‘But we have been dancing together, when we get together …’ He swallowed as long-ago memories crowded in upon him. ‘For almost all of that time.’
‘But not half-naked.’ Leon raised his eyes. ‘My mother wanted to open a Greek dancing bar once. She had plans for me and all my brothers to dance there, every night.’ He shook his head. ‘Why do you think I drive a taxi?’
Theo slipped an arm around Leon’s shoulders. ‘It is once,’ he pointed out, then dropped his mouth closer to Leon’s ear. ‘To help Abby.’ Theo owed it to her. For the half-truths. To remind her how sorry he was …
‘If my sisters come by and see me …’ Leon said through gritted teeth.
‘They will be very proud,’ Theo said, slapping him on the back.
‘Come,’ Spyridoula said, linking arms with Abby. ‘My friend, Meredith, she has a house she is thinking of selling. Her husband passed away and I think she needs to downsize. Do you have a nice, low maintenance two-bedroom house to sell to her too?’
‘Really?’ Abby asked. ‘Because we do have a beautiful one with a lovely garden and gorgeous views. Someone was interested but the garden wasn’t big enough for her … I’m pretty sure it’s low maintenance. I can grab the details.’
‘Then let me introduce you,’ Spyridoula continued before throwing a glance back to Theo. ‘While Theo is removing his clothing.’
Ten minutes later, Abby had left Jackie with Spyridoula’s friend, Meredith, talking up the merits of downsizing and telling her how much money she should be able to get for her sizeable three-bedroom property with a parcel of land. It was the only moment that day she had ha
d to take stock of everything that was going on around her. She stood in the doorway of the freshly whitewashed store front, admiring what she saw. How different the area looked now from when she had arrived, blinded by pinkness and plastic flamingos. Now the terrace and approach to the shop was sleek, charming and welcoming, professional yet approachable. The planters held no fake neon additions, just the natural blooming floral beauty of bougainvillea, and San Stefanos harbour needed no added enhancement either – the sparkling water, bobbing boats and gentle burr of activity around the beach captured the relaxed vibe perfectly. Shrubs of lavender provided the subtle, summery fragrance, just like Abby had wanted for The Travellers’ Rest. But here, somehow, she knew it worked better than it ever would have done in Romsey, because everything here was just a little bit more charming, a shade brighter, positively sunnier all round. The past week had been so much hard work, but never had Abby felt more rewarded. She was helping her mum and her sister flourish. And she could never have envisaged how much more satisfying that would feel, even when compared to a job that had been her whole world. But where did she go from here? A sharp prod of a reminder came from her consciousness. She didn’t have time to think that far ahead yet, she still didn’t have a raffle prize and draw time was coming up … Then Melody’s music from the speakers ceased and the sound of a lone stringed instrument began to drift up from the roadside.
A hush seemed to descend over the party, but not in an awkward way, in more of an awestruck way. Abby stepped down onto the terrace just as everyone seemed to part to either side, in preparation of something happening. People stopped throwing wet sponges at Donald Trump and the general hubbub of conversation ceased, the only sound the beautiful, traditional tone of bouzouki. And then the musician arrived, revealing himself to the crowd, walking slowly forward into the centre of the naturally formed circle playing a pearly white and Greek blue six-string instrument. It was George.