‘What is life for, if it isn’t to be lived to the full?’
‘True.’
Images of herself and Damian in the throes of lovemaking, reflected in the ceiling mirror, danced in front of Oriel’s eyes.
They had arrived at the marina. Vassilis parked the car at the top of the cliffs and turned off the headlamps. He climbed out and came round to the passenger side, opening Oriel’s door for her. It was dark by now and the stars were noticeably bright in the amethyst glow of the sky. Night birds swooped across the beach, speeding black shapes of chattering sound.
Vassilis guided her along the path, a hand on her arm, but Oriel felt no hammering heartbeats in her ribcage or butterflies in her stomach and, for a split second, she missed those delicious sensations that only Damian’s touch was able to arouse. Still, she didn’t want to think about that and she tried to stem her thoughts by concentrating on the scenery as they made their way down to the taverna.
The bay was unusually full of boats on the flat sea: it was clear that there had been an influx of visitors for the occasion. Beyond the rocks the chromium waters glittered and the sky was hazy with stars and a half moon. The cliffs behind were dark smudges and, further away to the left, in the distance, the forbidding black mass of Typhoeus loomed.
As they walked down the winding track, they could see below them the beach packed with partygoers. People from all over the island, it seemed, had converged outside the taverna to wish their diva a happy birthday. It was as if a modern-day Bacchanalia were in progress. Coloured light bulbs had been strung from tree to tree on the beach and around the bar, and they twinkled from wooden posts on the waterfront, too. A rudimentary speaker system, turned up to its highest possible level, had been set up to pipe out recorded tunes while the crowd awaited the live music of Yolanda and her band.
Still, this was not a crowd awaiting a show in silence; it was as if they were infused with joy. Some were singing at the tops of their voices, clapping their hands; others danced on a square stage made from blocks of wood and a few danced on tables. Still more were seated at long trestle tables covered with brightly patterned cloths, helping themselves from huge plates of mezedes and bottles of drink set in front of them, like spectators at a football match. Customers were queuing up at the bar and empty bottles of ouzo, Fix Hellas Greek beer, retsina and a rosé known as kokkineli were already littering the sand.
The noise was horrendous. As they drew even closer to the taverna, Oriel realized that it would be almost impossible to communicate without shouting over the nerve-jangling, electrified thudding of the bouzoúki. It was a time for singing and laughter, and the guests could no more have stopped their hedonistic partying than the birds in the trees their singing.
The carcass of a goat was roasting on a crude spit set over an open fire in one corner of the beach, its reddish-brown skin glistening. Two women, one squatting at each end of the beast, wide cotton skirts lifted up around their tanned knees, turned the spit and brushed the goat with a bunch of fresh wild herbs, which they dipped in a large earthenware bowl full of some sort of marinade. A huge, heavy, cast-iron cauldron had been placed under the charred carcass to catch the drops of fat running down its sides. The delicious, pungent aroma of the sizzling meat mingled with the fragrance of salt, iodine, seaweed and pine.
There was a remote and primitive air hanging over the entire scene that some might have found outlandish and somewhat barbaric, but it excited Oriel in the same way Damian excited her. While watching the revellers and listening to their cheers, laughter and raucous songs, she had been thinking of the man who ruled them. In that moment Oriel wished she had been a writer or a painter so she could transfer to paper or canvas this incredible sight that opened her mind, giving wings to her imagination, her soul almost becoming one with this place.
They had almost arrived at the beach now and the noise was getting louder. Vassilis guided her down a side path that she could see led to a quieter part of the bay, about fifty feet away from the throbbing heart of the celebrations. There were a few tables set up here, with a counter where you could buy drinks. A couple of waiters were standing around but Oriel could see from their faces that, stuck at this end of the party, they felt like they were missing out on the fun. Although the masses were gathered where the music, the food and the merrymaking were taking place, some guests had discovered this more intimate corner; they were mostly couples and bevies of women on their own who, without an escort, perhaps felt a little uncomfortable among the raucous rabble.
‘You find us loud and vulgar, eh?’ Vassilis’s voice drew Oriel out of her contemplation.
‘Not at all, quite the reverse. I was admiring the way the islanders are able to give themselves up to such joie de vivre.’ Her mind flashed back to the scenes of uninhibited joy at the Epiklisi festival. The spirit of képhi, as Damian had called it. ‘I do love the way the islanders celebrate so wholeheartedly,’ she exclaimed, turning to him, her eyes sparkling with the exuberance of it all. ‘They dance, they sing, they carouse as if there’s no tomorrow.’
‘We Greeks know how to have fun, that’s for sure,’ said Vassilis, grinning. Oriel smiled back, thinking how endearing he was, with his hair falling over his forehead like a playground scamp. What a strange mix of a man: with his love of cars and having fun, combined with the careful diligence of the trained archaeologist. In some ways, the perfect man for her, she had to admit – it was just a shame she couldn’t find him attractive. It didn’t help that the powerful, broad-shouldered figure of Damian got in the way, his intense eyes and somewhat forbidding expression filling her mind.
A waiter came to take their order for drinks and appetizers. Despite Vassilis’s coaxing, Oriel declined the various alcohols on offer. She had indulged the night before as well as the night before that and, after her conversation with Mattias that afternoon, she was ashamed of the consequences. She ordered carob juice, which she had discovered during one of her trips to Greece: a chocolate-like flavoured drink native to the Mediterranean. Vassilis ordered Metaxa and an array of mezedes. Drinks and food were brought to the table without delay and Oriel, who had eaten nothing for breakfast and only a sandwich for lunch, tucked in heartily to the numerous little dishes that were placed on the table in front of them.
Still the crowds were arriving. The place was heaving and soon they would overflow to this quieter part of the venue. ‘I didn’t realize that there would be so many people.’
‘Yolanda always draws a crowd. After all, she is the beloved superstar of the island, a celebrity acclaimed all over Greece and now the world, too.’
‘Do she and her brother get on?’ asked Oriel. She didn’t know Vassilis well enough to voice her instinctive dislike of Yorgos, who had always seemed sly and ingratiating whenever she had met him. She had to wonder why Damian had chosen him as estate manager, a responsibility that would require a great deal of trust.
Vassilis seemed to intuit her feelings and was rather more blunt. ‘She and Yorgos are a team, they only have one another. I’m not sure if they actually like each other, but they do have one major thing in common, other than their parentage, of course …’
‘What’s that?’ asked Oriel.
‘Their ambition. She wants to be the proper queen of the island. He, of course, wants it for her so she can elevate him, too. They share a plan, it seems to me. Yolanda Christodoulou is determined to bear the name Lekkas one day and, with her brother keeping close to Damian, she stands a far better chance than all the other women who have tried fighting for his affections.’
‘How awkward for Damian to have so many women throwing themselves at him.’ Oriel found it hard to keep the bitterness out of her voice and hoped her words merely sounded ironic.
Vassilis nodded his thanks as the waiter returned with a bottle of water. ‘As I said before, no one else has managed to get closer to Damian than our diva here. Let’s face it, who could possibly hope to compete with her? She wants it all: Damian, fame, the island, ev
erything. You have to admire her,’ said Vassilis, twinkling. ‘Yassas!’
Oriel didn’t respond to this comment and instead raised her glass to his and gave a half smile, taking a sip of carob juice. Instead, she said: ‘I was surprised to find that Damian owns everything. I imagined his cousin would share the inheritance.’
‘Ah, poor Helena. Eínai trelíi, the crazy invalid. Of course, you must have met her if you live at Heliades.’
‘Yes.’ And how I wish I hadn’t, Oriel said to herself silently.
‘You see, girls on Helios don’t inherit. They receive an annuity instead. That way, capital remains intact in one family.’
‘Yes, Yorgos told me about that particular island rule. Not a very nice prospect for the women, I thought.’
‘I know what you mean but, from what I can see, the women on Helios are quite happy with this arrangement. I’m not saying it’s right, but it secures them an income so they can tend to their families’ needs.’
‘I could never bend to such laws.’
‘Trust me, they save a lot of grief. Have you had much to do with Helena?’
Oriel tensed slightly and looked down at her glass. ‘I have only met her briefly.’
‘They’re a crazy family, all of them.’
‘Damian doesn’t seem crazy to me, quite the reverse, in fact. As far as I can see, he’s hardworking, organized and knowledgeable in his field.’ Why did she resent Vassilis’s criticism of Damian? Oriel wondered. Why was she defending him?
He gave her a sidelong glance. ‘Don’t tell me that you’ve also fallen for Drákon Damian’s hidden charms.’
‘Of course not.’ The answer snapped out sharp and instinctive. ‘But he comes across as a confident man who knows clearly and surely, right back through the generations, who he is and where he comes from.’
‘You’re right, he has many good qualities. I wouldn’t call him my friend otherwise,’ acknowledged Vassilis. ‘You must admit, though, he can be boorish sometimes.’
A boor but never a bore, she thought to herself but, before she could answer, Vassilis interrupted with a smile laden with impish charm. ‘But I haven’t invited you here tonight to talk about Damian Lekkas.’ His eyes gleamed appreciatively. ‘I’d like to know more about you. Tell me about yourself.’
Oriel knew that tone and she froze a little, her defences up. An involuntary shiver of alarm feathered the length of her spine. Oh God, not Vassilis, not tonight … what was it with men? He had managed to inject an intimacy and a caress into his voice that she would be naïve to wilfully misunderstand.
She sighed inwardly and felt a fool for having supposed his attentions to be purely the innocent ones of a friendly colleague. He had asked her to the party, after all – he probably thought he had made his intentions perfectly clear. She had to admit that it was her own need for a friend’s shoulder to lean on just now that had led her here. Now it was up to her to tactfully extricate herself and spare him any embarrassment. If they were going to work together then this was an imperative.
‘My life history is very dull,’ she declared, trying to inject a little coolness into her tone and demeanour.
‘Where do you live?’
‘In London.’
‘Alone?’ Vassilis raised an eyebrow, leaving no doubt as to his meaning.
‘I share a house with friends. Your next question is do I have a boyfriend?’ There was no hint of flirtation in Oriel’s voice as she said this.
But Vassilis didn’t notice – he was on a mission, determined to deliver his lines. ‘With looks like yours I imagine men beat a pathway to your door.’
Oriel uttered a brief sardonic laugh. ‘Yes, they fall over each other in their race to get to me. My doorstep is a real battlefield.’
‘Like bees, the men flit around the honey pot.’
‘Trust me, I’m no honey pot.’
‘No wedding ring that I can see on your finger.’
‘Not yet.’
‘Do you have someone in mind? Or are you one of those women who aren’t interested in marriage and children?’
Oriel gave Vassilis her sweetest smile. ‘Is this inquisition into my private life going to continue for long?’
‘Oh dear, have you had enough of me already?’ Vassilis had sufficient tact to realize his flirtation wasn’t being received with quite the wholeheartedness he had hoped for.
‘I’d rather we just concentrated on having fun,’ Oriel said, tactfully. ‘Shall we go and join the crowd? I find people and their customs fascinating.’
Vassilis’s eyes regarded her solemnly. ‘Like animals in a zoo?’
‘Sarcasm, Kyrios Markopoulos?’
He shook his head and laughed. ‘No, no, just a little peeved at your rebuff,’ he said good-humouredly. ‘Still, as you say, let’s go and join the crowd and have some of that delicious roasted goat. It smells amazing.’ He lifted his glass in a casual salute, inviting her to join him in a toast. ‘To a successful evening, and to many future ones!’
Feeling light-hearted again, Oriel lifted her glass. ‘Thank you.’ When he helped her with her wrap she was relieved that he was merely courteous, and there wasn’t a trace of lasciviousness. She felt a tacit mutual awareness that a line had been drawn, and she felt comfortable after that to walk to the opposite side of the beach with Vassilis holding her arm lightly.
The dancing had already started. Couples shuffled around the raised wooden dancefloor, arms around each other, bodies touching because there were so many people on it.
‘Shall we dance before dinner, before the stage becomes even more crowded?’ Vassilis asked as they were led by a curvy waitress to the table he had reserved. ‘We can eat during the performance.’
‘Good idea! I’m not really hungry after all those delicious mezedes you ordered. That was a dinner in itself.’ Oriel looked at the crowd, hesitating a moment. ‘Is it safe for me to leave my wrap and bag at the table, do you think?’
‘Don’t worry, Nitsa will keep an eye on them. Let’s give her our order now. She’ll bring it to us when we come back.’
He slipped a note to the waitress, who giggled and thanked him. Then Nitsa led them to a small table, on which was a reserved sign, and she pulled out her notebook to take Vassilis’s order.
‘When we come back to the table we’d like you to bring us some of that roasted kid, a selection of dolmadakia, some tsatziki and warm bread,’ Nikos turned to Oriel. ‘Is that okay for you?’
‘Sounds perfect.’
‘Will you join me in a glass of wine? Or maybe you would prefer something else?’
‘I’ll just have one,’ said Oriel. ‘I’ve got work tomorrow and I want a clear head.’
Vassilis ordered a bottle of Kratistos Nemea. ‘It’s an excellent red wine, made from agiorgitiko, St George’s grapes. It’ll go very well with the goat.’
‘It’s a good choice. I love its dark colour, it reminds me of our Victoria plums.’
‘Not many people know about Greek wines. It’s an interest of mine too. I love the fact that their history goes back six-and-a-half thousand years.’
‘Me too. The Minoans learnt winemaking from the ancient Egyptians and, thousands of years later, producers are probably doing things in much the same way,’ she agreed, happy to be on safe territory again. ‘Did you hear about the wine amphora we brought up? Its seal is intact. Damian suggested we try the wine.’
‘Urgh! I’m not sure drinking a toast to your health with it would be such a good idea. It would probably poison you.’ Vassilis laughed. ‘Come, let’s dance.’ He stood and held out his hand to Oriel. ‘Though I could sit here talking to you for hours …’
They snaked their way to the dancefloor. Oriel was thankful that the music was typical Greek pop music, noisy and full of rhythm, not slow and languorous as it was in Santorini. The idea of being held by any man other than Damian filled her with distaste. She had always loved dancing and happily Vassilis seemed to share her delight in the music. She forgot abo
ut the canary, her anxiety over Damian, Helena’s violent outburst and the disquieting words of Irini, then Mattias … she forgot everything but the sheer pleasure of the music, the warmth, the bright lights and the celebratory atmosphere.
Suddenly the lights dimmed and the cadence of the music became slow and dreamy. Oriel hadn’t time to withdraw before Vassilis had pulled her into his arms. People will say we’re in love … crooned the singer with laughter in his voice, and Vassilis held her a little closer. As more couples invaded the stage, she found herself sandwiched in the middle of the crush with nowhere to escape. She couldn’t bear being held like this … every cell in her body was rebelling against the warmth of the man clasping her to him. It wasn’t his fault, it was just a slow dance … nevertheless it felt wrong. The thoughts in her brain were racing at one hundred miles an hour, trying to conjure up an excuse to go back to the table.
And then, suddenly, Oriel’s heart contracted sharply, her eyes widened and she caught a quick inaudible breath. Damian was there! Across the expanse of the dancefloor, over the heads of the throng, she saw him. He was dancing with Yolanda on the far side of the stage and the singer was gazing up at him with the entranced look of a woman in love. Oriel’s body stiffened in Vassilis’s hold with an involuntary startled movement she could not control.
So Damian had come back especially to celebrate Yolanda’s birthday, despite the night of passion he and Oriel had shared less than twenty-four hours ago! Disillusionment rose in her throat, bitter as gall. Suddenly, all the enjoyment of the evening was tumbling down like a toppled house of cards. She felt crushed, humiliated.
In the same instant, as if drawn beyond the crowd by the power of Oriel’s thoughts, Damian’s eyes met hers. There was an odd flicker in his eyes but no surprise, no reproach – not even a sign of recognition in the steel irises, yet she was sure he had seen her. That stark, empty look gave her a strange, cold feeling down her spine, in spite of the warmth of the atmosphere. She saw Yolanda’s manicured hand slide over his arm possessively, saw the undulating way her body swayed and rubbed itself against his, and saw Damian look down into her eyes with absorbed attention. The bleakness Oriel had thought she had seen when she had met his gaze that second before had been wiped entirely from his face.
Aphrodite's Tears Page 42