by Viva Jones
‘Beezle-bee-kins, get off that,’ Ginnie shouted as the little tortoiseshell jumped up onto a pair of curtains she was making for a couple in Agios Giorgios. This was one of the perils of cat ownership when your main source of income was running up clothing and curtains. She petted the cat gently to ensure there were no hard feelings, and brushed off some stray cat hairs that were clinging to the fabric. ‘Are you hungry?’ she asked, knowing full well the answer.
Opening the tin to the sound of increasingly impatient wailing, Ginnie looked out of the window to see Barry lugging suitcases around the pool. She spooned out three dollops of cat food and put the dishes on the floor before popping out to say goodbye to Sheila.
‘I’ll remember to water your plants, don’t worry,’ she said over a quick hug.
‘Thanks everso, Ginnie,’ Sheila replied. ‘You’re the only person around here I can rely on.’
Ginnie waved as their taxi disappeared down the lane. She was quite fond of them both really, even if Barry was a bit of a bore and Sheila inclined to moan, but even so it felt like the headmaster was leaving, taking with him all his rules and regulations, and that now they could all have a bit of fun.
***
The minute Richard had gone, Anna started her day. She couldn’t bear having him around as she was going to the loo and taking her shower, she couldn’t bear to feel vulnerable in front of him. Once she was clean and dressed, she retreated to her study, the smallest of the bedrooms overlooking the swimming pool, where she would write the novel that, she kept telling herself, would one day garner her gushing five-star reviews on Amazon.
She turned on her PC, stared blankly at the screen for a few minutes, and had a game of Spider Solitaire. Had she won, Anna would then have got straight to work. But as she lost, she had to have another game instead. Half a dozen games later when she’d finally made it, Anna could no longer face the idea of work, so latched onto her second favourite past-time instead.
She googled the name James Pearson and seconds later was staring at an image of her ex-boyfriend, smiling confidently, his chestnut hair still as thick as the day she met him, looking ready to take on the world. She’d read his accompanying blurb so many times now that she wished they’d update it: ‘Managing Director, EMEA region, Equity Capital and Derivative Markets; running team of seventy,’ her eyes skimmed through the passage, ‘relishes the urgency imposed by the markets on transactions, executions and decisions...evolving into one of the most dynamic and vibrant businesses imaginable...creating fantastic client base and reputation...working to retain the best people, morale and focus.’
Not that he’d done much for her morale, Anna remembered. And his eyes seemed only ever to focus on other women. But someone had tamed him, she mused. And it hadn’t been her. Desperate for more details, she logged on to Facebook, where one of Richard’s old banking friends had recently sent her a friend request. To think, she’d nearly ignored it! The City was a small world, she convinced herself, where contacts were everything. And Roger had no fewer than four hundred and seventy-five contacts (she doubted many were friends), all of whom she now scrolled through, in case James Pearson was among them. How had she not thought of this before?
She quickly came across Chris and Nick, who, along with Roger, had formed the trio for Richard’s stag do in Amsterdam. Richard, who was hopeless at staying in touch, was turning forty in September, and it had been in the back of her mind to throw him a party. With just two months to go she’d already left it on the late side, but suddenly saw it as a priority. A party was the perfect excuse, she calculated, to send them friend requests, and if they were also among James’ friends he might well spot Anna and friend her, too, granting her access to all his innermost thoughts, activities and, best of all, photos. Exes did that kind of thing all the time, or so it seemed; why shouldn’t he be magnanimous towards her?
Her excitement mounting, Anna sent the requests with a small note mentioning the weekend of September the ninth, and carried on scrolling through Roger’s interminable list of friends. She felt like a stalker, a woman obsessed. At least she was up and dressed, and not sitting there in her pyjamas. When finally she found James, her stomach flipped over. The details she could access were limited, but enough to torture herself with for the rest of the day:
‘MD in the City, living in Chelsea. Happily married to Samantha and proud father of two kids: Rupert, 4, and Harmony, 2.’
Harmony?!! Anna spluttered. He’d called his daughter Harmony?
Samantha Pearson, she typed into Google minutes later. She was getting desperate. She just wanted something. A snapshot of his life to puzzle over and analyse for hours (if not the days, weeks and months to follow), before she’d get on with her work. Her stomach churned as she discovered Samantha Pearson Pashminas, imported exclusively from the foothills of the Himalayas. She entered the website and clicked on every photo, hoping to see someone who might be Samantha, and a background which might be their home.
Anna felt at once elated, revolted and depressed. Her actions were pathetic. She was pathetic. Was her own life so lacking in value and meaning?
It was only when Chris accepted her friend request, writing about how much he’d love to celebrate Richard’s fortieth, that Anna realised the extent of what she’d done. In order to get closer to her ex she’d committed herself to throwing her husband a party, turning what had once been a vague idea into a reality. She sat there, frozen, wondering what the hell she’d just started.
***
Next door in number seven, Douglas was also at his PC, having got up at six, eaten some muesli with added dried fruit and gone for a forty minute bike ride in the hills. He’d started his day like this virtually every day for years now, and found it invigorating. He’d work until lunch-time, eat some fish and salad and then take a nap for a couple of hours before getting back to his writing. Douglas’s days were as disciplined as his nights were decadent, and this balance pleased him.
He reread his morning’s work:
We all want more out of life - a better standard of living, a more fulfilling job, a bigger house, a faster car, a loving relationship - and yet for most of the time we have to content ourselves with what little we’ve got. We persuade ourselves that we don’t deserve more, or that our ambitions are largely unachievable. Wrong! It’s an extraordinary fact, but by simply telling the universe what we want in life, we can eventually get just that.
The key is to believe truly that it can come, and that your heart’s desire can happen, and so it will. But be careful what you wish for, because you will manifest it, and the consequences might be surprising!
This was to be one of several articles he regularly posted on his web-site, The Magus Speaks, which, unlike so many of its rivals, was well written and didn’t misplace apostrophes or split infinitives. Its domain name had been a stroke of genius, as there was every chance it would receive hits from anyone trying to find the John Fowles novel, which, being set in Greece, didn’t seem entirely inappropriate.
Douglas liked to consider himself a magus of sorts. While he wrote and posted articles about creating wealth, abundance and harmony in one’s life, his real aim was to promote and sell his own books, which he self-published. The money he made from them wasn’t substantial, but his savings more than made up for that - as a civil engineer in Saudi Arabia he’d earned enough to last his life-time, and although he’d had to fork out a bit after his divorce, had been happy to leave the house in Cambridge anyway.
The warm climate, rigorous exercise, a healthy diet and sex whenever he wanted it, Douglas was nothing but a master of manifestation himself, and after his efforts of the previous night was convinced that Nathalie, who’d arrived so suddenly and impetuously, would one day be his.
But how to get closer? He’d lend her one of his books, he decided, getting up to study his shelves. They covered virtually every inch of every wall, wi
th his remaining furniture comprising two comfortable chairs and a side-table. Douglas never expected to entertain much.
He scoured his own works looking for the right one, and finally settled on one of his best sellers, Channelling Aphrodite, on finding love, luck and destiny. That should provide him with an excuse for a chat, he told himself, and the chance to delve into those hidden depths of hers.
Pleased with his choice, Douglas decided to pay Nathalie a visit that lunchtime.
Chapter Six
There was no fax, perhaps Tanya had been silly to expect one so soon, but still the empty tray was a disappointment. Today she was taking a German couple round the show-house, but she didn’t really expect them to buy. What if she had have gone on Mr Makhtabi’s boat like he’d asked, Tanya wondered. Would she now be submitting another deal memo to Yannakis and counting on that commission cheque? What difference would it have made, had she just gone along for one little drink? Might she even have offended him by turning him down? She had to get better at reading people, she told herself, in the interests of her career. If showing a little friendship was all it took, then that’s what she should have done.
When the Dietmars arrived, Tanya’s hopes lifted. They did seem genuinely keen, after all. And they were quite rich, the Germans, and didn’t have much of a coast, if Tanya’s geography could be relied upon, and so there was every chance they’d seize the opportunity to buy a holiday home. She talked enthusiastically about rental opportunities, year-round good weather and the implications of EU membership, priding herself on her knowledge. They nodded cautiously, whispering to each other as they admired the spacious living room, open-plan kitchen and the tasteful furnishings and fittings. Of course she couldn’t understand a word they were saying, but Tanya couldn’t help but feel that they were taking it all seriously.
And then they left, like so many others before them, saying they needed time to consider. Tanya smiled bravely and told them to take as long as they liked, because it was a big decision and an important one, but as they drove off, tears started pricking her eyes and she wondered if she’d ever be solvent. Tonight her friend Dolores wanted them to go out. That would mean a couple of cocktails, at least. Tanya checked her purse; she had barely enough to cover that much and she needed petrol. She could turn her friend down, but really, what was the point of anything if she couldn’t go out and have fun every now and then?
She’d put the drinks on her credit card and hope that Doe would give her the cash, and that would keep her going until the end of the week. Tanya felt herself slump into a mild depression. Life wasn’t meant to be like this - a constant juggling of debts. What happened to all those ambitions she’d had as a teenager - to the rich men she was going to meet, to the star she was going to become? Where had she gone wrong?
Tanya had only come to Cyprus because Savvas, her Greek Cypriot boyfriend from Wood Green, had taken up his uncle’s offer of a job there in his construction company. Their relationship had never been what you’d call exciting, their sex life hardly earth-shattering, but Savvas had always treated Tanya like a superstar, and she’d decided she was better off with him than otherwise.
Once they’d moved over, however, Tanya had barely been able to prize him away from his family, and, unused to coming second to anyone else, had ended up giving him an ultimatum, saying that it was either them or her. He’d cried and told her how impossible she was being and how much he’d wanted to share his life with her, and, suddenly, from somewhere deep within, Tanya had felt this huge surge of confidence, of knowing that he was never going to be a part of her future, and had dumped him on the spot.
And looking back, despite all her money troubles and insecurity, that was one decision she’d never regretted.
In her lunch break, Tanya wandered down to the Lebanese bar to grab a chicken wrap, pausing on her way back to study some three-day-old Sunday newspapers on a stand in the shade. The tabloids were full of the kiss’n’tell revelations of a girl who’d slept with a married football coach who’d preached healthy living and respectability to his team. Tanya scoured through the story, fascinated by the girl. Just because she’d had a one-night-stand with someone famous, she was suddenly up for thousands of pounds’ worth of interviews! Thousands of pounds!
Why couldn’t Tanya have that kind of luck?
All her life, Tanya had wanted to be known. She used to pore through the gossip magazines her mum would get for the salon and dream that one day it would be her, Tanya Hopkins, gracing their pages - stepping out of the Ivy with her best friend Kate Moss, or showing off her lovely mock Tudor home with her handsome husband and baby by her side. She was twenty-four now and time was slipping by, but Tanya still wasn’t sure how to become famous. She wasn’t particularly talented, but didn’t think that really mattered nowadays.
She had to stay focused on her job, Tanya told herself, sitting on a bench watching the glistening sea ahead of her. After all, the one of the reasons behind taking her job was that there was always the chance that someone rich, famous and available might be looking to invest in a holiday home in the sun, and that one day he might just come knocking on Tanya Hopkins’ door.
***
Nathalie was getting tired of lugging packing boxes to the communal bins, and as the heat turned up like an oven, longed to take a cold shower and come out to find that everything in her house had been arranged, perfectly, behind her back. Unpacking during the summer was an early morning or late evening activity, she decided - it took up too much energy for any other time of day. She’d picked up her car that morning - a cheap run-around, she didn’t need much - and had enjoyed her first drive around Paphos, discovering the area.
By now she was getting hungry - the tabbouleh and tomato and olive salads she’d bought in town were starting to obsess her. She’d find a plate and some cutlery from a box somewhere and settle down on her terrace upstairs to eat.
She was just pouring a glass of water to go with her lunch when the doorbell rang. There stood Douglas, propping himself up against the door frame, an air of expectancy about him. Nathalie found herself pleasantly surprised.
‘I’m lending you something,’ he announced, not bothering with formalities. ‘My personal best seller.’
‘Channelling Aphrodite,’ she read, accepting it. ‘Invoking the Goddess of Beauty to attract Passion, Sensuality and Fertility in your Life.’ She looked up at him. ‘Aren’t you a man of many talents?’
‘You don’t know the half of it.’
‘I was about to break for lunch,’ she told him. ‘Care to join me?’
‘Splendid idea.’
He followed her inside where she found another plate and fork and arranged the lunch on a tray, while he surveyed the chaos that would one day be her living room.
‘Let’s go upstairs.’
‘I thought you’d never ask.’
She smiled, shaking her head like an indulgent parent whose child had just repeated a profanity. She led the way, sensing his eyes undressing her as they climbed the stairs.
‘Look at that view,’ he exclaimed, heading straight for the terrace edge. ‘I can never tire of the sea, can you?’
Putting the dishes on the table, Nathalie joined him. ‘I had a swim out there first thing this morning, before everyone else was up. My indulgence.’
He looked at her approvingly. ‘I wish I’d seen you coming out, the goddess herself, emerging from the foam.’
‘I wish you’d stop this goddess stuff, Douglas, it’s getting boring.’
‘But Aphrodite’s my favourite, how can I possibly stop? In her finely-wrought golden girdle, with magic woven into its filigree. No man could resist.’
‘I hate to disappoint, but I’m a perfectly normal mortal, and I’m certainly not into girdles. Now, sit down and have something to eat.’
She felt like she’d always known him. She felt no
need to be polite, or to ask conversational questions, or to tread carefully with any subject. It was as if there was some kind of connection between them already, and that they were dancing together as they’d danced a thousand times before.
But Nathalie didn’t want a man in her life, and certainly not one who was a neighbour.
‘You know everyone associates Aphrodite with love, but there’s more to her than that,’ he started, indicating the book. ‘She’s the goddess of love all right, but also of sexuality, fertility and prostitution, did you know that?’
‘I didn’t, no.’
‘Four distinct areas, all linked by the sexual act.’
‘And you think I need to channel her?’
‘I think all women do.’
She picked up the book again and flipped through it. At the back she found a list of his other titles. ‘Manifesting Your Desires, Lucid Dreaming, Avoiding Psychic Attack, Psychic Command - there’s a market for all this?’
‘A significant one.’
She read on. ‘The Magus Speaks - your website? I’ll have to start taking you seriously.’
‘Not too seriously, I hope.’
As they helped themselves to the salads and bread, Douglas made his move. ‘Have you been to Aphrodite’s Baths yet?’
Nathalie shook her head.
‘It’s a stunning evening drive, watching the sunset. Why don’t I take you some time? Tomorrow night?’
‘No, Douglas, not yet,’ Nathalie told him. ‘Let me get settled in first. Right now I’ve got way too much to do as you probably noticed.’
‘Very well, but I’ll hold you to that. And your courses? When do they start?
‘Pretty much straight away. Reiki Tuesdays and Thursdays, massage Wednesdays and Fridays, and I’m studying personal coaching online.’
‘Keeping yourself busy.’
‘I didn’t come here to retire.’
Her eyes met his and once again she felt drawn towards him, as if by a force outside her. She asked questions about his life, establishing that he had two daughters, both of whom were now married.