by Sara Alexi
‘Oh, well, Liz sort of kidnapped me. He’s back at our place.’
‘Oh, okay. I’ll call him; he has his mobile with him, I take it?’ It’s a rhetorical question and Neville leaves them without waiting for an answer.
‘Come out here,’ Liz says. The large room is open on one side onto a spacious patio with grand stone arches that provide shade and support for the balconies on the upper floor.
Liz flops onto a sun lounger with a hood, which seems redundant in the shade of the stone arch. Sarah lowers herself into an egg-shaped chair, which is much more comfortable than it looks.
‘So you’re free!’ Sarah says. ‘It must be brilliant now that, well since ... How long has it been since Miriam died?’
‘Six months.’ Liz sighs deeply and takes a long drink of wine before reaching to top herself up. She swings the bottle towards Sarah, who has to lean to try and reach it. They both lean, they giggle, they lean some more until the exchange is made, Liz slapping her hand on the floor so as not to fall over.
Once settled again, Sarah asks, ‘Six months? You guys must have painted the town red several times by now? Wining and dining, Neville taking you to shows and all the other things you guys have been planning for so long?’
‘Yeah, right.’ Liz looks across the village roofs spread out below them.
‘What, has he too much work on?’
‘You won’t believe what’s happened now.’
Sarah scans Liz’s face, searching for clues as to the severity of what she is about to say. ‘Tell me,’ she demands.
‘Ah, there you are, girls. I just rang Laurence. He had no idea you were here, you know, Sarah.’ He pauses and looks at her, chastising with his eyes. She turns to look at the view. ‘Anyway, I’ve told him where we are and he says he’ll join us after a shower and a change, so I suggest when he arrives, we go into Saros town, have a coffee, look around, and find a good restaurant. Sarah, you can use our shower here. Shall I ring Laurence back and tell him to bring some fresh clothes?’
Sarah looks down at her cotton shirt and calf-length skirt. Not evening wear exactly, but they are on holiday. She’s presentable.
‘No, I’m fine. Thank you Neville.’
‘Oh, okay then, if you are sure.’ Neville sounds almost disappointed.
‘Nev, can you see if you can get that back door to unstick, or will you call the owners to tell them to come and sort it out?’ Liz asks. Sarah has seen it many times before, since the first, or maybe it was the second month of their marriage, when she gained stature with a change of her surname and a bank account bigger than she could ever have imagined. Even before Neville’s mother was taken ill, Liz had become the master of getting Neville to leave the room on some pretence and Neville, always one to oblige, never made a fuss.
‘So tell me what’s happened,’ Sarah says as soon as he is out of earshot.
‘You know, I’m so tired with it, I can hardly tell you. Twenty-four years I nursed Miriam.’ Poor Liz, it wasn’t what she bargained for. Sarah nods her compassion. Liz swings her feet from the recliner and, kicking off her shoes, slaps her bare feet across the marble floor to the kitchen, returning with a second bottle of wine.
‘What we really need is a gin and tonic, but the corner shop down there is very limited in the booze department.’
‘I don’t suppose they have much call for it.’ Sarah remembers the café with the old men. The man with the moustache comes to mind and sends a shiver down her spine.
‘Someone walk over your grave?’ Liz asks.
‘No, no, a creepy guy in the village. Well, not creepy. Intense, the way he stared at me.’ She shivers, shaking her head. ‘One minute I was by the kiosk alone and then next, I look up and he was there. Big guy, puffed out chest, really masculine.’
‘Bit of a change from Laurence, then.’ Liz laughs.
Sarah stifles her own. ‘That’s breaking the rule.’
‘I didn’t say anything negative about Laurence. I just said it was a change.’
‘Slippery slope, Liz. We agreed, we do not make comments about each other’s husband. It was part of the deal,’ Sarah hisses looking into the shade of the house, just in case.
Liz uncorks the bottle, nodding in agreement. ‘But I bet you won’t stick to the rule when I tell you what Neville’s suggesting.’
‘Let me guess. You’re not moving again, are you?’ Sarah takes a refill even though she can see her hand is no longer steady. ‘Oh, or are you moving back to the Isle of Man?’ She almost shouts, her delight evident.
‘No, nothing to do with moving. Why would you think that?’
‘Because the last shock you gave me was your move to London. Oh, it is good to see you, Liz.’ Her tongue struggles around the words, slurring the sounds together. Liz’s return smile does not reach her eyes. ‘Oh Liz, what is it?’ Sarah can feel her own tears welling in response to her friend’s sad face. Wine on top of being tired was a bad idea maybe.
The both turn sharply as a car scrunches to a stop in the driveway.
Chapter 4
Sarah has been watching the light gradually change to dusk over the last couple of hours, getting slowly drunk at the harbour café. She receives a text from Finn saying he has been asked to collect one of Helena’s relatives from the airport. He will be back late and will see her tomorrow. Her heart sinks a little and the clawing darkness in the pit of her stomach tries to oozes up into her chest, but looking up from her phone, the sight before her is like a balm. The light on the sea is ever changing and a small fishing boat put-putts its way across the bay to moor up against the harbour wall. Once the ropes are tied, the fisherman takes a polystyrene-lidded crate from his vessel and strides off with purpose into town. The sea is mesmerizing; the blue has darkened to a turquoise green and imperceptibly loses its transparency to become silver as the sun dips behind the mountains across the bay, the sky paling to a yellow before burning orange and then red above the hills as the globe of fire is sucked from view. The hills take on a two-dimensional quality, flattened dark blue at the water’s edge, the colour fading and blending them into the sky the further they are in the distance. Laurence and Neville are laughing loudly. Sarah hasn’t been listening and has no idea what they are talking about. She rolls her eyes at Liz, who tuts and nods before Sarah returns her attention to the view. Laurence is saying something about his hire car. Neville is teasing him about being too old to be a boy racer and they compare their hire cars, Laurence bragging with his upgrade, Neville boasting that he forked out for the top of the range.
‘I could just sit here all night,’ Sarah sighs, addressing Liz.
‘So could I if it wasn’t for the fact that I am starving,’ Liz replies.
‘Yes, now you mention it.’ Sarah rubs her stomach. It growls in response.
The lights on the square behind them come on one by one and new shadows are cast.
Finishing the last of his coffee, Neville suggests, ‘Shall we go and find a restaurant?’ His hand is in the air for the bill.
‘Taverna,’ Liz corrects, standing and offering her hand to Sarah to help her stand.
Sarah feels no inclination to move.
Adjusting the straps on her impractical dress, Liz’s unharnessed bosom seems just a little too ample for the sheer material and the diamante straps cutting in, just slightly, to her now-sunburnt shoulders. But she still looks beautiful to Sarah’s eyes. The darker, underneath red of her hair is dominating as she has pinned it all loosely on top. She does dishevelled very well. Sarah watches Liz’s manicured hands as they pinch up the dress at the front so as to walk more freely. She seems a little uncomfortable, as if in seizing the occasion to wear finery, she has overdone it. Next to her, Sarah feels short in her flat shoes and under-dressed, but the ease it affords her mixes well with the residual heat of the day. Her arms swing loosely. Laurence takes her hand. She looks up at him but he is staring straight ahead, pretending this action is natural, usual even.
Back from the water
front, the streets narrow, impassable for cars but not for the mopeds which weave between the pedestrians, driven by tanned and reckless youths, bumping on the cobbles.
In the dusk, the shops and tavernas are gaily lit. The orange glow localises around its source, each a pocket of promise, a cache ready to give up its treasures. Bougainvillaea is strung from balcony to balcony above their heads, purple, crimson, and white. Sarah’s spine straightens, her chin lifts, her hips begin to roll as she walks. She slips her hand from Laurence’s to feel free.
‘What about this one?’ Neville suggests. A waiter greets them, tells them the food is good. They have fish, he adds and reels off a list of Greek food. There is nothing to distinguish it from the last; wooden tables covered with paper cloths, waiters rushing backwards and forwards with arms full of plates, the smell of onions and tomatoes mixing with herbs and wine.
‘Why not?’ Laurence says. His hand hovers in the small of Sarah’s back, guiding.
Inside, the taverna appears almost empty of furniture; most of the tables that normally occupy the space have been arranged outside, on the pavement, but by the open window, one table remains, and sitting at it, leaning back with a glass in his hand, is the man with the moustache.
‘Shall we look at the next one before we decide?’ Sarah suggests, turning away. The man has not seen her yet.
‘They’re all the same. Let’s sit here.’ Liz puts her hand on the back of an empty chair by a table for two. She has had a brandy with her coffee and she is unsteady.
They look around, but there are no tables for four.
‘Never mind, let’s move on,’ Sarah says, but as the words leave her mouth, a waiter approaches with an upturned table held aloft which he lowers next to the table for two, making it big enough for four. He makes an exaggerated welcoming gesture with a smile and a wink. As this is happening, the man with the moustache looks up and catches Sarah’s eye. He raises his glass and nods, grinning at her. Sarah looks away. Trying to find something else to focus on, she misses her opportunity to choose a seat. Laurence draws a chair back for her and waits to push it in. She is diagonally opposite Liz and facing the open window. Head bowed, she lets Laurence push in her chair and busies herself with a napkin.
‘Isn’t this charming?’ Neville flourishes his serviette.
The taverna is on a corner from around which drifts the sound of live music. A pair with bouzouki and clarinet stroll into view.
‘Did you ever get to see Nigel Kennedy, Neville?’ asks Laurence.
‘Oh yes, a true musician. He opened with Bach and then improvised to the basic themes. It was wonderful. Such charisma.’
‘Bought the CD,’ Liz confirms. She has taken a tube from her evening bag and is sticking a false nail back on.
‘Not here, dear,’ Neville whispers.
‘It’s done.’ Liz holds out her hand, fingers spread to look at them.
Sarah loves Liz’s disregard for all the finery Neville is constantly trying to teach her. She has sat through opera and ballet, Shakespeare and recitals, unfailingly able to rate each performance ‘boring’ or ‘fantastic,’ buying all the merchandise or declaring it a waste of time. When they were both still dating, the four of them would fly from the Isle of Man to London for short weekends to see a play or catch an act. Then Neville had asked Liz to go to an opera with him one weekend, impressing that it would be just the two of them. Sarah and Liz presumed he wanted to finally have his way with her. But ever the gentleman, Neville had made no move in that direction. Instead, he had surprised her.
As soon as they touched down at Heathrow, Neville, Liz reported, had marched her straight to another plane bound for Rome. ‘Best place to see it, and in the original Italian,’ Liz had said, mimicking Neville’s accent. She and Sarah rolled on their beds in their bedsit, laughing as she recounted the details, laughing till their sides ached when Liz said he had even booked separate rooms in the hotel.
Sarah closes her eyes at their behaviour, so long ago. So much has changed. The dark weight inside her shifts as if to let her know it is still there.
‘I am going in to choose the fish.’ Laurence stands, as does Neville.
‘I guess it will be fresh this morning,’ he states.
‘Yes, from my brother boat.’ The waiter’s English has just the hint of an accent.
‘I wonder how much time he spends on his brother’s boat,’ Liz murmurs.
‘Sorry, dear?’ Neville pauses. Liz is eyeing the waiter.
‘Nothing.’ She dismisses Neville. ‘Can we have some wine?’ She looks up at the waiter, almost fluttering her eyelashes.
‘Liz!’ Sarah chastises with a smirk.
‘Red, rosé, or white, madam?’ The waiter smiles.
‘Do you have a wine list?’ Neville asks briskly. This seems to confuse the waiter.
‘We have the wine from Nemea if you want a bottle.’ Neville and the waiter continue their conversation, walking into the taverna.
Sarah glances to the window but the man and his moustache are not visible; leaning back, he is all but obscured, just his knees and a hand playing with a string of beads are visible. She draws her attention back to her own table.
‘So Liz, come on tell me or it will never be told. What is Neville up to now?’
Liz’s slumps in her chair and her smile slips from her face. ‘Oh Sarah, he is only suggesting Agnes moves in with us.’
‘What!’ Sarah knows it came out too loud; everyone is looking at her except the waiter. ‘You mean as in Agnes his first wife?’ she repeats, hissing.
The bottle is uncorked next to them and two glasses are poured with no prerequisite tasting. The men are still inside, examining the fish. Sarah can see them in the narrow passage that leads to the kitchen at the back.
‘It’s sad, I mean really sad. She has been diagnosed with cancer. Their children are beside themselves, and all of them on the phone to Neville all the time.’
‘Well, I can understand that but ...’
‘Well, apparently she has no one to look after her. She can get Macmillian care, but to be left to die like that on your own.’ She sighs and drinks the wine as if it is water.
‘What about a hospice? What exactly is Neville saying, that she move in with you and you start caring for her where you left off caring for his mother!’
‘That’s about it.’ Liz pours more wine.
‘You’re kidding me?’
‘No.’ Liz gulps down another glass and hitches up the neckline of her dress.
Sarah sits back and looks through the open door to the back of Neville, who is being shown a metal fridge drawer, presumably full of fish.
‘Liz, you can’t. I thought Neveille had all these plans and ideas of what you guys were going to do once his mum was gone. You told me about them—the trips, the weekends, the concerts you have been planning for years. What will happen to you two learning to sail and going around the Indonesian Islands?’
Lis shrugs and fiddles with her earrings; diamond drops, no doubt bequeathed to her by Miriam or passed on by Neville.
‘But for her to move in.’ Sarah shakes her head, her mouth open.
‘What can I do?’ Liz puts down her glass, sits up straight, and fixes a smile. ‘Did you find a fish?’
The men sit.
Sarah’s bottom lip quivers as she stares at her friend, who is flirting again with the waiter. Sometimes, life just seems too unfair, too much like hard work to keep going. Her gaze wanders. Between her and the window are several tables, and at one, sitting sideways to Sarah, is Stella, the helpful woman from the village, in a different sleeveless floral dress. Opposite her is a man who is listening to her every word, the man she had watched Stella talking to in the café doorway. Stella uses her hands to gesticulate as she talks, but when they come to rest on the table, the man slides his hand over hers and she smiles. Their faces are close as if they share a secret until, with a rich peal of laughter, she throws her head back and pats his hand to gently admonish him.
He grins.
Plates that are placed in front of them are no interruption. Sarah watches as Stella cuts up everything on her plate, but it is only when she exchanges it with the man’s that she notices he only has one arm. Sarah’s bottom lip quivers again. Why does Finn have to get married? She hears the words in her head but has no idea why she has thought them, or what it has to do with watching Stella and her man. Helena is perfect for him and they are so in love.
‘You alright?’ Laurence’s hand is on her shoulder.
‘Yes, what? Right, oh. I will have ...’ She looks down at the menu, ‘your recommendation.’ She looks up at the waiter and hands back the menu. He smiles and says her dish will be the best.
Liz is picking out the middle of her piece of bread and rolling it into balls.
They made a mistake all those years ago—well, Liz definitely did. Sarah’s been lucky, or rather luckyish. Shaking her head, she takes a sip of her wine. They will need to break the deal of not talking about their husbands if Neville persists that Agnes moves in, How can she avoid expressing her opinions on Neville then? To have his ex-wife move back in, the mother of his children, to choose that over the plans he and Liz had made, plans that were promises to Liz after years of care for his mum, is just plain wrong. Neville has been wrong in so many ways.
‘Oh, that looks nice,’ Laurence greets his starter.
The food is good.
‘How do you ask for more wine?’ Sarah asks everyone at the table.
‘Krassi,’ the waiter says as he passes with a tray of food. On his return, Sarah lifts her empty glass and says, ‘Krassi.’
‘You want bottle or would you like local wine?’ The waiter addresses her.
‘Oh let’s try local.’ Liz nods. Neville frowns. The wine comes in a jug. It is light and very palatable. One jug follows another and the husbands revert to Manx accents, Liz’s London twang being usurped by her mother’s Irish. Sarah’s mind floats on alcohol, She has a stomach that is full and the air is warm. Her worries fade and it begins to feel like a perfect evening.
No one wants dessert; besides, there is no dessert on the menu. The waiter explains that it is traditional to go on to a café for baklava and coffee.