by Mandy Baggot
‘…we’re going to be doing traditional Greek food with a British twist. So if you like fish and chips, you’re going to love fish and chips with taramasalata,’ Harry stated.
‘Ooo,’ the woman said. ‘Is that the pink stuff made of fish eggs?’
‘I think so,’ Harry said. ‘My sister’s the food buff.’
Imogen smiled. ‘I’ve tried to tell my brother that traditional Greek is the way to go. I’m sure, coming here for so many years, you have your favourite dishes.’
‘Well,’ Betty began. ‘I am partial to chicken souvlaki. And I like to have a good squeeze of lemon all over it.’
Imogen could almost smell the meat, herbs and citrus. ‘Have you tried squeezing a lime over it?’ she suggested.
‘Ooo, no dear, I haven’t.’
‘Can you cook that?’ Harry asked, looking at Imogen, eyes hopeful.
‘Even you could cook that, Harry,’ she answered.
‘Lea Bridge Road, London, 1976. That’s where I had my best chicken souvlaki,’ Bill told them.
‘See, Harry,’ Imogen said, nudging his arm. ‘Greek food, not English.’ She smiled at the couple.
‘We ought to go. We need to pick up the hire car. It was nice to meet you both.’
‘Yes, it was very nice to meet you, Betty and Bill, and if you’re in the Acharavi area do drop into “TO”,’ Harry said.
‘Two?’ Betty looked puzzled. ‘There are two restaurants?’
‘Maybe I should have said “toe”.’ Harry shook his head.
‘Toe? As in… part of your foot?’
‘Have a lovely, lovely holiday,’ Imogen said, tightening her grip on Harry’s arm and tugging him towards the sliding doors out of the airport.
‘Maybe the name needs a rethink,’ Harry mused. ‘It was supposed to be ‘T’ for Tristan and ‘O’ for Olivia but I didn’t realise it would be so hard to say… or translate.’
‘To be honest I think the name of the restaurant is the least of our worries.’ She scrutinised the signs for the hire car companies. ‘Now, please, just tell me you didn’t book a Cinquecento.’
8
Ioannis Kapodistrias Airport, Corfu, Greece
It had only been a short hop in his private plane across other Greek islands, but Panos was tired. He hadn’t slept properly since his phone call with his grandmother. And then there had been the Rhea situation.
As he exited the airport, manoeuvring his black case on four wheels, he remembered Rhea’s face when he said he was leaving and their relationship was over. She’d brought her hand to her perfectly styled hair, bracelets jangling, her plump lips downturned and thrown down the magazine she was reading. Then she’d prowled like a cat on heat around the villa in one of her barely-there sarongs over a tiny bikini, following him as he packed, crying, begging, as if he owed her further explanation. He felt he didn’t. She knew the score. Despite letting her have free rein at the villa for the two months he’d spent in Crete, she wasn’t his girlfriend, would never be. She was a friend of a friend, the ideal companion for the type of businessman he was. Two months was the longest he had stayed somewhere in the past five years and Rhea’s reaction to his leaving only made ending the liaison easier. She had got too clingy, expecting things he wasn’t able to give. He’d left her packing the items she’d gradually moved in when she thought he wasn’t looking. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.
Panos stepped out of the airport, through the sliding doors and onto the tiled concrete, the sun sprawling its rays across his face. He drew his sunglasses from his shirt pocket. Slipping them onto his face, he swept a hand back through his dark hair. He was home. He took in a breath, a deep lungful of the air that was so unique here: dust, the scent of pine, fumes from the rank of coaches parked opposite, heat. The sentiment welled up inside him and quickly he hardened his body to it, narrowing his eyes at the mountains like they were a curse. This island was not a part of him anymore. He needed to remember that.
As Panos made his way over towards the line of taxi-drivers waiting for a fare, his mobile phone began to trill. Picking his case up, he lifted it over the yellow-painted kerb, then dropped it back down before reaching into the pocket of his trousers. He pulled out the phone and checked the display. It was Manilos from his office.
‘Dimitriou,’ Panos answered.
‘I’ve been trying to contact you for an hour,’ came the frantic response.
This didn’t sound good. There had been none of Manilos’ usual prelude. No ‘Good afternoon, Mr Dimitriou’, no talking between mouthfuls of lunch.
‘I’ve just touched down.’ Panos beckoned a taxi-driver.
A sound of annoyance at the other end of the line suggested this wasn’t what his employee wanted to hear. Now his interest was piqued.
‘You’re really in Corfu?’ Manilos asked.
Panos’ eyes went back across the road to the grey-panelled airport building, its name in large yellow Greek letters along the front. There were scooters and cars parked up in front of it, workers idling on benches for their break, reps with clipboards waiting for holidaymakers, all seeking the shade of the overhang. ‘Yes, I am really in Corfu.’
Manilos sighed. ‘Then we have a real problem.’ He paused. ‘The Asp deal has collapsed.’
It was like someone had thrown a bucket of ice-cold water over him. The beads of perspiration on his back suddenly turned chill. This couldn’t be happening. He closed his eyes and refocussed before opening them again. ‘This had better not be a joke.’
‘Would I make a joke about something this big?’
Panos gritted his teeth. ‘What the hell happened?’
‘He changed his mind,’ Manilos said.
‘Just like that?’ His tone gave away all the exasperation he felt. He needed to rein it back. He didn’t lose control.
‘There has been some local resistance and—’
‘Manilos, there is always local resistance. It is par for the course. I spoke with Asp personally about this.’
‘I know, but—’
‘Have you told him we can send people to deal with situations like this?’
‘I have.’
‘Did you tell him if he doesn’t go through with this deal there will be no second offer in months or years to come?’
‘Of course.’ Manilos sighed. ‘I told him everything.’
‘Did you…’ He stopped. He didn’t really want to know any more if the next answer was also a negative.
‘I offered him a hundred thousand Euro more,’ Manilos confirmed.
‘Shit!’ Panos exclaimed. He kicked the ground, his foot coming off worse than the concrete. He leant back against the metal barrier separating the taxi rank from the coaches waiting for tourists. This was serious. If Asp hadn’t backed down at the offer of extra money the deal really was as good as lost. He needed to make a decision. This deal was huge – a row of properties on Kos, in a prime beachfront location. He’d worked hard for three months putting things in place to ensure the outcome swung his way. And here he was, a plane ride away when things had gone south.
‘What do you want me to do?’ Manilos asked down the line.
What should he do? Panos’ instincts were to head into the airport again and get his private jet to take him to Kos. But Elpida’s voice was in his ear and there was that squirming in his gut that was telling him even his presence in Kos wasn’t going to win this deal back. Asp had been uncertain from the very beginning, as had the tenants of the properties. He thought he’d done enough to convince them his way was the only logical conclusion, but he was also astute enough to know community relationships were still held in high regard. The tight-knit village had obviously closed ranks. He looked across at the hire car parking lot, differently coloured flags fluttering in the warm breeze. Well, those businesses might survive another summer, but when the winter came and tourists went home, the financial crisis, coupled with the influx of migrants, would just about finish them off. And when Asp came crawling back
for help he would have great pleasure in saying no. One chance was all you got with Panos Dimitriou, everyone knew that. He knew exactly what he was going to do.
‘Do nothing, Manilos,’ he stated. ‘Let it go.’
‘Let it go?’ Manilos repeated like he was speaking another language.
‘That’s what I said.’
‘But—’
‘You cannot win them all, my friend,’ Panos stated. He didn’t believe this. But Kos was one thing, he was damned if he was going to let it happen with Corfu. He wasn’t going by cab. He was going to hire a car. Because he didn’t care how long it took, he wasn’t just going to get the family restaurant back, he was going to own the whole strip.
9
En route to Acharavi, Corfu
Imogen might have studied the guidebook on the flight but perhaps she should have looked closer at the map or, to narrow it down a little further, the geography. Corfu was a lot more mountainous than she’d realised and the roads left a lot to be desired. Despite his previous holidays, Harry was doing a pitiful job at navigating and it had been up to her to traverse the terrain in a Nissan Micra that sounded like it was going to expire at any second. And now, as they crawled around another hairpin bend, she felt a bit sick. The only thing that was lightening her mood was the beauty outside. Judas trees covered in candyfloss-pink blossom swayed on each side of the ravine.
‘I think I’m going to have to pull over,’ she said as all colour faded from her face.
‘We’re almost there,’ Harry answered, shaking the phone showing the sat-nav and bending his head to stare at it in greater detail.
‘You said that twenty minutes ago, Harry.’ She was feeling hot now and she pressed a button to open the window.
‘Don’t do that. We’ll turn the air-conditioning up.’ Harry reached forward to the grey plastic dials on the dashboard.
‘I thought you said it burns fuel like a Chinese lantern scalds gazebos.’
‘But if you’re hot—’
‘I want this to be over.’ She swallowed, gripping the steering wheel to negotiate another death-defying curve in the road.
‘Really?’ Harry turned his head to look out of the passenger window. ‘I’ve been enjoying the scenery.’ He filled his chest with a breath as if he was sucking in fresh air rather than the air-conditioning. ‘It’s just like I remember it. So green… and beautiful.’
Imogen dared to shift her eyes from the grey concrete road to the flora and fauna surrounding them. Tall pines pillared up from the rugged drops to their left and right, bushes budded with vibrant flowers of purple and yellow and gnarly olive trees had black netting at their roots waiting for their fruit to fall. Her gaze went further, a few hundred feet below and ahead, to the azure sea, flat, still, a length of taupe beach in front of it. For once Harry was right. It was a landscape to behold. If she forgot about the restaurant element she could relax enough to imagine cooling cocktails and fruit sweeter, fresher and juicier than anything you could get your hands on back home.
‘We’re really not far,’ Harry stated, his voice bringing Imogen back to the task at hand. ‘It’s just past Roda, which should be the next place we come to. I don’t know why Google Maps isn’t talking to me.’
Google Maps probably felt the same way Imogen did. She focussed back on the road as the terrain began to flatten out a little. She sucked in a breath. She needed to give Harry a chance and stop panicking before she really knew what she was dealing with. It might not be as bad as everyone thought.
* * *
‘Take a left here,’ Harry said.
‘Are you sure?’ Imogen asked, flicking on the indicator. It had been another half hour since Harry’s ‘we’re really not far’ comment. She was sticky in places she didn’t even know she had places and she was sure her left forearm was being burnt through the glass. The ‘road’ Harry was wanting her to turn down looked nothing more than an ungraded track. It was concrete – just – but there were potholes like giant black Oreos in the middle of it.
‘Are you sure, Harry?’ she repeated.
‘Yes… I think so.’
They rounded another bend and that’s when it came into view. Imogen couldn’t stop the gasp escaping her lips. Straight ahead of them, only a few metres away, was the sea. An almost indescribable turquoise blue, gently stretching away from a sand and white-pebbled beach.
‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ Harry said, his words wrapped up with emotion as the car rolled to a stop.
Imogen couldn’t disagree. It was like an oasis after the tortuous drive, a sliver of peace and tranquillity laid down before them. A mosquito landing on her arm brought her out of her thoughts and she shook her wrist before it could settle and bite.
‘How far is the restaurant, Harry?’ She eased the car forward.
‘Turn right here,’ he replied as Imogen turned the steering wheel in accordance with his instructions. ‘And it’s just… here.’
Imogen pulled the car up and turned off the engine, her eyes going to the property on their right. She swallowed. The weeds hit her first. Spiky, evil-looking green fronds protruded from the perimeter of the building and she had to squint and focus hard to even see the rest of the property. Remnants of chairs and tables stood outside, broken and upturned, under what must have been a pergola in years gone by. Dark, withered vines hung from the metal construction that was nothing more than rust and neglect.
Harry had got out of the car and he stepped up into the outside eating area that resembled the scene of an IED blast. The building looked ripe for demolition and, although Harry was fond of DIY SOS, she wasn’t sure either of them had the skills to even know where to begin.
‘Come on, Immy! Come and look!’
But then again. Harry was projecting more enthusiasm than Mary Berry over millefeuilles. Imogen opened the door and stepped out of the car, her feet crunching on the stones at the edge of the beach. Maybe this was what had really seduced her brother. She breathed in hard, letting the salt water and driftwood scent invade her body as she looked out to sea. She might have been bewitched looking at photos of this. The sound of the water rushing over the fine shingle on the sand, the light breeze whipping past her ears, the hot sun warming her skin and that view – the endless azure blue running up to the mountains the guidebook had told her was Albania.
‘Immy! Come on!’ Harry called again.
She moved onto the square of concrete covered in twines of greenery that shouldn’t have been there. It was like Sleeping Beauty’s castle, except the castle was a two-storey stucco skeleton of a building, and there was no dashing prince. And there was the pièce de résistance: those two broken windows that made up the entire frontage, meaning unrestricted access to any would-be robber, if adequately equipped with super-strength weed-killer. Just how long had this place been abandoned? She wondered how much of the inside her brother had seen before he signed on the virtual dotted line.
Harry held up a terracotta pot. ‘I’ve got the key!’
Great! Broken panes of glass and the key kept under a pot right outside.
Imogen took a deep breath and batted a flying beetle away from her face. She had to think positive. The inside couldn’t possibly be as bleak as the outside, could it?
10
Elpida Dimitriou’s home, Agios Martinos, Corfu
Panos had hired the most expensive car the company at the airport had at its disposal. The sleek, black Mercedes circled around the familiar twists and turns of his island like it was following a path ingrained in its make-up. From its secret coves and beaches to the rugged terrain en route to the highest peak of Pantokrator and all the remote tracks, farmland, olive groves and fruit orchards in between – Corfu was a jewel. He sighed, turning the vehicle around another bend towards Agios Martinos. He remembered every stretch of this particular road. The dense trees either side of the highway – pines, bush scrub, twisted and warped olives – the purple geraniums and lupins, the tiny yellow flowered crosswort.
He
slowed the car down as it rounded the final loop then pulled it to a stop. He let his breath fill up his lungs as he gazed into the thicket just in front of him. It was still there. The same fraying blue rope, haphazardly tied around a branch of what his grandmother had always said was the oldest olive tree in Agios Martinos. Below the rope was a splintered plank of wood, a swing, shifting gently with the heat. How many hours had he spent here? His legs shooting up into the air, touching the higher boughs of the tree, body prostrate, back arching, working to send the swing as high into orbit as possible. He could almost feel the wind through his hair now as he pictured the scene, the warmth of the sun on his face and laughter. Him, his cousin Risto, and children from the village. His eyes went further up the tree, midway on the trunk, and he smiled. Their treehouse, the rough wooden shelter that had kept them from the heat, sheltered them from thunder and provided the perfect hiding place when chores needed to be done. They’d played cards for drachma and sent toy cars speeding off the platform into the wood below. His father had built the treehouse. Visions of the lithe man, hanging from the tree, nailing planks of wood together, planing rough sections with his hands, asking Panos to pass him screwdrivers, rope, a spirit level. Simple pleasures. Time and love spent creating the hideout.
Instantly the happiness fell away. Panos swallowed. He knew he wasn’t the only teenager in the world to have had to cope with a marriage breakdown. But when it had ended in his father’s death rather than a divorce it was like God had run in and grabbed everything all at once. His mother’s happiness. Their money to get by. Their home. His father. Again, his mother came to mind. Her endless nights of tears, his inability to provide consolation, his father’s harsh words to everyone. He shook himself. He hadn’t come here to rake over old ground but to show the island that the Dimitriou name meant success again. His father may have failed to adapt to modern business but he had learned to thrive on the pace, the invigorating ruthlessness of it all. He restarted the engine and continued up the steep hill until the house came into view.