by Mandy Baggot
Imogen understood. This was the same shock she’d gone through. And Janie wasn’t here. Janie was back in the UK. Far away and panicking.
‘Tell me, are those windows still broken? Or haven’t you been able to get to them because of that hedge of weeds?’ Janie let out a breath. ‘I feel sick at the thought of you being there, going through all this with Harry… If it wasn’t for the children I…’
‘It’s OK,’ Imogen said, her eyes on two birds pecking at the sand about a metre away from her.
‘It’s bloody not though, is it? And what is he doing there while you’re trying to persuade him to give it up and come home?’
‘Janie…’ She braced herself. ‘It actually isn’t as bad as we thought.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, Harry and I, we’ve been working on the restaurant since we got here. And it’s clean now, with some lovely traditional features…’
‘Are you still there?’ Janie checked. ‘I thought you said something about traditional features rather than bag packing.’
‘Listen, I know we all thought Harry had jumped into something bad but Janie, I’m not sure he has.’ She looked back out to sea, the water so inviting, almost calling to her to come back in. ‘Harry’s so happy here and… I checked this morning. He’s taking his medication.’
‘Oh, thank God for that. I had visions of him there, steam coming out of his ears, writing shopping lists and ordering menus and… what about the new furniture he bought online? Have you managed to cancel it?’
Cancelling an order the restaurant now badly needed wasn’t on her priority list any more. After her talk with Harry last night, surrounded by the scent of sardines and squid, her priority was re-learning how to cook gourmet Greek food.
‘Did you hear what I said, Janie?’ Imogen asked. ‘Harry’s really happy and he’s working ever so hard.’
‘But it’s a fad, isn’t it? Like the sandwich van and the club for fans of Castle he told Tristan he was setting up.’
‘No, it isn’t like that. I promise.’ Imogen rested her eyes on the cerulean water. ‘He’s committed to this project. More committed than I’ve seen him before.’
There was silence from the other end of the phone until… ‘Really?’
‘Yes, Janie, really.’
‘Well, I hope you’re right because he’s been going for it with the kids. It’s been excited emoji after excited emoji – the cake one and the chicken leg one – and hundreds and hundreds of cat faces with hearts for eyes!’ Janie finally drew breath. ‘He’s building them up with talk of them coming over in the summer holidays and… I don’t know what to say.’
‘He is excited,’ Imogen admitted. ‘All the time.’
‘Well, that isn’t natural. No one is excited all the bloody time unless there’s something wrong with them.’
‘Janie, he’s really, truly the most happy I’ve seen him since the accident.’
She knew Janie was concerned about the children. She didn’t want them being promised things that might not happen. And she understood that. But what Harry really needed was a little faith.
‘I want him to be happy, of course I do. But I’d rather it was here, not in Greece doing something he isn’t equipped for.’ Janie paused. ‘You agree, Imogen, don’t you?’
The birds pecking in the sand in front of her were starting to fight with each other over a sandworm. She let out a breath.
‘Janie, I’m going to call you back,’ Imogen said, getting to her feet.
‘What? Why? What’s going on?’
‘I’m going to call Mum. Speak soon!’ She didn’t give Janie a chance to say anything else. About to get up, her phone bleeped at the arrival of an email. She settled back down on the sand. Pressing into her inbox she saw the message. It was from the Wyatt Hotel Group. Her mouth dried up and her heart began racing as she pressed on the bold type. An automated reply. They were thanking her for her application but due to the number of applicants it would take some time to review them all individually. She swallowed. That was good, wasn’t it? It wasn’t an out-and-out rejection. They were looking at her. She was still in with a chance.
She put the phone in her bag and, brushing the sand from her clothes, she got up, heading back up the beach towards the restaurant.
27
Halloumi, Acharavi Beachfront
Imogen had picked up a flagon of bottled water from Spiros the shopkeeper and heard a couple of ladies chatting in Greek, the only recognisable words being ‘Tomas’ Taverna’. When she had asked Spiros about this he had said Tomas was retiring and the restaurant was going to be closing. Less competition for Harry’s restaurant – she couldn’t bring herself to call it Halloumi yet – had to be a good thing. She almost felt excited along with nervous. She would throw herself into this project with Harry and hopefully it would take her mind off the the Wyatt Group email.
She’d practically bounced back up the terrace, the Corfu heat on her body, heading for the kitchen and the Greek recipes she’d perused online. She would make a list of the core ingredients they needed for the store cupboard and refresh herself with the dishes Harry had liked the sound of when they’d discussed it. As she beat up eggs, chopped aubergine, tomatoes and cheese, adding in a pinch of salt and pepper, and throwing in small pieces of a basil plant she’d found in a pot at the back of the restaurant she started to feel the anxiety lift from her shoulders. This could really, actually work.
For the saganaki she just needed to coat Greek cheese in flour and fry it in olive oil. It wasn’t Jean-Christophe Novelli standard yet but it was a start. Her first flavours of Greece in Greece.
Her eyes went to the window that looked out over the side aspect of the property. There was sea and sand from every viewpoint in this place. Mixing up the omelette ingredients and breathing in, she caught sight of Tomas’ Taverna and beyond, hanging baskets of flowers and terracotta urns spilling with colour.
‘Kalimera, Imogen.’
IImogen turned from her beating to greet the woman as she came in.
‘Kalimera, Elpida.’
‘You are making!’ the Greek woman exclaimed.
‘Just some omelettes and a saganaki for lunch.’
‘It smells wonderful.’ Elpida came closer, lowering her nose over the bowl and inhaling hard.
Imogen smiled at her enthusiasm and turned on the cast-iron pan on the hob.
‘Imogen, I must apologise,’ Elpida said, bending down and lifting up two large sacks to the countertop. ‘For Pano and Risto and the offer for the restaurant at a dinner party I invite you to. Pfft!’
Her mind went instantly to Panos, not to the part where he had insisted it was only a matter of time before he got his hands on the restaurant, but to the bit where her body had been melded to his in the humid night outside Elpida’s home. She swallowed and gave the eggy mixture an extra harsh flick with the fork.
‘Panos is very keen to buy the restaurant back,’ Imogen said. ‘When we came home last night he had pushed his business card through the door.’
Elpida began to pat the front of her dress, her forehead creasing. ‘Where are my cigarettes? That boy will kill me! I am smoking more now he is home than when he is not.’
‘But Harry likes Risto,’ Imogen said. ‘He’s spoken to him this morning, sorted things out. We want him to keep helping us, but we’re going to pay him, Elpida, so there’s no confusion. Harry’s made it very clear that the restaurant isn’t for sale, so no amount of reporting back to Panos on our position is going to do any good.’
Elpida nodded, still patting her way around her body. ‘He is a good boy at heart. A hard worker.’
Imogen tipped the contents of the bowl into the pan, the mixture immediately sizzling and bubbling until she turned down the heat. Next she drizzled another pan in olive oil and began to coat slabs of cheese in flour for the saganaki.
Elpida picked up a finger of aubergine and held it like a cigarette. ‘You and your Harry, you are exactly what I d
ream for this place.’ Her eyes went around the kitchen as if she were reliving every memory. ‘The very last thing I want is for Pano to rip down the walls and put up all his metal and loud music and flashing lights.’ Elpida flexed her palms as if she were simulating strobes.
‘His what?’ Imogen questioned.
‘His monstrostitties… is that the right word? The nightclubs and racing cars. Young people who do not know any better, all drinking like sailors, all wearing little clothes,’ Elpida stated.
‘I don’t understand,’ Imogen said. A bitter, uncomfortable feeling was starting to bubble in her gut. The sputtering from the pans grew louder.
‘Pano,’ Elpida said. ‘He run Dimitriou Enterprises. He go to towns all over Greece and put in these awful places.’ She threw her arms up. ‘He is very successful, he make lots and lots of money but at what cost, huh? Where is his loyalty to the people of Greece and their traditions? Why does money have to come before everything else with him?’
Imogen felt a veil lift from her eyes, revealing crystal-clear clarity. That’s why Panos wanted the restaurant. Not to replicate Greek summer nights of old and the memories of his grandparents, bouzouki music in the air and fresh fish on the griddle. He wanted to tear it down. To destroy it. To rip up Harry’s dream and replace it with a nightclub and whatever else Elpida was talking about. She pursed her lips, not hearing the words as Elpida continued to speak of Panos’ business.
‘Where is he now?’ she asked.
‘Who? Pano?’ Elpida replied, sucking on the piece of aubergine.
‘Yes, Pano,’ she said. She lowered the heat in the pan and slipped a hand into the pocket of her shorts, her fingers touching the pointed edges of the business card.
‘I do not know,’ the woman answered. ‘He is always in meetings so I think he—’
‘He isn’t at the house?’ Her eyes searched the kitchen, looking for something.
‘No. Are you alright? You look a little flushed,’ Elpida said. ‘Is it the bites? Do you need more of my special remedy?’
‘No,’ Imogen said bluntly. ‘I… just need to pop out for something.’
28
Avalon Bar, Acharavi Beachfront
Panos had led negotiations successfully for years. It was what he did. It was all he did and it was usually as natural as drawing breath. This time, though, as he sat on a high stool at the bar of Avalon, he was nervous. He gripped his glass of ouzo and water and let his eyes roam. The bar was actually the busiest he had ever seen it. There were locals, a few he recognised, at the couple of tables closest to his seat at the bar, then the rest of the floor space was filled with families, couples, all with drinks and food. Just outside, a man was refreshing the paintwork on the wooden struts, coating it a bright white to cover the flakes of last season. Refurbishment. Renewal. It didn’t bode well for his conversation with the owner. He took a breath. But he had got hold of Tomas’ Taverna. He could lead with that. Make Lafi open to the idea of retirement like the business owner next door.
He let his eyes move to the scene through the open side of the bar that faced the beach. It was another glorious, hot day. On the sand were people lying prostrate on loungers, a couple playing bat and ball, energetic youngsters digging giant holes and making castles with buckets. All around was enjoyment, excitement, relaxation. That’s what Corfu had been to him when he was younger. A magical island full of hope and promise. The world was his oyster, he never wanted for anything, he had a loving family, a stable existence… and then the façade had crumbled.
He watched a woman and her son on a lounger on the sand. The boy of about five was having sun lotion rubbed into his shoulders. The mother’s long hair kept slipping forward, getting coated in the sun cream. Panos watched them both laughing as the woman stretched forward then proceeded to tie her hair up in a loose bunch. His mother had started tying up her hair. He swallowed, turning and directing his gaze into his drink. Another memory spiked his mind. His mother’s long red hair, brushed until it shined then left loose and flowing each day. And back then, that’s when things had changed. His father’s other women had come on the scene and his mother had given up, become resigned. His hand went around the glass, gripping it hard. But she had survived. And now she had John. Successful John.
‘Panos, I am so sorry.’ Lafi approached looking flustered. ‘It is a good time, no?’
He nodded quickly. ‘Yes, it is very good. Lots of customers.’
‘The best start to the season for a long, long time,’ Lafi said, smiling. ‘Give me one more minute.’
Joy was written all over the owner’s face. Panos felt a stab of guilt, but only for a moment. Lafi would be better off without this taverna. Being so busy wasn’t typical. He drew a breath in as Lafi deposited plates full of Greek meze to a table of customers. He took a swig of the ouzo. His heart was pumping. Elpida’s face this morning came to mind. Disappointment. Sadness.
The slam of a car door drew his attention to the road in front of the beach. A small grey vehicle had pulled up outside and its occupant was getting out, her eyes scanning everything in front of her. Imogen. Dressed in those cut-off jeans and a salmon-coloured t-shirt, her hair a tangle of blonde tendrils, he couldn’t help but look. She marched up the road, her head turning to the beach, then back again to the bars along the beachfront. It was like she was looking for something… or someone. He shook his head. It wouldn’t be him. She had made it quite clear of her stance on the restaurant. With eyes burning with resistance she had made her point so severely he had wondered just how badly her husband had treated her. Not that her personal life was any of his business.
Panos turned his attention back to Lafi, who was now balancing platters up his entire forearm and heading for a table at the front of the bar. Busy wasn’t necessarily a good thing at Lafi’s time of life. He finished his drink and cleared his throat, unbuttoning the top button on his shirt and looking out at the sea. And then Imogen was there, right outside Avalon, her eyes on his Mercedes. He watched her dip her head, trying to look from the bright light outside into the shade of the bar. It took only a second for their vision to connect and he felt it hard.
* * *
There he was! Sat at a bar, the top of his shirt undone, his hair tousled, looking like he didn’t have a care in the world. She could feel her cheeks were crimson already. She raised a hand and waved first, before turning her palm towards her and beckoning him. Was he going to come? She held her breath, her eyes not leaving his as she backed up to the Nissan Micra.
He was moving. Striding with confidence, or perhaps arrogance, down the walkway between the tables.
She smiled, watching him amble off the bar’s terrace, navigating the promotional neon chalk-written blackboards outside, before his feet met the tarmac of the road.
Adrenaline and the heat meant her t-shirt was starting to cling. She kept her gaze on him as he stopped still, no more than a few inches away. She maintained her anger, determined not to become distracted. She was furious – and not attracted to him in the slightest. She swallowed, realising they were just staring at each other and she had a loud and clear message to deliver.
‘Kalimera, Mr Dimitriou,’ she greeted.
‘Kalimera, Imogen.’
‘So, I’m glad I caught up with you,’ she began, wetting her lips that felt as dry as sand.
‘You are?’ he replied.
She nodded. ‘Yes.’ She cleared her throat. When she left Halloumi she was being driven by a crimson fog, like a Spanish bull ready to do battle with the matador. Now she was feeling ever-so-slightly nervous.
She grounded her feet, hoping it would fuel her fire again. ‘I wanted to be clear about the restaurant… and your offer.’ She slipped the business card from her pocket and held it up. ‘Thank you for the calling card.’
She saw his demeanour alter a little. A flicker of something crossed his features before he had a chance to keep it in check.
‘You have thought about my offer?’ he purred.
A smile played on his lips then, his eyes matching hers as he closed the gap between them a few centimetres more. ‘This is what I was wanting to hear.’
They were now so close, if she breathed out too hard their bodies were going to become one. The thought of having Panos pressed against her again was tempting. At a very base level, he was the archetypal Greek Adonis. But underneath the obvious sex appeal was one ruthless individual who would stop at nothing to get what he wanted, Imogen knew that now.
‘I told you last night,’ she breathed. ‘That I’m very protective over my family.’
‘I understand this,’ he responded. He was looking at her closely, perhaps trying to read her expression.
She could feel the heat of his breath as he leaned ever closer. Did he think he could just blink those ridiculously long eyelashes at her and she’d swoon into his arms? Last night was one thing, today she had his number.
She broke the connection, snapping her head up and stamping her feet into the concrete. ‘Then understand this, Mr Dimitriou!’ She flicked the business card at him, watching it catch him in the chest. ‘Offering to buy the restaurant not once but twice was bad enough, and planting an employee in our midst was definitely underhand, but, to push it further with your business card is not appreciated. Give up!’ Her breath came thick and fast. ‘The restaurant is not for sale!’
He continued to stand there, cool, unaffected, just looking back at her. And then, for a nanosecond her attention was diverted to the man in overalls painting the outside of the restaurant. She watched him put down his pot and pick up a bottle of water, wiping the sweat from his brow with his forearm.
‘I can have the papers drawn up today,’ Panos told her.
‘Read my lips. The-restaurant-is-not-for-sale.’