Those Summer Nights (Corfu, Greek Island Romance)

by Mandy Baggot

  All the way round, the little old lady chatted away in Greek and Imogen hadn’t understood a word.

  Panos was just filling a floral teapot with hot water from a brass-bottomed traditional kettle when they re-entered. Imogen stood while Mrs Pelekas moved towards the oven and began opening the door, grabbing an oven glove then pulling out a tray of biscuits.

  The woman looked to Imogen, speaking quickly.

  ‘She says you need to eat at least two of these because to her you look too thin,’ Panos translated.

  Imogen smiled. ‘Do all Greek ladies think everyone is thin? They do look lovely. What are they?’

  ‘Ergolavi,’ Panos answered. ‘Greek cookies.’

  Imogen pulled up a chair in front of the thick stone windowsill and looked out at the garden. From this position you could see right down the valley through wooded copses and Corfiot flowers, the promise of sea in the distance if she turned her head a little. The sun was hitting every section of the outside area but this room, with its thick, concrete walls, was a little piece of cool heaven.

  Mrs Pelekas manoeuvred herself into the seat next to Imogen and slid the plate of cookies to her, speaking in Greek.

  ‘Cookies and tea,’ Panos said, pouring the liquid into cups. ‘It’s Greek mountain tea.’

  ‘And how does that differ to tea that isn’t from the Greek mountains?’ Imogen asked.

  ‘It’s made from ironwort plants,’ Panos explained. ‘It has healing properties.’

  Imogen laughed. ‘It claims to have, you mean.’

  ‘It is true,’ he insisted. ‘Colds, boosting your immune system, lessening the red of your bites.’

  The hand that wasn’t holding the cookie went to her face then. She had almost forgotten she still looked like Lemmy from Motorhead. Mrs Pelekas was watching her, her eyes darting back and forth from Imogen to the cookie in her hand. She took a bite and the biscuit just melted in her mouth. A divine mix of soft dough and honey hit her taste buds.

  ‘Oh… my goodness, these are good,’ Imogen said. ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have spoken with my mouth full.’

  Panos spoke to Mrs Pelekas in Greek and she began rocking backward and forward on her seat, laughing out loud before slamming a hand down onto the table.

  ‘Tell her the biscuits are delicious,’ Imogen urged.

  * * *

  After tea, Panos started bartering for tablecloths. Mrs Pelekas had disappeared down the corridor that led to her sewing room and come back with an arm piled high with fabric. She placed the cloths down on the cleared table and picked one up, showing the design to Imogen.

  ‘She said this one has embroidered into it some of the flowers of Corfu. The flower of the fig, the anemone, honesty…’ Panos translated. ‘Love-in-a-mist.’ He cleared his throat. ‘The poppy.’

  ‘She did this all herself? It must have taken hours.’

  Panos conferred with Mrs Pelekas. ‘Months, apparently, in the winter of 2005.’ He smiled. ‘She has a good memory.’

  ‘It’s so beautiful,’ Imogen said, reaching out a hand and touching the delicate images all hand-sewn onto a cream-coloured fabric. Mrs Pelekas passed the whole cloth over to her and pulled up a second one, beginning to explain.

  ‘This one she made in memory of her husband,’ Panos spoke. ‘He was a fisherman and it’s sewn with the symbol of Corfu. It is on the island’s flag, an ancient boat with three golden oars.’

  Imogen looked at the intricate sailing boat, running a finger over the neat stitches. ‘Did he die at sea?’

  ‘Yes. I never knew him. Though yiayia always said he was a good man.’

  ‘It’s so lovely to see something made by hand,’ Imogen said. ‘Does she have any I can buy? I mean, these are too special to be sold. They must mean so much to her.’

  Panos addressed the old woman with Imogen’s question and she shook her head furiously.

  ‘She wants you to have these,’ Panos said. ‘She has twelve, all different.’

  ‘I can’t do that. They’re too nice. They should be framed on a wall not on restaurant tables.’ She touched Mrs Pelekas’ hand and spoke slowly. ‘I-can’t-take-these. They-are-too-nice… beautiful.’

  ‘Ochi,’ the woman stated forcefully.

  ‘Did that mean OK?’ Imogen asked, her eyes moving to Panos.

  ‘No. Ochi means no, she does not accept this.’

  Mrs Pelekas spoke again, her voice determined, even though Imogen could see other more sensitive emotions written on her face.

  ‘She says she does not want them to be hidden away like they have been. They need to be enjoyed. She wants you to have them. She wants to think about people having meals on them, laughing, celebrating…’ Panos broke off and said something else to the old lady. When their talk stopped Mrs Pelekas gave a nod.

  ‘The deal is done,’ Panos said, clapping his hands together. ‘We have settled on something. An old debt is about to be repaid.’

  ‘Don’t be silly! This is Harry’s restaurant. He has some funds,’ Imogen exclaimed.

  ‘Just say thank you,’ Panos suggested. ‘Say thank you, in Greek.’

  ‘Is it like “OK” meaning “no”?’

  ‘No.’ He slipped his fingers in between hers and made her look at him. ‘Efharistó.’

  ‘Efharistó,’ she repeated.

  Mrs Pelekas sat up in her chair, trying to straighten her crooked form, smiling with apparent delight at Imogen’s Greek word.

  ‘Parakaló,’ she said.

  ‘She said you’re welcome,’ Panos spoke, squeezing her hand.

  41

  Acharavi Beachfront

  Panos pulled the car to a halt on the track next to Halloumi and turned off the engine. Neither of them had spoken a word on the road back from Mrs Pelekas’ home and Imogen knew, on her side, it was because she was sensing the parting of ways. How could they possibly investigate their connection with all that was going on?

  She sat still. It was as if they were both waiting for the other to make the first move.

  ‘I should go,’ Imogen said eventually. ‘I’ve been out for hours.’ She reached for the door handle.

  ‘Wait,’ Panos said, his hand catching her arm. ‘There are boxes of kumquat liqueur and compote in the back of my car… and the tablecloths.’

  ‘I can manage,’ she said, avoiding his eyes. ‘If you just set them down outside I’ll get Harry to…’

  Before she could finish Panos slipped his hand into her hair, his fingers gently massaging her scalp, his breath warm by her ear.

  ‘Don’t… please… it isn’t fair,’ she whispered. ‘We can’t do this.’

  ‘I am not used to not getting what I want,’ Panos reminded.

  ‘Until you met me,’ Imogen countered.

  He smiled, his fingertips tip-toeing down her neck. His thumb circled the skin on her tanned shoulder. ‘But this isn’t about the restaurant, so…’

  ‘So,’ she repeated, finally meeting his eyes.

  ‘So this decision is all yours, Imogen. It is about what you want.’

  She opened her mouth to say something, when a knocking on the driver’s window disturbed them both. She shunted away from Panos, her cheeks flaming, as a beautiful olive-skinned woman stared in through the glass.

  * * *

  Panos turned his head to the window, his mouth dropping open. Rhea. It couldn’t be. He wet his lips, buying time, trying to think how to respond.

  He watched her frown, her manicured eyebrows dipping in the middle, her hand, jangling bracelets hanging from her wrist, raised to tap on the window of the car again.

  ‘Can you open the boot for me please?’ Imogen asked, opening her car door. ‘I don’t want any more of the villagers seeing us together.’

  ‘The villagers?’ he remarked.

  ‘She isn’t someone you know from the village?’ Imogen asked, her eyes going to the woman still on the other side of a pane of glass.

  ‘No,’ he replied. ‘She isn’t from the village. Imogen…
’

  ‘Please, Pano, just open the boot. Let me get my things.’

  He watched her slide her legs out of the car and stand up, smiling at the woman outside. This was a nightmare. He pulled the lever to open the back of the car then opened his door, standing up and finally closing it behind him.

  ‘Pano!’ Rhea exclaimed. ‘What are you wearing?’ She let out a laugh, her French polished nails clasped over a perfectly lipsticked mouth in coral.

  He looked down at his t-shirt and jeans, suddenly feeling unsettled. Rhea was wearing a dress fit for a dinner party with high stiletto sandals, her hair set in a perfect chignon. She could easily have just stepped off the pages of a fashion magazine. He turned his head, searching for Imogen. She had half her body in the boot of the car, attempting to haul out the boxes.

  ‘Rhea, why are you here?’ he breathed. ‘Just… give me a moment.’ He stepped towards the back of the car.

  ‘Give you a moment? I got on a plane early this morning for you, not really knowing where you were,’ Rhea stated, gesticulating. ‘I come to your family’s restaurant and the man there says he owns this now.’

  He moved around the car until he was at the boot. ‘Imogen, they are too heavy for you. Put them down.’

  ‘I can manage,’ Imogen hissed into the dark of the boot interior. ‘Why don’t you make things right with your girlfriend?’ She blinked her eyelids hard. ‘She is your girlfriend, isn’t she?’

  ‘Don’t do this,’ Panos said. ‘I can explain.’

  ‘There’s absolutely no need to do that.’

  ‘There is a need because it is not how it seems. She is not my girlfriend anymore. She never was…’

  ‘Pano!’ Rhea called.

  ‘Imogen, I did not know she was coming here,’ Panos continued. ‘We are over.’

  ‘I think it takes two believing that for it to work, unless she’s a stalker.’ Imogen lifted one of the boxes and waddled away from the car, heading towards Rhea with a smile. ‘Hello,’ she greeted. ‘I’m Imogen. My brother is probably who you spoke to. We’re opening up the restaurant soon.’

  ‘Kalispera,’ Rhea greeted. ‘You are English?’

  ‘Yes,’ Imogen replied. ‘And I truly apologise for Boris Johnson.’

  Rhea looked blank.

  ‘My brother? The blonde floppy hair?’ Imogen shook her head. ‘Sorry, bad joke.’

  Rhea smiled again and offered her hands out for the box.

  ‘Oh no, you don’t have to help, honestly, I’ve got this,’ Imogen insisted, heading down the track toward the restaurant.

  ‘Imogen… wait,’ Panos called.

  ‘Thank you for the trip to Arillas, Mr Dimitriou,’ Imogen shouted back. ‘I’ll send Harry out for the tablecloths.’

  * * *

  It wasn’t the weight of the bottles of liqueur and compote in her hands that was making her shake, it was the situation she had just been about to take control of before it was whipped out of her hands. By Panos’ girlfriend. She had had the measure of him from the very beginning. Smooth, not trustworthy, someone who manipulated situations to his advantage. And he had well and truly done that with her. Worse still, she had let him.

  ‘Immy, are you alright? Where’ve you been? I tried to call and… Let me take that.’ Harry made a grab for the box as she stepped onto the terrace. Looking up, she saw the pergola was secured, the new struts all in position.

  ‘What is it?’ Harry asked, eyes on the box.

  ‘It’s something that’s going to complement your pudding menu like nothing else,’ she said.

  ‘Hello, Auntie Imogen! We’ve had ice cream.’

  Imogen froze. Both Tristan and Olivia appeared from the restaurant building, ice cream around their grinning mouths.

  ‘We went for a ride in the fish van and there was a goat,’ Olivia added.

  Harry put the box on one of the tables. ‘I’m not sure it was the one that visited last night. This one had a white ear, didn’t it, kids?’

  ‘Harry… what’s going on… is Janie…’ Imogen started.

  ‘Hello, Imogen,’ Janie greeted.

  ‘You’re here! Gosh! You’re really here!’ She wanted to kiss her sister-in-law right now.

  ‘Good old EasyJet,’ Janie spoke, a tentative smile on her lips. ‘Managed to get a last-minute flight and they didn’t even flinch when Tristan was sick in the aisle.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ Panos’ voice called. ‘Where would you like me to put these?’

  What was he doing here? She turned her head briefly, ready to dismiss him, but Harry beat her to it.

  ‘Hello, Panos. Let me take this stuff that’s going to transform my menu,’ Harry said jovially. ‘What is it anyway?’

  ‘Kumquat compote and liqueur. It is an island speciality. Sweet, syrupy, heaven for your tongue,’ Panos said, his eyes fixing on Imogen.

  Her stomach was off again, prancing and dancing like an accomplished Lipizzan horse from the Spanish Riding School. Heaven for your tongue was a timely reminder of what they had shared with each other that day. She lurched but she directed her gaze behind Panos, searching for the woman he was attached to, the girlfriend he had been cheating on… with her.

  ‘Can we have some, Dad?’ Tristan asked. ‘I’ve never had kumquats before. Can you get them in Tesco?’

  Harry laughed. ‘Panos, these are my children. Tristan and Olivia. Kids, say hello to Mr Dimitriou.’

  ‘I’m sure Mr Dimitriou has lots of important business to attend to and no time to waste,’ Imogen interrupted. She stepped toward Panos and pulled the bag of tablecloths out from under his arm in one swift action. ‘Mr Dimitriou is building a nightclub just next door, children.’

  ‘Hello,’ Olivia greeted politely. ‘Are you Greek?’

  ‘He’s from Corfu,’ Tristan interjected.

  ‘That is Greece, dummy,’ Olivia snapped back.

  Panos smiled at the children. ‘Corfu is the best part of Greece in my opinion.’ He held his hand out for a high-five to which both of the children obliged. ‘It is nice to meet you.’

  ‘I’m Janie,’ Janie said, quickstepping forward, her hand held out. ‘Harry’s wife.’

  ‘It is nice to meet you.’ He shook Janie’s hand.

  ‘You too,’ Janie replied. ‘Hopefully, being a local, you can direct us to a decent hotel, because I’ve just discovered there are no beds here.’ She breathed in and delivered a slightly strained laugh. ‘No beds!’ Her eyes went to Imogen. ‘You never told me there wasn’t even a bed here!’

  Imogen swallowed. She had been focussing on the good things. The sea and the progress on the downstairs room. It was sparkling, the furniture was almost all sanded down and re-varnished, the walls were freshly painted… They were usually so exhausted they fell asleep before they even thought about it not being on a bed.

  ‘I want to sleep on the beach,’ Tristan exclaimed. ‘Even at Scout camp we didn’t sleep on the beach.’

  ‘Please,’ Panos interrupted. ‘I can get some beds for you.’

  ‘No, you can’t,’ Imogen snapped, her head whipping up. ‘We’re fine. We don’t want any beds.’

  In protest at her statement her back contracted. But she was damned if she was going to accept something else from Panos. All the absolute joy she had experienced at the Arillas’ community market was evaporating faster than a puddle in the heat of a July day. It was like the whole afternoon had never happened.

  ‘Imogen,’ Harry started. ‘Come on, we definitely do need beds. I haven’t been able to find anywhere that doesn’t have a delay of eight weeks. If Panos has contacts, then…’

  ‘Sure,’ Panos answered. ‘It is no problem. I will make a call.’

  ‘No… you won’t,’ Imogen blasted.

  All eyes were now on her. Olivia and Tristan were looking at her so hard, their mouths ajar like hungry chicks waiting for worms. She had to remember this wasn’t about her, this was about soldering the family back together. It was time to swallow her pride.

 
; ‘OK!’ Imogen huffed. ‘Get the beds.’ She held her head high. ‘But we’re paying for them. We’re not anyone’s charity case.’

  She held Panos’ gaze as Olivia and Tristan began cheering, running around the room like heat-seeking missiles in a quest to lock onto a target.

  Her barriers were up and fastened securely. Singleville was the safest place to reside and from now on that’s where she was going to be living. Not even ebony eyes and a body like Ironman’s was going to break down her defences.

  42

  Avalon Bar, Acharavi

  Panos cradled the short glass of cream-coloured liquid in his hands and looked out from the terrace onto the beach. It was his second glass of ouzo and water and he was seriously considering a third without dilution.

  The heat was just starting to subside as early evening came and loungers that had been full of sun worshippers were now empty as prime tanning time came to an end. He liked this time of the day. The sky was still clear but the sun strength was less oppressive. There was air to breathe and a view of the mountains unobstructed by reclining tourists.

  ‘… so I packed a case and I came to you. To support you like I know you want me to but, well, you are too stubborn to ask.’ Rhea toyed with the olive on a stick in her Martini glass.

  She had been talking for the past five minutes, since he had departed Halloumi and joined her where he had left her. He had called in a favour and five single beds were going to be delivered to the restaurant before sunset. Despite Imogen’s best attempts at a front, he knew she was wounded by Rhea’s appearance. And she had every right to be. In addition, she only knew how he had been with her. Manipulative, fast, hungry, like he was looking for a quick release. Only these actions had been different this time, felt different. The intensity had been emotional as well as physical. He had started to open up to Imogen, becoming more open than he had ever been. How ironic when they were on completely opposing paths.