How Greek Is Your Love

by Marjory McGinn

  “Of course, I appreciate everyone has worried about me, but I do hope it doesn’t mean I’ll be called into the cop shop to explain myself.”

  Angus sniggered. “I wouldn’t think so. The cops don’t do much in the Mani. They think we’re all cowboys here and they won’t waste their time trying to find you. Trust me on that!”

  “Charming!” she drawled.

  Angus shrugged.

  “Honestly, I haven’t disappeared, as you put it. Every time I come to Greece I go off on little jaunts. My agent knows that.”

  “Sorry, but that’s not the impression I got,” I said.

  “Well, next time Julia calls, could you perhaps tell her I’m having a little holiday down here, but don’t be specific. I’ll call her when I can. There’s usually no phone signal up here. But, honestly, can’t a woman disappear for a while without other people causing an uproar?”

  Angus and I looked at each other, stunned, that it was we who were made to feel inconsiderate, instead of the other way around. I had a sense then, as I had on our first meeting, that beneath the charming, careful exterior, Eve Peregrine was a self-absorbed little minx. And while I quite liked her, or at least had after our interview, when she relaxed and we’d shared a few wines, I suddenly had little sympathy for her, or her writer’s constipation.

  “Tell me one thing, Bronte. I’m curious. Why did you think to come here of all places looking for me – twice?”

  “Don’t you remember how you showed me the black and white prints in your house and explained them? How you raved about the Mesa Mani: Cape Tainaron, Porto Kayio, this place? I assumed you might be down here somewhere.”

  “I must say I’m impressed you took so much notice of my décor, the prints etcetera, and I don’t mean that to be as sarcastic as it sounds.” She smiled, showing her straight white teeth and small dimples at the sides of her lips.

  “I really thought you were leaving me clues, if you like, before you disappeared, so we’d know where you were.”

  “That’s bizarre! Why would I do that?” she said, smoothing a wisp of hair behind her ear.

  “No idea, but it seemed as if you left a few here and there.”

  “Like what?” she said, her eyes saucer-like with curiosity.

  I glanced at Angus. He looked puzzled, like someone lost in a maze with no idea where the exit was. I was beginning to feel the same.

  “Well … you left one of your books at the temple of Poseidon, on the old altar.”

  She laughed. “Ah, I can see how you may have thought that was a clue, and I had been there recently. But I left the book there as a votive offering to the god Poseidon, thinking he might work a little magic with my latest opus.”

  Votive offering! I glanced at Angus. He had a tense, funny look, like someone trying to hold back an outburst of giggling. I didn’t have the heart to tell her I’d lifted the book and it was on my ‘to be read’ pile. She had no chance with old Poseidon.

  “And you left another book with the waiter at a taverna in Porto Kayio.”

  “Ah, well that’s easy to explain. I go there a lot and I leave old books of mine on their bookcase. Everyone does – you know, for other tourists to read. It helps spread the word, too.”

  “So you weren’t leaving us clues?” I said, feeling a bit ridiculous now.

  “No, I don’t believe I was, but it’s an intriguing idea. Unless I was doing it unconsciously. I can see it in a plot sometime though. But full marks to you, Bronte, for working out I was in Vathia at least,” she said.

  “As well as the ‘clues’, I also heard the typewriter noise the first time we were here, though unfortunately I didn’t realise exactly what it was until we were back home. But it confirmed the fact you were here.”

  “Bronte’s not a journalist for nothing,” said Angus, with a proprietorial lift of his chin that I found endearing.

  “Indeed,” Peregrine said, giving Angus a sobering look. “This is all very interesting, but I didn’t want to be found at all. I was looking for some solitude so I could get on with my novel. The thing is with this tower, in this remote part of the Mani, there’s no landline phone, no wifi, and no mobile phone reception. I have to use a manual typewriter, that’s true, but it’s like another world here. Total isolation. It’s bliss. I don’t get harangued by my publisher or agent. Or anyone …. no offence, Bronte. And normally my agent doesn’t get this hysterical when I go off on a little trip. I don’t know what’s got into her.”

  But we all knew.

  “So how is the novel going?”

  “Oh … coming along just fine,” she said, her eyes flickering sideways. I knew she was lying.

  “I’m sorry we’re disturbing you then. But there’s something else I wanted to talk to you about. It’s a story for the London Daily Messenger again, something different.”

  She took a while to respond. Then her lips went lemony. “So my welfare wasn’t the only motivation for this dash down the Mani?”

  “Yes, it was, the first time we were here.”

  She gave me a long, searching look and finished the rest of her coffee before replying, “Why do I have the feeling, Bronte, you’re probably here because of Douglas Markham, now he’s been sentenced. Am I right?”

  “Yes. But how did you know that’s just happened? No internet, right?”

  “I do have to go out occasionally to buy food. And I was in a café the other day, taking a break from writing and using their wifi, and I read a news report about Markham’s sentencing.”

  “Look, you can say no if you like but the Messenger just wanted a few quotes from you about Markham for a feature they’re running. That’s if you feel like talking.” And I imagined she didn’t.

  She was playing with her rings, twisting them about.

  “Six months in prison,” she said, without looking up. “So it will be open slather with stories for a while.”

  “I imagine, yes. People have certain expectations of politicians and it’s only right to let the public know what kind of man he really is. That’s where you come in.”

  “Oh yes, public interest and all that. How worthy!” she said sarcastically. More ring fiddling and silence.

  My eyes flicked towards Angus. One of his eyebrows twitched almost imperceptibly but it was amazing to me how I could read it exactly. I don’t know how he mastered that subtle brow-comment but I knew what he was thinking at that moment, just as I was. She’s about to bottle out.

  But then she surprised both of us.

  “Well, since you’ve chased me all about the Mani, I suppose I can give you something. If I don’t talk to you, someone else will try to corner me anyway,” she grizzled. “Let’s go up to the sitting room, it’s more comfortable, and get this done as quickly as we can.”

  She took the coffee cups to the sink and while her back was turned Angus jerked his thumb towards the door.

  “If you don’t mind, Bronte,” said Angus, “I’ll let you both have some time to yourselves. I’ll take the dog and explore for a bit round here. What if I come back in say … an hour, that should …”?

  Peregrine cut him off. “Yes, more than enough time.”

  Angus got up and Zeffy bolted for the door ahead of him. I sensed he hadn’t liked the tower’s atmosphere and had sat by the wall with a sulky face. After the pair had gone, Peregrine led the way up the first of the series of steep wooden staircases that connected four floors. They were no more than stout wooden ladders with broad ‘treads’, set close to the stonework, with thin wooden handrails attached to the wall.

  The two floors above were bedrooms, with the sitting room at the top, a minimalist but a pleasant space with Ottoman-style boxed-in seating covered in long padded cushions and more embroidered cushions for backrests. The views from the small windows were stunning, right down to the gulf over the olive groves.

  There was a small wooden table wedged in front of one window. The manual typewriter was there, with a sheath of plain paper beside it. I glanced quickl
y at the page in the typewriter and saw nothing but a few short paragraphs at the top. Not a great output, I thought. When I recalled the sound of her typing, it now seemed fetching: the lonely writer in her tower fighting with a damnable block, distracted by an award-winning view. And a Maniot tower at that, the kind of stronghold where rebel householders a few centuries ago could scope out interlopers for miles around and then either shoot them or toss a vat of boiling oil over their heads when they arrived. I imagined in the past week or so, Peregrine must have been mindful of the village’s violent struggles, though I got the sense that in this room there was more writerly hysteria rather than history going on.

  “I can see the appeal of the tower. It’s rather, em …”

  “Monastic?” she offered.

  “You could say that.”

  “How did you find it?”

  “The landlord lives in Athens. He’s a lawyer. He also has a house in London, which is how I know him. He comes to Vathia maybe once a year. Rents it out sometimes. He rents it out to me whenever I want it. I collect a key from a friend down by the coast. I leave money for him. It’s all very easy. I never tell anyone I’m here. It’s my secret tower.”

  I smiled as I recalled Angus’s earlier reference to Rapunzel. It suited her perfectly. But I still sensed there was a bit more to all this than she was letting on.

  “So, let’s talk about Markham,” she said, reaching up and unpinning her hair, letting it dangle around her shoulders; charmingly messy. She seemed more relaxed now. “You thought I’d spit the dummy over an interview on Markham … is that right?

  “Not really,” I lied. I opened my notebook.

  “Well, I’m not thrilled exactly to be talking about him, but since you’ve come all the way down here ... I don’t want to be churlish. As for Markham, I don’t care a fig about him and I don’t owe him any favours at all. He’s got exactly what he deserves. So, what do you want to know?”

  “Tell me what he’s really like. And did you ever think he was capable of sexual assault?”

  She sniffed a little when she said, “I’m afraid that Douglas has always had a problem with women. He’s a danger to women in every way, actually. He was devastatingly handsome when I first met him, when he was a young backbencher in politics. He was very ambitious, driven, conceited, all that. We had a serious relationship for about two years. That was all. He’d just come out of a difficult marriage and I was single and I’ve never married, as you will know. We were quite the glamorous couple of our day; he a politician and I a successful actress. There were always photos of us in the papers, magazines, at various events. It was all quite thrilling. And we were in love. Well I was, at least. You could never be sure with Douglas because while he seemed ardent, he still managed to squeeze in a few affairs. It never came out till later.

  “But the truth is, deep down, I never really trusted him. If an attractive woman roamed into his sphere, he couldn’t keep his hands to himself, so the current mess he’s in is no surprise to me. What surprises me is that for someone as ambitious as he is, and smart, he’d let these urges ruin his life. It’s almost like a sex addiction. And he was good in bed, as you might imagine – virile, athletic,” she said, with a lascivious glimmer in her eyes. “He may even have been up to much more than everyone realises. Back then, it was easier for sexual predators to cover their tracks, and women were less forthright than now.”

  I scribbled away. This was better than I’d hoped for. It occurred to me that meeting Markham must have been serendipitous for someone who secretly yearned to be a novelist one day. He must have provided a rich seam of discord and character flaws for her to plunder, not to mention the steamy sex. I was sure most of the male characters in her novels were a colourful pastiche of him.

  “I read all the stuff about the sexual assault on the young parliamentary worker. Okay, it wasn’t actually rape but it was close enough; a lot of shabby stuff, you know, pushing her around, groping her breasts, a hand up the skirt, all that, on more than one occasion, it appears. It’s pitiful for someone of his intellect. I think he really needs help with this and he needs to sort out his drinking as well. He always drank too much, and one thing leads to another. And I believe the drink problem has only got worse.”

  She stopped a moment, leaning back into the cushions. Her cheeks had coloured slightly and I had the strong impression it was from the unexpected pleasure at being about to talk about the virile bad boy of her younger life and to get even with him at the same time, as their relationship had allegedly ended with great acrimony. Without much prompting she continued on for another 10 minutes or so, talking about some of his more memorable indiscretions, some of which had not been exposed before. All in all, I had more than enough material. I glanced at my watch. Angus would be back soon.

  “Thanks for talking about this, Eve, and sorry for intruding on your …”

  “Creative endeavours,” she cut in, with a strangely sardonic smile, which only confirmed there was little flowing out of the typewriter on the table.

  “Oh well. You’re a fellow Grecophile and neighbour. What can I do?” she said with a smile that finally seemed warm. “Let’s wait downstairs for your father. We’ll need time anyway to negotiate the ladders.”

  I noticed on the wall of the sitting room another black and white picture, but this time it seemed to be the tower in a former crumbling state, with holes in the walls and shutters hanging off at jaunty angles.

  “That’s how it looked before Konstantinos renovated it about 10 years ago. It’s an old family property. Wonderful to inherit this, isn’t it?”

  I nodded and thought that inheriting such a monolith of history would be great – but not all the torment that went with it. On the wall there was also an old rifle, which Peregrine told me dated from the 1820s, the period of the Greek War of Independence.

  “Konstantinos found this behind one of the walls when he was renovating, along with a cache of weapons. The Maniots were always fighting,” she said, laughing.

  While we waited in the kitchen for Angus to return, chatting about nothing in particular, I warmed to her a tiny bit more despite the fuss she’d caused over her ‘disappearance’, which she denied was any kind of a faff. “Sometimes the world needs to cut you some slack. That’s all I can say”, was her defence. I did feel she could have been more contrite about worrying everyone, especially her agent. Perhaps she didn’t do contrition but I couldn’t leave without a dig at her least favourite subject.

  I waited until her back was turned and she was tidying the kitchen.

  “So, any idea yet when your book might now be finished?”

  A few heartbeats of silence and then she said, addressing the wall, “No, Bronte. And, really, I hate it when people keep asking. It will be finished when it’s finished.” Then she turned and gave me a dazzling smile. A top performance.

  Angus rapped on the front door and I was keen to leave now. She said goodbye as she saw me out and the heavy door boomed behind me.

  As Angus and I trudged along the pathway back to the car, I made him stop for a few moments just to see if the typewriter noise would start up again, but there was nothing, only the noise of wind fingering shutters and loose doors.

  “So, did she spill any beans?”

  “Yes! Good stuff, actually; some cracking quotes. So, mission accomplished.”

  “Was she nippy about it though?”

  “Not really. The only thing that makes her nippy is any mention of that damned book. She’s been holed up in that tower and the book’s still in a rut.”

  “Maybe it’s not about the book. Maybe it’s some other personal U-bend she’s stuck in,” Angus said.

  “Could be, and the disappearing trick wasn’t a call for help after all, was it?” I said, laughing. “So much for my mad theory about her leaving signs all over the place. And contrary to what her agent said, she wasn’t running away from having to talk about Douglas Markham. Sheesh, she seemed to be gagging to talk about him!”
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  “Revenge is sweet, pet,” Angus said.

  I nodded in agreement.

  At least some of my other outlandish theories had been ground to dust: her being kidnapped, murdered, or abducted by aliens. Finding her had been a good result though. Depending on how long she hid out in the tower, I’d probably not see her again before she returned to London.

  But Eve Peregrine and I were fated to be stuck together for a while, like the honeyed layers in a Greek baklava sweet, the one with the crushed nuts. Oh yes, there would be nuts!

  Chapter 13

  Sweet waters run deep

  “There’s one thing I wanted to ask Eve and forgot. How does she get around here when there’s no car parked nearby and it’s miles to the sea?” I said as Angus drove away from Vathia.

  “I know,” he said with a wink. “The lean-to shed beside the tower? I explored a bit when I left you two, and behind the shed, guess what, she’s got a very nice red scooter parked there. She must have driven it down from her villa, or she’s parked her car by the coast and maybe hires the scooter. All a bit crazy, but everything is a bit doolally with her, isn’t it?”

  “You didn’t like her, did you?”

  “Well, she’s good-looking and glamorous, like she was on the telly. Great to meet a TV star and all that, but she’s a bit self-absorbed for my liking, and tense. Jeez! She’s as tense as a sack full of overwound clocks.”

  I laughed. Angus had a skewed slant on life but he amused me when I always needed it. “You’re right there. And she’s certainly had a few wild strops with journalists over the years, so I’m dead lucky, I guess.”

  We lapsed into weary silence for a while. Zeffy was sleeping on the back seat. His legs were twitching. Dreaming of some spirited flight from trouble? From the creep? And that’s when I thought about the village of Glika Nera again.

  “You know how last time we were here, I wanted you to go to Glika Nera to scope out the creep on the scooter?”