Under a Greek Spell

by Simone Hubbard

  ‘Yes, I come when I can. It is even harder now I work at the Boutique Blue, but there is service at night as well so that helps.’

  I turn round and spot a mixed bouquet of roses and gypsophila in a vase by the altar that stops me dead in my tracks. It’s exactly like my wedding bouquet. It knocks me for six. I feel like a knife has just been plunged into my stomach. I feel dizzy and my pulse is racing. I’m suddenly transported back to my wedding day, with all its fun and laughter. It seems surreal that my marriage is now coming to an end. I close my eyes and tears start falling down my cheeks.

  ‘Shirley, are you all right?’

  ‘Sorry, Costas. Ignore me, I’ll be fine. It’s just a difficult time for me at the moment. I’ve recently split up from my husband and it’s all a bit painful, you know?’ I reply in a whisper.

  He smiles and wipes away my tears. ‘Yes, I know, many memories, good and bad…’ He takes my hand. ‘Trust me, it will get better. Here, we both light a candle.’

  I take a deep breath and manage to wipe away the rest of my tears with a tissue that I’ve thankfully located in my bag. Costas drops a coin into the little box and picks up a couple of long, thin, tapered candles. He passes one to me. There are already two candles burning, standing upright in sand in a circular tray perched on a brass stand.

  ‘My grandparents light these this morning when they open church,’ he explains.

  I’ve watched people lighting candles before but never actually done it myself. I’m just going to follow Costas. He carefully lights his candle from one of the two lit by his grandparents earlier. This seems very poignant. He then bows his head, presumably to say a prayer.

  I feel calmer now after my flower anguish. I light my candle from Costas’s and pop it in the sand. I start to think about a prayer. Um, well, there’s Mum and Dad. We’ve not heard from them yet so I hope they’re enjoying their clipper ship cruise. Then there’s Helen and her situation with James. I’ve got a sixth sense and I just don’t think he’s right for her. Then there’s me. Neither Richard nor I are prepared to compromise over having a family. I honestly thought he’d come round to my way of thinking but with each day since he left in January that hope has diminished. I need to be realistic and move on with my life. A good starting point will be enjoying this holiday and, today, the company of Costas on our little adventure.

  Costas still has his head bowed. He’s obviously got a longer list than me. He’s probably praying for world peace. He seems like a very caring person, one who looks out for others. I glance round the little church again and notice other things. The solid wooden pulpit to the side has a lace cloth hanging over it, with a picture of St George on a rearing horse, George with a spear pointed at a dragon’s throat.

  Costas has finished his prayer and resumes his tour-guide spiel. ‘This is St George and the dragon. I believe he is the patron saint of England, as well as many other places. We have a St George church in the town which I will show you. Are you feeling better now?’

  ‘Yes, I am, thank you. And thank you for showing me this beautiful church.’

  Costas heads to the door. I feel quite humbled by this experience and I’m really pleased that I took him up on his offer of a guided tour. Otherwise, I would never have seen it from a local person’s perspective.

  ‘Right, Shirley, we carry on. I take you now to Little Venice.’

  I’m slightly confused by this Venice thing. I don’t want to sound like a complete idiot so I remain silent and follow Costas back to the scooter. He gives the cat lady a couple of euros. I pop on my helmet and climb on to the moped. We haven’t gone much further when the track opens out into a car park. Dust is blowing up everywhere. Costas parks the moped next to a car that’s absolutely covered in dust. Passers-by have written comments on it, which tickles me.

  ‘Why you laugh?’ Costas enquires.

  ‘The message on this car: “Help! SOS! Also available in black. Wash me.”’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ Costas replies, shaking his head and smiling. ‘That English sense of humour again.’

  There are comments in other languages, which I assume translate into the same thing. Other nationalities, it seems, also appreciate the joke.

  ‘Anyway, Shirley, I bring you to see windmills not dirty cars.’

  ‘Oh yes, the windmills. They do look charming and very rustic. I’ll take some photos.’

  It would be difficult to miss them. Five of them are standing neatly in a row. I get my camera out to capture the beautiful white cylindrical buildings. There are little windows dotted here and there and the roofs are thatched. The spokes of the windmills are wooden; they are framed beautifully by the clear deep blue sky behind them. As I walk round the side to see another aspect, the wind nearly knocks me off my feet.

  ‘Oh yes, that is why they are here – the strong wind from the north,’ Costas chips in, laughing at the wind blowing my hair all over the place. If I’d kept on my dress from this morning, it would have made a great Marilyn Monroe shot. ‘They were built in sixteenth century to mill flour. These are kato milli, the lower mills.’ He’s taking his new role as a tour guide very seriously.

  I take a photo from the windswept angle. Then Costas wants to take one of me on his phone, standing in front of a windmill. I resist, using my bad hair as an excuse, but Costas insists that it ‘creates effect’. Before I know it, he’s taken a photo of me. A kind passer-by takes a photo of both of us; Costas carefully places his arm round my shoulder, which feels natural.

  We wander back to the moped through the dusty car park. I’m enjoying the moped way of getting about, with the ease of parking just about anywhere and jumping on and off. I feel liberated. We’d still be trying to park here if we’d been in a car. There are several of them now circling the car park, adding more dust to the poor black wash-me car, and to me.

  We leave the car park and manoeuvre down a narrow street, avoiding some tourists who clearly don’t realise they’re walking on a road. A small stretch of sand in a cove comes into sight, with some buildings backed by the sea in the distance. Costas says something; he obviously doesn’t realise that I can’t hear a thing. He’s facing forward and talking to me through his helmet, and the wind is a force ten gale now that we’ve reached the waterfront. All I catch is ‘Venice’. When we reach the water’s edge, he stops. I can hear him better as he turns round.

  ‘You want to take photo?’

  He’s pulled up alongside a small square white table and two white wooden chairs that are set on the concrete paving just off the water’s edge. They remind me of Shirley Valentine. I seem to remember she asks for a table and a chair so she can drink her wine while watching the sunset. In any case, they look very typically Greek so I take a photo.

  As I start putting my camera away he pipes up. ‘You not take photo of Little Venice?’ He points to the buildings backed by the sea.

  ‘Oh yes, silly me, Little Venice.’ That will teach me for not reading up on Mykonos or questioning Nikos. I flick the camera back on and capture Little Venice in all its glory, flanked by the crystal clear sea on one side and the cloudless deep blue sky behind. I’ve never been to the real Venice, but I remember a James Bond film with Roger Moore and a gondola chase that resulted in chaos. This, in turn, reminds me of my dream.

  ‘Shirley, would you like to walk round the shops?’

  ‘Yes, I wouldn’t mind that. But I can always come back another day if it’s not your cup of tea.’

  ‘I’m sure we can find you a cup of tea.’

  ‘No, sorry, Costas! I don’t want a cup of tea. In England, “a cup of tea” can also mean something you’re interested in. We can skip the shopping if there are other things you’d find more interesting to see.’

  ‘Ah, I see! Very interesting. But no, the shops are fine. We will park the moped and have a walk.’

  We come to a long row of parked up mopeds and scooter
s and he pulls into a space.

  I clamber off the moped and unfasten my helmet, which Costas takes off me and hooks over the handlebars. Clearly, there’s more trust here than in England. At home, they’d probably be on ebay in less than five minutes.

  ‘So, Shirley, are you all right after scary ride?’

  I smile back and mutter, ‘Actually, it wasn’t that bad.’

  Before I can say another word, he gets hold of my hand and leads the way up a side street and away from the harbour.

  I can’t remember ever going on a shopping expedition instigated by a bloke before, so this is a new experience. Richard would do anything to get out of shopping. In the end, I just gave up. I used to envy all the couples wandering around on a Saturday and Sunday, holding hands and looking happy. Mind you, I’ve also witnessed some right arguments while I’ve been at work. Shopping does sometimes bring out the worst in people, especially at Christmas and the sales.

  We make our way through the extremely narrow streets. I’m immediately intoxicated by the mix of colours against the background of white buildings everywhere. It’s postcard perfect. I wonder if they’ve agreed at a town meeting that all walls have to be white, all paintwork blue. Every other colour comes from plants, pots and things for sale in the shops. I love it so much that I get out my camera to take some more snaps.

  The first shop to catch my eye has bags of all shapes, sizes and colours hanging invitingly outside. Helen would absolutely love this shop. There’s bags in blue, pink, red, orange, lilac, yellow, green, white and, of course, our old favourites, black and brown. Satchels, duffels, clutches, shoppers, totes, rucksacks … OMG, it’s every bagaholic’s dream.

  Costas seems happy chatting away to the owner so I saunter to the shop next door. Another explosion of colour greets me. This time it’s mini-guitars in red, orange, blue, pink and one in yellow that has eyes and a smile. There are some strange instruments here, ones that look a bit like guitars with long necks and rounded backs.

  Costas appears and correctly interprets my curiosity. ‘These are bouzouki.’ He kindly proceeds to fill me in on their history, how they came to Greece and how they are used in a lot of the music that we hear in shops and restaurants. ‘Here, I show you.’ He lifts one off its hook and impressively plays a bit of a tune.

  ‘Wow! That’s really good.’

  ‘Thank you. I play at my parents’ hotel sometimes at night. I will have to play for you.’

  ‘Yes, you must. I’d love that.’

  He hooks the bouzouki back up and we carry on. As we mooch round, I marvel that there seems to be a shop for everything. There’s a few brand names blending in nicely as well.

  ‘Accessorize – this is one of my favourites.’

  ‘I can show you a local shop where they make the jewellery right there.’

  ‘Ooh, that sounds interesting. Lead the way.’

  We carry on through the endless maze of shops and restaurants.

  ‘Here we are.’

  ‘Wow. I love the name.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Costas laughs. ‘“Amnēsia” – it is Greek word meaning forgetfulness.’

  We walk in. I certainly won’t forget this shop in a hurry. My eyes widen at all the necklaces, earrings, bracelets and rings that are covering every inch of the shop. After looking around for a while, a necklace with a fine multicoloured string catches my eye. Its pendant is a flower with mauve, blue, turquoise, red, yellow and orange petals.

  ‘I love this! I’m going to treat myself and get one for my sister too.’

  The one I’ve chosen for Helen has a daisy pendant and will go with her new dresses. The sales assistant wraps them both in tissue paper and pops them in gorgeous little gift bags. Costas speaks to the shop owner and negotiates a better price, which is good because that means I can pay with the euros in my purse.

  ‘Thank you for bringing me here, Costas. I could very well be coming back to buy some gifts. And thanks for your haggling.’

  ‘Oh, it is no problem. They always do a better deal for a local person.’

  We continue our exploring. We’ve not gone far when Costas pauses in an archway. ‘And this is our outdoor cinema.’

  Costas presents it like it’s the best thing since sliced bread and I can’t imagine anything more romantic than watching a movie with your loved one under a starlit sky, but this particular cinema doesn’t give me that vibe. There are folding chairs lined up row after row and I’m sure it would make for the most uncomfortable, unromantic night ever.

  ‘It doesn’t look very comfortable, Costas.’

  ‘When I show you where we watch film before you will see that this is luxury.’

  ‘Really?’ I’m unconvinced.

  ‘Yes, really. Come, I show you.’

  He leads me up a steep hill. Despite my weekly keep-fit classes, I’m soon panting and out of breath. ‘Flipping heck, Costas, how much further is it?’

  ‘Not far. You can have a rest here.’ He points to a wooden swing seat that’s attached to a wall with ropes. I can hear piano music, which is very soothing.

  ‘That’s thoughtful – a seat and someone playing a piano.’

  ‘Yes, but there is music only when she practice. That is Pascale. She plays at many hotels in the area, including the Boutique Blue.’ We listen for a couple of minutes while I get my breath back and then we carry on. ‘It’s just a few more steps…’

  At last, we reach the top of the hill, where there’s a spectacular rooftop view of the whole town. ‘So, Shirley, here is our very own amphitheatre.’

  ‘Wow, this is amazing!’

  ‘Amazing, but rather uncomfortable, so we bring something to sit on.’

  ‘Is it still used, then?’

  ‘Yes, it is used for live performances such as plays or music and, for the health-conscious, there is yoga and pilates. Sometimes people get married here.’

  ‘What a romantic place to get married.’

  ‘Yes, I have been to a couple of weddings here. It is a most beautiful place to marry. Now, I do not want to upset you again talking about weddings. What do you think of walking back and going to a restaurant that I know for some lunch?’

  ‘That sounds like a good idea… I’m sorry about what happened before at the church.’

  ‘You have no need to be sorry, we all have emotion at some stage of our lives.’ He looks into my eyes and for a few seconds I sense some sadness. Costas can tell I’ve picked up on it and quickly avoids any more questions. ‘Now, let us go. At least it is all walking down hill.’

  ‘Yes, thank goodness for that. I’m feeling rather hot.’ In more ways than one!

  Chapter 10

  Helen

  I walk back to our hotel, cursing my uncomfortable shoes. I contemplate finding Stephanie to tell her what’s happened, but I can just hear her response, in her I-told-you-so voice: ‘I’ve never trusted him … I mean, who doesn’t return messages for days on end? Problems with his phone – yeah, right!’

  Oh my goodness, how wrong could I be? The realisation is starting to dawn. I’m tempted to send him a message. ‘Hi James, I’ve just met Selena. You two-timing weasel.’ Maybe I’ll send him one later after a drink or two.

  I get back to our room just as housekeeping is leaving. They’ve separated the beds, so at least Steph can’t clobber me again in her sleep, mad girl. It’s just occurred to me – the double bed and the champagne. Maybe that was for Selena’s benefit! I could finish off that text with ‘P.S. Enjoyed the champagne.’ My stomach churns in anguish. But I need to focus on getting my work done sooner rather than later so I can spend some time relaxing with Steph over the next two weeks.

  My next stop is the Mykonos Gold, which will be downgraded to the Mykonos Bronze if it carries on the way it is. It’s basically running the risk of losing its contract with our company, which would be a financial blow
to the hotel. The last two reviews seem to be along the same lines; basically, it’s a badly run hotel with a manager who treats complaints with indifference. I’m going to visit as a tourist, on the pretence of booking a room which requires me to change into something more causal, and also to take my overnight bag.

  I quickly change my clothes and pop my laptop and note pad into my overnight bag. I take the lift back down to reception. There’s no click-clacking this time. I’ve changed into my new jewelled flip-flops from Michaela’s Boutique and I actually feel like I’m on holiday.

  I do need a taxi this time; the porter sorts one out for me. Five minutes later, I’m on my way. I tell the taxi driver where I’m going. He raises an eyebrow and repeats the name of the hotel back as though to say ‘Are you sure?’. Not a good sign.

  We soon arrive at the Mykonos Gold, which actually looks quite smart. Once inside, however, I’m greeted by what can only be described as chaos. There’s a handful of people complaining about a shuttle bus at the reception desk and only a couple of staff dealing with them – and not particularly well, by the sounds of it.

  There are a couple of arrivals too. They’re bewildered and probably considering asking for a transfer. I decide to discreetly video the fracas. The footage might be useful later. These are serious tactics; I feel like Alex Polizzi from The Hotel Inspector.

  The discussion is getting more heated and voices are getting louder.

  ‘Very well then, I want to speak to the person in charge.’

  One of the reception staff replies quite rudely, ‘He is unable to come to the desk.’

  The spokesperson of the group is really fired up now. He retorts, ‘Why? Has he lost the use of his legs?’

  ‘No, he is out,’ comes the sharp reply.

  ‘So, who is in charge when the manager is out?’

  ‘I am in charge and I have already told you I cannot do anything about the bus driver.’

  The spokesperson is clearly at the end of his tether. He throws his arms up in disbelief. ‘Right! I’ve had enough of this nonsense. What time will the manager be back?’