by Mandy Baggot
‘Shelley, it’s fine,’ Becky responded. ‘Right, so, we can do two things here.’ She took a breath. If she was in England right now, she would be melting down over the prospect of Megan finding out what she had been doing this past year. But here in Greece she felt strangely powerful. Yes, she should have told Megan but equally, Megan had always made it very clear Megan was not the bread-butterer. Megan was the business-planner, the networker and face of the company. Becky was at grassroots – well, the roots of a garden of herbs anyway. Becky had taken the decision and she was going to own it. ‘You can both go home now and I will phone Megan and tell her everything about the secret sandwiches which I should have done a long time ago…’
‘What’s the second thing? Because if she finds out – even if you tell her really really nicely like you’re Claudia Winkleman cuddling a crying celebrity because they’ve fucked up the rumba – she’s gonna explode and we’re here and you’re in Corfu.’
‘The second thing is—’
‘Hang on, Hazel’s here and I’m putting you on speakerphone,’ Shelley interrupted.
Becky held her breath. The second thing had been to tell their customers that the bespoke orders were now off the menu. She could easily draft an apologetic flyer and email it to Shelley and Hazel to hand out with one last batch of the good stuff. She could blame Brexit for the lack of availability of certain ingredients or something. It would test the loyalty of their fan base but, the traditional fayre was good too, it just didn’t wow quite like the other fillings. They might lose a few customers to their rivals but was there really a choice? Megan simply wouldn’t get the concept and wouldn’t even try because Becky had pulled the wool over her eyes. The only certainty now, with both courses of proposed action, was Becky’s skill at knowing exactly what their customers liked, needed and craved, would no longer be required. She would just be the girl who buttered bread again…
‘I told Shelley not to call you.’ It was Hazel talking now and Becky could imagine her hanging up her bag and tying an apron around her waist. ‘I have found the list for tomorrow and a packet of Trebor mints I thought were gone forever so there’s no need to panic, dear.’
‘I’m panicking,’ Shelley said. ‘Because I’m shit-scared of Megan.’
‘Language, Shelley.’
‘She’s like one of those silent but deadly types. Quiet and controlled on the surface but underneath I reckon there’s a raging psycho ready for go-time. And… and she has all the tools in this kitchen to do unspeakable fucking things to every body part I own.’
‘Shelley, Hazel…’ Becky tried to talk.
‘Becky, dear, please ignore Shelley. She’s like this because she’s left Frank with the remote controller as well as the triplets and she thinks one of them is going to delete her series link for Hollyoaks. Now, you listen to me. We are both here tonight to get the specials orders ready for tomorrow if Megan really does make an appearance at 6 a.m. However, I saw Dean in the Co-op earlier and happened to mention how tired I thought Megan was looking lately and I wondered if perhaps a few later alarm calls this week might be in order. I said we had everything covered here and we were worried about her.’
Becky smiled and shook her head. Her colleagues were nothing short of geniuses at subterfuge. Should she feel pride? This was not like her. She was straight-down-the-line Becky except when it came to this. And this hadn’t ever really been about her. It had always been about her sister.
‘We are going to take care of everything, dear,’ Hazel continued. ‘And you are not to think about it for another minute. You are to continue exploring everything Greek – the weather, the food, the men.’
Immediately Becky’s mind was back to Elias and their ruined near-kiss in Kefalonia. He had felt so good in her arms, he had smelled so good…
‘Yeah, the men especially,’ Shelley broke in.
‘But keep safe, dear,’ Hazel added.
‘I gave her every flavour of condom I own,’ Shelley reminded. ‘But check the expiry, won’t you? Because some of them were freebies from the pub we booked our Sharon’s hen do in.’
The complete familiarity of her friends’ chatter rippled over Becky like the warm Corfu breeze blowing up her fringe. She let Hazel and Shelley carry on among themselves as she looked out at the water. There were boats a little way from the shore, some with tall, pointed masts that sails would appear on tomorrow morning, others luxurious bowriders with cabin space underneath. Were there people aboard? Couples cosying up together and steaming up the portholes? What would that feel like?
‘Becks! Come and help me eat the signomi!’ Petra shouted from the taverna above.
Somehow her housemate had still not realised signomi was not the word for ‘ice cream’.
‘I’ve got to go now,’ Becky told them both. ‘But thank you. Thank you both for what you’re doing. Even though Megan doesn’t know it, we are all helping save her business.’ Maybe even save her. She kept that thought to herself.
‘You’re an excellent sister, dear,’ Hazel told her. ‘One day she will realise that.’
‘But not tomorrow,’ Shelley said. ‘Because I don’t want to be having to hide the garlic crusher or the apple cutter if she turns all Friday the 13th.’
‘Bye,’ Becky said, a smile on her face.
‘Bye, dear.’
‘Bye! And, you know, don’t forget what I said about the condoms.’
Thirty-Two
Villa Selino, Kerasia
‘You won’t believe it,’ Petra called. ‘I’ve found two more sets of car keys and another set labelled with the word “garage”.’ She bounced up and down on the spot like she was attached to a pogo-stick. ‘That thing covered in weeds might not be our only ride!’
It was the following mid-morning and Becky had been up early to take in the beginnings of a Corfu day with one of the last spoonsful of coffee and a scraping of dried milk powder. They really did need to get some groceries today. There had been signs of a little shop on the beach, but it hadn’t been open last night and Becky suspected it was more for inflatable doughnuts and snorkel masks than it was for bread and milk. After her coffee she had taken up residence at one of the rattan-style tables and started proper work on her catering pitch for the nursing home. So far it was going well. It had structure and order and was peppered with all the good memories of war times and VE Day celebrations. Bunting, beef dripping and eggless cakes to tie in the rationing aspect, without missing out on any of the flavour. She simply needed to hone the pricing more accurately, making sure she had accounted for every ingredient, then mark it up enough so It’s A Wrap made an excellent profit, but also ensure the client wasn’t put off by the end price. Becky might not have professionally pitched for the company before, but she knew all about costings and was an avid watcher of The Apprentice. There was no way her task of securing this party was going to melt like artisan ice lollies or sink like Tommy the Talking Turtle…
‘Where are you going?’ Becky called as Petra – dressed in one of those one-piece swimsuits that showed all your hips – danced past her, keys jingling between her fingers.
‘I’m going to look for the other cars,’ Petra announced. ‘Can you imagine what they might be? I mean, this place is high-end now the critters have gone. Did you know there’s a TV that pops up out of the breakfast bar? I had to press the button a few times but then it rose up like… like…’
Becky braced herself and closed her eyes hoping Petra wasn’t going to mention anyone’s erection.
‘Like the moon last night,’ Petra finished with a gentle smile. ‘Or the sun this morning.’
Becky opened her eyes and looked to her housemate. ‘You were awake when the sun rose this morning?’ It seemed unlikely that Petra was an early riser. It had been after one a.m. before they had gone to bed and Petra had been reluctant to go then, declaring it way way too early.
‘I ran 4k this morning at 6 a.m. I found the little village. It’s sweet. In a little village kind of way. It
had nice flowers and houses all on top of each other with washing hanging out and rusty sunbeds on front porches. Oh, and there were a couple of cute dogs I almost brought back with me.’
‘Petra, no,’ Becky said. ‘We can’t have animals in here.’
‘I know! Keep your knickers on!’
Had Petra really gone out at 6 a.m.? And why hadn’t Becky heard her leave? She was supposed to be in charge of the home’s security. How was that working if she didn’t even know when someone had left the property?
‘Ooo! I’ve found a garage!’
Now Becky was on her feet. Perhaps the wreck of a car wasn’t the one they were supposed to be using. It did seem at odds with the rest of the house being bright and elegant. But surely if she was meant to find a car in the garage, Ms O’Neill might have said something. Perhaps she wasn’t meant to go in the garage at all. ‘Petra! Wait!’
‘What for? We need transport, don’t we?’ Petra called.
Becky could already see Petra had inserted a key into a lock and was jiggling it about to see if it would fit. If it didn’t, it seemed likely the forcing motion was going to end up snapping the key in half. ‘Petra, just stop a minute.’ She caught up to her, one of her flip-flops – with watermelons on the inside that Hazel had insisted were a must-have – slipping off her toes. ‘We shouldn’t really be poking about in places that are locked up.’ It didn’t appear that Petra was listening. She was still manipulating the key when it seemed quite obvious it wasn’t going to unlock anything.
‘Weren’t you promised a car you could actually use?’ Petra asked her, finally taking the key out and jabbing another one in in its place.
‘Well, it did say “use of a car”, I think.’
‘So, what are you going to be able to use that heap of junk under the weeds for? Apart from recycling?’ Suddenly the door gave way and sprung open under Petra’s pressure. ‘And… we’re in!’
‘Petra…’ Somehow this felt wrong. But she had to follow her housemate, didn’t she?
‘Wow, it’s not like a garage at all! It’s as clean as the house! Well, the house after I cleaned up from the animals.’
Petra was right. There were no cobwebs, no signs of lawnmowers with their innards out on workbenches or scattered seed packets like there had been in her dad’s shed. All at once Becky was hit with a thump of nostalgia. Time spent with her dad repairing bicycles or bringing on saplings of plants he had been given from the neighbours because of his legendary green thumb…
‘Dustsheets, Becky!’ Petra announced, prowling into the centre of this pristine office of a garage where if you took a hammer or shovel from the wall its outline would be visible like chalk marks around a body in a crime scene. ‘You don’t put dustsheets over cars that are falling apart. You put dustsheets over cars that are valuable… or collectible… or valuable and collectible.’ Petra was now standing in between two indistinct mounds in the centre of the room covered in what looked like grey-silver cloths. Even the coverings seemed to suggest expensive…
‘We really shouldn’t be uncovering anything that’s covered.’ Although, apart from the not-letting-anyone-into-the-property insistence – which theoretically Becky had broken already with Petra staying – Ms O’Neill hadn’t said uncovering wasn’t…
‘Oh my God! Look at these beauties!’
With a hand on each cloth, Petra had made light work of stripping them off and two vehicles were revealed. Even with her limited knowledge of cars, Becky could tell these were not your average middle-class ride.
‘This! This is a Ferrari! From the Sixties! My dad lost out on one of these in an auction! This is proper, proper vintage and worth an absolute fortune.’
Becky cringed as Petra ran her hands all down one side of the wing of the bright red vehicle, immediately getting finger marks all over the shining paintwork. ‘Petra, perhaps we shouldn’t touch them.’
There was another inhalation of breath as her housemate moved to the second car. ‘Oh! This one! This one!’ Petra put her hand to her chest. ‘This is an Aston Martin. Oh my God! I think I might faint.’
Despite Becky’s worry that they shouldn’t be in here doing this, Petra’s excitement over the cars was really interesting. This was something else to ‘know’ about Petra… and she had mentioned her dad again. Perhaps Becky should ask her about her love of cars and more about her family over dinner tonight. In the meantime, although it would burst her friend’s enthusiastic bubble, she needed to ensure the cars stayed exactly where they were. If these were worth a mint, there was no way Ms O’Neill would be offering them to the housesitter to drive. It would be back to trying to shift the mouldy car or… what was that in the corner of the garage? Was that a bicycle?
Both girls jumped as a chiming sound ensued.
‘God!’ Petra exclaimed, hand at her chest again. ‘I thought that was some sort of alarm I triggered by touching the Ferrari.’
‘Is it the doorbell?’ Becky asked.
‘No idea,’ Petra said, opening the door of the Aston Martin and preparing to get in.
‘I’m going to check,’ Becky said, heading towards the way out. ‘Do not start up either of the cars or…’ She had been going to say not to get the upholstery dirty, but as Petra had already slipped into the driver’s seat with more flesh than swimsuit touching the leather interior it was probably a little too late.
Becky headed back into the house and hurried – as fast as the flip-flops would allow – down the hall towards the front door. Once there, she paused, hand on the door, remembering the insistence from her owner that she wasn’t allowed to let anyone in. Well, she wouldn’t let anyone in. She would just see who it was. Perhaps it was the pool man. Although, in the notes in a folder that had been left for her on the kitchen island, she thought the pool guy was supposed to come on a Friday. Maybe it was the postman. Did they have postmen in Greece? Taking a breath, Becky opened the front door to… no one. She looked out, past the hanging bougainvillea and potted begonias, up the driveway to the road where the arching branches of olive trees gently fluttered in the light breeze. Nothing. No one. Was the ringing in the garage something to do with the security of the place and not the doorbell? Becky stepped outside, onto the stone porch step and pressed the button herself. It chimed. Definitely, what they had heard on the receiver in the garage. Had whoever had rung the bell gone already? Like an Amazon delivery driver – unable to wait thirty seconds for someone to come to the door. Was there a parcel lying somewhere? Possibly broken…
‘Becks!’ she heard Petra scream. ‘You won’t believe it! Elias is here!’
Thirty-Three
Elias couldn’t believe it. It was the worst thing. Or, possibly the best thing. He hadn’t decided yet. His mind was still catching up to this whole new situation he should have envisaged the second he realised the name ‘Ms O’Neill’ was familiar to him. But it was all too much of a coincidence, wasn’t it? The very villa he needed to get inside was being looked after by two girls he had met and befriended on the plane here…
Right now, as Petra waved her hands around the garden, pointing out the pool and the hammock between two palms and a car she said was ‘minging’, like it was her own personal residence, Elias was glad he had decided to ring the bell. He had taken a chance that a key would be under a plant pot when he walked here from Liakada, but then a quick text to Chad had confirmed it and told him exactly which one. Except the key hadn’t been there and then he had heard voices. Ready to turn on the charm and be Elias Mardas, estate agent again, he had expected to encounter a stranger. Instead, when someone didn’t immediately come, he had decided to head into the garden and see if any of the doors or windows were open. And now, this. Petra wearing barely anything and Becky…
He felt that strange sense of desire mixed with affinity the moment she appeared on the patio. She seemed to be wearing swimwear too, but only the merest sight of it was visible underneath a sheer white cotton sundress. Her hair was loose, caramel waves just touching her
shoulders. He hadn’t thought he would ever see her again. Had he wanted to? His body was trying to tell him the answer to that one and he wasn’t sure he liked it.
‘Here she is!’ Petra exclaimed. ‘Look, Becky, it’s Elias!’
‘So I see,’ Becky replied.
She was looking a little stern now. Like she might quite like to skewer him into a souvlaki and grill him on the barbecue. He had to remember what it was he was here for.
‘I had no idea you would be here,’ he apologised. Why was he apologising? Was that the right tack?
‘What are you doing here?’ Becky asked him. ‘Did you ring the doorbell?’ She had folded her arms across her chest, as if defensive. She was right to be. She didn’t know the man he was, or the job he had to do.
‘Yes,’ he replied, nodding. ‘I have business here.’
‘Here?’ Becky asked, still killing him with those eyes dialled in on him like they were a sight on a sniper rifle. ‘At this house?’
‘Yes,’ he answered.
‘Ooo,’ Petra said. ‘What kind of business? Has Becky accepted a job housesitting for a celebrity? Is “Ms O’Neill” really Rylan Clark-Neal? I would love that!’
‘And how would that work out being Elias’s reason for being here?’ Becky asked her. ‘He’s an estate agent.’
‘Oh,’ Petra said, sitting down on the edge of the pool and shielding her eyes from the sun with her hand. ‘Is this lovely house for sale? It won’t go through before two weeks, will it? Because we’re here and…’
‘And you won’t be staying here two weeks,’ Becky told Petra. ‘We said a few days.’
‘How much is it going on the market for?’ Petra asked, swirling a long limb into the water.
‘Just a second,’ Becky said, coming down from the top patio area to join them nearer the pool. ‘No one has said anything to me about the house being for sale.’
‘They haven’t?’ Elias said. ‘Well, it was a decision made only a short time ago. Only a little before I got on the flight from the UK.’
