My Greek Island Summer

by Mandy Baggot

  ‘I would have thought that Ms O’Neill would have mentioned it to me if it was for sale. I am in charge of the house while she’s away. If I was to meet an estate agent then I would have expected her to warn me about it and, the only thing she did warn me about was—’

  ‘The mosquitos?’ Petra jumped in. ‘Because if she did you could have warned me too. Despite all my best Australian-grade repellent, last night one absolutely feasted on my arse. Look!’

  Elias made a point of not looking as Petra leaned sideways and pulled away a section of her swimsuit. And it was abundantly clear that Becky was already suspicious of his being here. He needed to get her back on side. With his parents’ marriage up in the air he had to be able to normalise something and that meant getting back on track with this divorce case.

  ‘You didn’t say your parents live in Kerasia,’ Becky said, standing close to him now. He was right in the direct sunlight and beginning to perspire.

  ‘You did not say you were coming to housesit in Kerasia.’

  ‘So, where do your parents live?’ Becky continued with the questions.

  ‘Not in Kerasia,’ he answered. He needed to be less cagey. ‘But not far from here. Liakada.

  ‘Great!’ Petra said. ‘Do you have your car? We need to get shopping.’

  ‘I walked,’ Elias replied.

  ‘Well, talking of cars—’

  ‘Thank you, Petra,’ Becky interrupted. ‘Why don’t you go and get Elias a drink? He looks a little warm.’

  ‘You could cool off in the pool,’ Petra suggested. ‘If you’ve got trunks… or, if not.’

  Elias shook himself, wiping his hand over the back of his neck. ‘I am OK.’

  ‘Then what do you need to do here?’ Becky asked him. ‘Put a sign at the front? Take some measurements?’

  He nodded. ‘Yes. That exactly.’ He paused briefly before continuing. ‘It is a great property. Made from local stone.’ He walked up to the nearest wall and laid his hand on it. ‘So much care and attention has gone in to getting the aesthetic just right. Don’t you think?’

  ‘Why are you looking in through the window?’ Becky asked him.

  ‘I’ll make some ouzo cocktails,’ Petra announced, clapping her hands together and heading into the house. ‘It’s about all we have in the cupboard and we can celebrate our reunion.’

  *

  Something wasn’t quite right about this. Becky could sense it. ‘What’s the name of your company again?’ she asked Elias.

  ‘My company,’ Elias answered, stepping away from the property and looking back at Becky.

  ‘Yes, the company you work for, as an estate agent. What’s the name of it?’

  ‘You are worried because you have not been told about the sale?’ Elias asked her. ‘Well, I can tell you that this property is owned by two people, and I am working on behalf of the party that is not your Ms O’Neill.’

  Becky frowned. What did that mean? Was this why her instructions had been firm about not letting anyone into the house? Had Ms O’Neill been expecting someone to come here? Expecting Elias to come here with his tape-measure and ‘for sale’ signs? Was the matter of the sale somehow contentious? Now she was wondering just how much she really knew of this man she had met on the plane. The man she had nearly kissed…

  ‘It’s a beautiful home,’ Elias said, stepping forward and seeming to admire the view over trees to the glistening sea only a few metres away. ‘One of only a few prime beachfront properties along here.’

  ‘One that I’m in charge of for a few weeks and… I don’t think I believe what you’re telling me.’

  That was bold. That was so bold. And so not like the Becky Rose from Wiltshire. She also didn’t really have any evidence that Elias was lying to her. Except this feeling in her gut that this man stood beside her now, was not the person she had got to know amid their aeroplane escapades. His behaviour now didn’t feel genuine.

  ‘Which parts?’ Elias asked. He looked away from the scene to her, and Becky felt the weight of his gaze. Was that a flicker of what they had shared in Athens and Kefalonia she could see in those beautiful blue/green irises?

  She took a deep breath, stood a little taller. ‘I don’t… think you’re an estate agent.’

  He said nothing. He simply carried on looking at her. And as the milliseconds turned into seconds and the seconds started moving from one second to three, Becky wondered if she had actually spoken at all. Should she say something else? Clarify her accusation? Or perhaps retract it?

  And then Elias nodded, slowly and deliberately. ‘OK,’ he said simply.

  OK? What did that mean? It told her precisely nothing. Was he confirming she was right? Was he angry she had all but accused him of lying? And what response did she make?

  ‘I mean… if you are an estate agent then you would… look like one. They wear… tweed or… pink trousers.’ Or was that just the British ones? She had no idea the ‘uniform’ for Greek estate agents. But she continued none the less. ‘And you would be… already talking about the outside space… and the infinity pool and, I don’t know, maybe pacing out the square-footage.’

  ‘It is OK,’ Elias said, finally moving away from her. Where was he going? Was he leaving? Without giving her any answers. ‘I understand you are concerned about your responsibilities here.’

  *

  She knew. Becky knew he was a fraud and Elias hated that for several reasons. Firstly, because it meant he was not getting into the property to make that much-needed inventory for Chad and secondly, because he loathed having lied to her in the first place. He was being underhand by being here, he knew that. But he had initially wanted to meet with Kristina, attempt to be reasonable and offer her the deal he had fleshed out. However, finding out she wasn’t here, coupled with snippets of conversations Chad had shared, he had reason to believe the woman was hiding something. But now Becky and Petra were here, and it didn’t feel at all fortuitous. It felt even harder. This wasn’t a situation he was in control of anymore. Becky had deep suspicions of him. He doubted she would even let him inside to use the toilet…

  ‘Are you leaving?’ Becky asked, following him across the plaka stone towards the gate he had entered through.

  ‘I am leaving,’ he responded. He swallowed, suddenly feeling ridiculously sad. This was someone he thought he would never see again. And now he had seen her again it had proved those feelings he had experienced in Kefalonia were not isolated. She looked even more beautiful here in Corfu, that soft spirit she didn’t seem to appreciate, gently shining out of her. Why did she have to be at this house? If she really was in reach, here in Kerasia, why could they not have met again under different circumstances? He needed to go, and fast.

  ‘But…’

  Elias stopped at the gate, beneath the clematis that wound its way around the ironwork and tumbled like a lilac-coloured waterfall. ‘You are right,’ he said with more conviction than he currently felt. ‘You do not know me. You cannot let someone you do not know into a house you are looking after for somebody else. It would not be right.’

  ‘I know that I’m being cautious but…’

  He could make her back-track. He could turn on the boardroom charm and fix this right now. But he didn’t want to do that. With Becky it was… well, it just didn’t feel right.

  ‘No,’ Elias said. ‘You are doing the right thing.’ And he meant that sentiment absolutely – as crazy as it felt that he cared.

  ‘Well, I will call Ms O’Neill about it,’ Becky said as Elias pushed through the gate to the driveway, his shoes crunching on the loose stones.

  ‘There is no need,’ Elias said, waving a hand. ‘I will call my client. I will tell him that his co-owner is away and we will delay things until she returns.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Becky asked. ‘If I was wrong… if I am going to get you in trouble or something then…’

  ‘I am sure,’ Elias replied. But as he crunched up the gravel to the road he was certain of only two things. One, if he
was going to succeed in getting into the house, he would have to do it when Becky and Petra were out. And, two, if he wanted to maintain his sanity, he was definitely going to need to avoid Becky completely, unless he wanted to walk around in a permanent state of arousal.

  Thirty-Four

  Imerolia Fish Taverna, Imerolia

  Becky and Petra had visited the supermarket. They had filled the back seats of the car with bags full of essentials – plus Petra’s idea of essentials that included some sort of bronzing fluid she couldn’t read any of the details of because it was written in Greek, plus a flagon of unknown liquid that could-be-wine-could-be-cooking-oil-or-could-be-something-to-polish-the-Aston-Martin-with. Becky had driven the Aston Martin. The cream-coloured Aston Martin Petra kept Googling the price of even now as they sat outside at this beautifully peaceful taverna, close to the water’s edge that Becky knew she really shouldn’t have driven the classic car down to considering the state of the road.

  ‘This website says five million! Five million!’ Petra announced, picking a meatball from the meat and fish platter they were sharing and popping it into her mouth.

  ‘Petra, this isn’t making me feel any better about it. I didn’t even want to take the car out,’ Becky reminded. ‘I can’t think about it being that expensive if you want me to drive us back to the house again.’ She was already worrying that Ms O’ Neill probably had photos of the mileage on the dashboard and was going to instantly know someone – namely Becky – had used it. But there was no way that wreck under the vines was ever moving again without the aid of a tow-truck.

  ‘That’s OK,’ Petra answered. ‘I’ll drive it back to the house again. I haven’t had a turn yet.’

  ‘You told me you don’t have a licence,’ Becky reminded. She sipped at her water. She was not-so-secretly coveting the sweet-smelling rose wine that Petra had ordered, but being in charge of a luxury vehicle she was scared stiff of even brushing close to a bush with, it was much better to stick to water.

  ‘I bet, if we did a survey, half the people driving on Corfu wouldn’t have a licence.’

  ‘But not any of them would be driving a car worth five million pounds,’ Becky said. She dipped a piece of soft fresh bread into a bowl of tzatziki and put it in her mouth. Five million pounds. It was a crazy amount of money for a car…

  ‘This website says 7.5 million!’ Petra announced, waving her phone in the air.

  Becky looked out over the sea. She knew why she had given in to Petra’s whining about the car. It wasn’t really to do with getting shopping – they could have walked to the nearest mini-market in the little village Petra had found while running if they had to – it was what had happened at the house with Elias. What had that all been about? And why had she accused him of not being an estate agent? For all of Hazel and Shelley’s pearls of wisdom about travelling, their tips seemed to be starting to make her deeply paranoid.

  ‘What do you think about Elias?’ Becky asked Petra suddenly. Had she really asked that? What was she expecting Petra to say? Possibly all she would tell her would be what the inside of his mouth felt like… Becky picked up a sardine and sucked the salty, juicy flesh from its bones. It might taste a little bit like this. Tantalisingly fresh and tender but hopefully less fishy…

  ‘It was mad the way he turned up then disappeared before I could make cocktails,’ Petra answered with a frown. ‘Not that I had anything to mix with the ouzo… only water… and some sort of white and red beans I found at the back of the cupboard. Hope they weren’t slug pellets or rat poison or something.’ Petra put her hand around her throat and feigned near-death.

  ‘Do you think he’s an estate agent?’ She had to know if it was only her who thought Elias’s behaviour at the Villa Selino had been off. Petra had known him just as long – or rather as little – as her.

  ‘Don’t you?’ Petra asked.

  ‘I… don’t know,’ Becky admitted.

  ‘Did he tell you he was an estate agent?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Or did you assume from something he said?’ Petra asked again, leaning forward across the table. ‘Maybe he said something about buying and selling houses and you made an estate agent assumption?’

  ‘I… don’t know.’ Had she? Becky tried hard to remember the whole conversation from the plane to Athens. It all felt so long ago. All she really recalled was her telling Elias she was in the armed forces…

  ‘Do you think he’s stalking me?’ Petra asked, now all wide eyes and cheekbones yet somehow showing deep vulnerability. Becky was starting to feel differently about Petra since the revelation that she too had lost her father.

  ‘No… I… no.’ She shook her head. That wasn’t the vibe she was getting. But she was second-guessing her every thought at the moment.

  ‘Because it wouldn’t be my first stalker rodeo,’ Petra said, inhaling a mouthful of wine. ‘This one holiday in Nicaragua there was this nature reserve guide who started turning up everywhere I went… and I mean everywhere. The final straw was when I went for a pee, behind a tree, on a hike in the middle of nowhere and there he was! I mean, WTF!’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Becky said with a sigh. ‘I don’t know what it is. I just, have this feeling about him.’

  ‘He is hot,’ Petra said, running her tongue over her top lip. ‘If I was older maybe…’

  What? If she was older? Hadn’t she already been there in Kefalonia?

  ‘Or, you know,’ Petra began again, ‘if I was looking for something serious. He comes across as a bit serious, don’t you think?’

  He did. Sometimes. Other times he came across as light and fun and full of some sort of unique energy Becky was drawn to. And then there was his eyes and the tattoo she was intrigued by…

  ‘We could Google him,’ Petra announced.

  ‘No!’ Becky said at once. Why had she responded so vehemently? It would give her every answer she required. Or it could tell her nothing at all.

  ‘Ooo, let’s do it!’ Petra said, thumb already working all over the screen of her phone. ‘He was super cagey when I asked him what he did for a job. Why wouldn’t you be honest unless you had something to hide! This is a great idea of yours.’

  ‘Stop!’ Becky ordered. Her heart was racing now. The last time she felt this panicked it had been when Megan had been admitted to hospital with suspected appendicitis. It hadn’t been. It had been severe constipation put down to a weekend of too much prosecco and not enough fibre ironically at a food and beverage expo. But the initial fear that her sister might have to have an operation, and the fact she was the next-of-kin on hand had been terrifying. That had been after their mum’s move to Blackpool, when their relationship became more about the business than it did about them being sisters… ‘Petra, please don’t.’

  ‘Why not?’ Petra asked, fingers poised.

  ‘Because…’

  ‘Because?

  ‘Because… perhaps…’

  ‘Perhaps?’ Petra shook her head. ‘Are you sure you’re only twenty-five because sometimes you talk like my auntie and she’s sixty.’

  Becky knew why she didn’t want Petra to use Google. Because the parts about Elias she wanted to recount when she got back from her travels were all the good parts, the bits where she had felt free and strong and alluring in his arms. That’s what she wanted to keep as a sweet Greek holiday memory. If they used Google to find out more about him, she was confident she was going to be faced with a different reality. Perhaps it was a case of the less she knew the better. Although, as far as the security of Villa Selino went, maybe it was better to be forewarned. She had already tried to call Ms O’Neill but there had been no answer. She would try again before she emailed. As much as she wanted to know if the villa really was going on the market, she also didn’t want her employer to think she couldn’t deal with day-to-day tasks. That was what she was supposed to be here for.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Becky responded with a sigh. She should be feeling relaxed, gazing out over the bright wat
er, the headland of nearby Kassiopi jutting into the ocean, sunshine sprinkling the water with flashes of silvery light, boats tied off to day-glow buoys… but something was amiss. She either had to try and find out what it was, or she had to let it go. There was definitely nothing in the opening chapters of How to Find the Love of Your Life or Die Trying about how to deal with potential suitors pretending to be estate agents. If he was pretending…

  ‘Googling now,’ Petra announced, as if Becky hadn’t offered any warnings at all.

  ‘Petra, no! Please!’

  ‘Well, well, well,’ Petra said, eyes out on stalks as she gazed at her screen, picking up another meatball and biting into it.

  ‘What?’ Becky asked, taking another slice of bread from the basket and tearing a section off. She had to have something to occupy her while Petra went all erotomaniac.

  ‘There is absolutely nothing on the internet about him. Nada. Nicht. Rien. Mị̀mī xarị.’

  Becky didn’t have a clue what language the last words had been spoken in, but her heart was beating softer now. If there was nothing on the internet, then perhaps she had misjudged him entirely. What had she been expecting to find? That he was that axe murderer they had joked about in-flight? Maybe she even owed him an apology. What was the name of the village he said his parents lived in? Lia-something. Was that the village Petra had run to? The one with the burgeoning boxes of blooms and the cute stray dogs? They should find it. Find him. She would hopefully have heard from Ms O’Neill before tonight…

  ‘Of course,’ Petra began. ‘It’s very suspicious that there isn’t anything. I mean, if he’s an estate agent that has flown from England to sell a house, he must be good at what he does. And if he’s good at what he does there should be something on the web.’ Petra scoffed. ‘Even I get a mention for winning a thumb-wrestling competition in Amritsar.’

  Becky sighed. If she Googled Rebecca Rose what would come up about her? A big, fat blank? Or maybe something about It’s A Wrap? Perhaps her father’s obituary? Loving husband and father taken too soon – a life half-lived, half-of-the-life lived in a garden shed and the rest in a nursing home. But loved and very much missed…