by Mandy Baggot
‘We can eat,’ Becky said quickly. ‘I am slightly peckish.’
Petra made a face at her – either because of her alleged old age language or because she couldn’t ingest another meal – as Becky headed over to the table while Eleni stole two chairs from next to a woman who appeared to be doing crochet.
‘You must be very hungry,’ Eleni told them. ‘To have not had food or drink since you arrive in Corfu.’
‘Oh no, we…’ Petra started.
Becky slapped Petra’s arm as hard as she could, making the girl yelp and hold onto the sore spot. Her friend didn’t seem to get it that they shouldn’t mention shopping elsewhere.
‘Ow!’
‘Sorry,’ Becky apologised. ‘Mosquito. A really big one just feeding on your arm.’
‘Really?’ Petra said, studying her flesh and looking for the mark.
‘I have made stifado. Sit.’ It was definitely an order and Becky plumped down onto one of the wooden chairs, her bum taking up the whole of the had-to-be-tiny seat.
‘You will have wine,’ Eleni continued, producing placemats and knives and forks from about her person. ‘I make.’
‘Lovely,’ Becky replied.
‘And you will buy food for the villa before you leave.’
‘But we…’ Petra began. She was sitting opposite Becky now and Becky struck out a foot, connecting with her shin. ‘Ow! That can’t have been because of a mosquito!’
‘What is stifado?’ Becky asked Eleni. Anything to deter the woman from Petra who was about to reveal they had bought groceries from another mini-market.
‘Beef. In a sauce. With onions.’
‘Delicious,’ Becky said. ‘I can’t wait.’
Eleni nodded her head and finally disappeared into the property. Still all eyes were on them and Becky smiled at the locals in the hope they would find something more interesting to focus on very soon or it was going to make for an awkward evening. None of them looked much like they were the types to fill them in on information about one of their own.
‘She doesn’t put any question marks at the end of her sentences, does she?’ Petra remarked, rubbing her leg with her hand before straightening back up.
‘I’m sure the food is going to be very nice,’ Becky answered. ‘Traditional home-cooked beef in a sauce.’
‘It’s a bit odd that they don’t have a menu,’ Petra remarked. ‘In Asia the only places that didn’t have menus were the street vendors, or the restaurants you really didn’t ought to be eating in.’
‘Well, I don’t think it’s like that in Greece,’ Becky replied, relieved that at least some of the other patrons were now going back to their games and conversations. ‘I read in my guidebook that at some tavernas they only sell one or two dishes that the grandmother has cooked that day. It’s like sitting down to dinner with the family. And it saves waste obviously.’ She drew in a breath, gazing out over the little square with its wooden benches, fat-trunked olive tree and spiralling floral displays from the surrounding balconies. She liked it here. It was old-fashioned and slow-paced, like time had completely bypassed it. It was a little like how the UK used to be before everyone got glued to their iPhones and there were news alerts about whatever senior members of the royal family were up to.
‘I think we’re going to have to look further afield if we want to find some action of the male variety,’ Petra whispered. ‘All the men here are over fifty. All of them.’
‘That’s not true,’ Becky said. ‘There was that group of boys we passed on the way here, on bicycles.’
‘They were boys. About ten years old. Not men. No,’ Petra said. ‘We are going to have to have a few nights out in Kassiopi, I think. Check out the under-thirties of the island.’
‘How long are you planning to be away from home for?’ Becky asked. ‘It sounds like you’ve been to so many exciting places already.’
Petra shrugged. ‘I’m not really counting the days or anything. She’s coming with the wine. It looks a bit of a funny colour.’
‘Well,’ Becky said. ‘Don’t say anything about that. We need to keep her on side otherwise she might tell Ms O’Neill that I have someone staying with me or that we had a bear-thing and cats and a flamingo in the house.’ If she hadn’t told her already. Although Becky suspected that if Ms O’Neill did know about it, she would have contacted her already.
‘It’s dark brown,’ Petra said, wrinkling her nose.
Becky swallowed to almost brace her palate.
‘Wine,’ Eleni said, banging a very large jug of haven’t-had-a-pee-all-day-coloured liquid into the centre of the table.
‘Ooo, that’s an unusual shade,’ Petra remarked, despite Becky’s raised eyes the second she had opened her mouth. ‘What type of wine is it?’
‘My wine,’ Eleni snapped her reply. ‘It is a recipe handed down from my grandmother’s grandmother.’
‘That sounds… perfect,’ Becky said quickly. ‘Traditional.’
‘The stifado is coming. You will have bread.’
Petra opened her lips to reply.
‘It wasn’t a question,’ Becky mouthed across the table.
As Eleni left them again, Petra put her nose to the large carafe, sniffing. ‘Jesus, it smells like it’s come out of someone’s grandmother’s grandmother. If we drink this we’re probably going to die.’
Becky nodded. ‘But, on the other hand, if we don’t drink it, she’ll probably kill us anyway. How would you rather go?’
‘Pass me a glass,’ Petra ordered.
Thirty-Seven
‘Shit, I’m pissed,’ Petra hiccupped and leaned so far back on the tiny chair that she almost toppled it over backwards. Only grabbing the table with her fingertips prevented her spilling onto the floor. ‘What is in that wine?’
‘Do you really want to ask?’ Becky was feeling a little on the blurry side too and it was nothing like any of the on-the-way-to-drunk feelings she had had before in the UK. This was on a whole new level. She mustn’t drink any more. And she mustn’t let herself be in charge of anything – things with wheels, credit cards, her phone.
The stifado had been wonderful though. The hunks of beef tasted like they had been quietly, oh-so-slowly stewed for at least a whole day and the rich, red sauce had a gravy consistency that tasted of paprika, cumin, nutmeg and cinnamon. As good as it was though, Becky couldn’t help but think there was something missing. She couldn’t quite yet put her finger on what it was though.
‘We need to ask someone,’ Petra loud whispered.
‘Ask someone what?’
‘Ask someone about Elias,’ Petra said. ‘You know, our mission for being here was to find out more about him, not to get as fat as a big, fat Greek meze or as drunk as… as drunk as… as drunk as we are already.’ Petra hiccupped again then sneezed.
‘You speak about Elias?’
It was Eleni. Where had she come from? Becky sat up a little taller and straightaway felt under the deepest scrutiny.
‘Elias Mordos,’ Petra spoke, her words very slurry. ‘Do you know him? Six-foot, short dark hair, quite hot for a man in his thirties, fit body…’
‘It’s Mardas,’ Becky interrupted. ‘Not Mordos.’
‘Is it?’ Petra asked, toying with her plaits.
‘I know him,’ Eleni answered. ‘Wears the expensive suits. Has money.’
‘He has money, does he?’ Petra asked, showing a little too much enthusiasm in Becky’s opinion.
‘You want his money?’ Eleni snapped, almost baring teeth.
‘No,’ Becky said. ‘We met him… on a plane and…’
‘Three planes actually,’ Petra reminded.
‘He does not fly a plane that is private anymore?’ Eleni said. ‘He cannot have as much money as we think.’
‘That’s an excellent point,’ Petra mused, a finger in the air, eyes a little glassy. Becky hoped she didn’t look quite that intoxicated.
‘But,’ Petra began again, ‘rich people these days, they are absolutely par
anoid about their carbon footprint, aren’t they? And flying with other people is eco-friendlier and better for the environment. Well, not better per se but, you know, slightly less harsh on the ozone.’
‘He has good shoes, doesn’t he?’ Eleni carried on. ‘A well-styled carbon footprint.’
‘So, you know him well?’ Becky asked her. ‘Elias.’
‘We are very close, if you know what I mean.’ Eleni touched the side of her nose with a finger. ‘We have been as close as two people can be.’
‘Ugh! No! Seriously?!’ Petra exclaimed in horror. ‘That’s like Dick Van Dyke… but in reverse. Loved him in Murder 101 on Hallmark but… no.’
‘Petra!’ Becky didn’t know exactly how old Dick Van Dyke was – or if he was even still alive – but there was no way Eleni was in her – nineties? – or… dead.
‘You think a woman like me could not be attractive to a younger man?’ Eleni asked, her face suddenly very in the middle of their space. She smelled of the stifado. What was it that was missing from that dish? Something to just add a little extra zing… Becky shook her head and re-engaged.
‘I don’t think Petra meant that. At all.’ But the reality was, Eleni seemed to be telling them that she knew Elias intimately and that made her even more suspicious about who he actually was. Could the man who had held her in his arms so tenderly have a penchant for the older woman? But who was she to judge? And she guessed everyone had a past.
‘I can’t believe I’ve half-kissed someone who would be “as close as two people can be” with someone like—’
‘Petra,’ Becky said warningly. Had Petra said ‘half-kissed’. What did that mean? There had been no half measures of a kiss from where she had been standing in Kefalonia. She was starting to get a headache and she looked at the dark white wine and wondered whether more of it might be the best cure.
‘You kiss Elias?’ Eleni blurted out suddenly. It was a horrified sound like Petra could have infected him with something she might have picked up in the darkest corners of Bali.
‘I… not really… it was just the most fleeting of touches,’ Petra backtracked. ‘You’re not still together, are you?’ Becky watched her shrink a little.
‘You like men?’ Eleni continued, picking up their used cutlery and brandishing it as she prepared to clear the table.
‘I don’t know what the right answer is,’ Petra said, her usual bluster diminished.
‘You do not kiss a man one moment and then a woman the next?’ Eleni continued.
‘You really can’t ask questions like that in 2020,’ Petra responded, a little confidence coming back. ‘And you certainly cannot make a judgement on it. I believe very strongly that love is love.’
‘I think,’ Becky began, ‘that…’
‘I think that you are not for Elias,’ Eleni concluded. ‘You are too… English.’
‘Oh my God!’ Petra gasped. ‘You can’t say that either!’
Becky wanted the whole conversation to stop. How had it developed into this in the first place?
‘I can say what I like,’ Eleni responded. ‘This is my cafeneon.’
‘And you should be accepting of everyone if you want people to spend their money here,’ Petra told her.
‘Could we have some more wine?’ Becky asked.
Eleni glared at her. ‘You have not finished the first jug.’
‘I know,’ Becky replied. ‘But we will. Look, I’m having the last glass now.’ She poured the remaining wine into her glass and held it in the air as proof… and a passing mosquito dive-bombed right into it.
‘Eleni!’ The voice came from inside the building and the woman turned her head to see who was calling her. Then she grabbed the plates from in front of the women, turned and headed back inside.
‘Shit!’ Petra announced, grabbing Becky’s glass of wine and downing it in one.
‘Petra, there was a mosquito in there. I was going to fish it out.’
Petra wasn’t listening. Petra looked to be in shock. ‘Can you believe it. Elias and that woman? I mean, it doesn’t make any sense, does it? A guy like that and… her.’ Petra chewed on the end of one of her plaits. ‘But, then again, you know, maybe it does make sense. Maybe that’s exactly why he wasn’t into our kiss.’
Elias hadn’t been into the kiss with Petra? Becky couldn’t help but sit further forward, bumping her small chair in slightly. ‘Elias wasn’t into your kiss?’ Repeating that sentence seemed to set off a chain reaction of events inside her. She was feeling Elias’s fingers on her skin, the warmth of his hand in hers, the movement of their dancing… This wine was definitely potent and she needed to remember that the more she found out about him the less she seemed to know.
‘No,’ Petra admitted with a sigh. ‘It was alright, you know, obviously because he’s hot, but I could just tell he wasn’t really in the moment with me.’
‘Oh,’ Becky said. Would she know if Elias hadn’t been in the moment with her? She didn’t have a great track record on that score. She hadn’t known that Mr Eighteen Months hadn’t been in many moments with her. ‘That’s… upsetting.’
‘Not really,’ Petra said with a sniff. ‘You win some, you lose some. And I said before, he’s way too old for me. Practically Dick Van Dyke.’
Becky shook her head. Petra seemed to think that anyone over twenty was halfway to the grave. And how old could Elias be? Thirty, perhaps?
‘Now, those guys over there, they’re much more my thing,’ Petra announced. ‘Definitely under thirty and hot with it. And here! In the Village of Retired People! I’d better go and introduce myself before they get snapped up by someone else who’s bored of looking at grey matter.’ And just like that, Petra was up off her seat and rushing from the terrace of the cafeneon and across the road to the restaurant named ‘Panos’s Taverna’. Becky could see there were a group of three men in their twenties, arriving at the entrance. They very much looked like they wanted a meal and not to be jumped on by a very full-on Brit under the influence of local wine.
‘Dark Dating!’
Becky jumped in her seat as Eleni banged down a day-glow orange flyer on the table, the salt and pepper pots rattling against each other. There were letters and words she could not comprehend. Greek words in the Greek alphabet. There was a number seven and that was about all Becky could get from it.
‘What is this?’ she asked, picking the paper up and pretending to look interested. What she really wanted to do was pay for the meal and get back to the house for a late-night swim to cool off from the humidity. Another jug of wine came crashing down. No swimming if she had to drink the wine she shouldn’t really have ordered more of.
‘This is something you will come to on Saturday.’
‘Oh, well… I don’t know what Petra’s plans are and…’
‘You tell me she only stay at the villa for a couple of nights.’
Bugger. Eleni remembered everything. ‘I…’
‘Dark Dating,’ Eleni said, snatching the paper out of Becky’s hands and translating it for her. ‘I see this on TV. I make this in Corfu. But with the twist.’
‘The twist?’ Becky queried.
‘You cannot see and you do not speak.’
‘I don’t understand.’ How could you date in the dark and not speak to your date either? How could you get to know anything about anyone? By touch alone? Becky shuddered. She really didn’t want to think about the connotations of that!
‘You will come,’ Eleni ordered. ‘You and the rude girl. I find you nice Greek men who are not Elias.’
‘Oh… well, I’m not looking for any men,’ Becky said, a blush covering her entire face and rapidly spreading to her neck. All she could see in her mind’s eye was the cover of How to Find the Love of Your Life or Die Trying.
‘You look for women?’ Eleni asked, raising an eyebrow.
‘No, but—’
‘Good. You come. It is ten euros. There is food. I add to your bill.’
‘Well, I need to—’
‘Drink the wine,’ Eleni ordered, pointing at the new carafe. ‘No one leaves my cafeneon until they have finished.’
‘Efharisto,’ Becky said, reaching for the jug. ‘Yammas.’ Resistance was apparently futile.
Thirty-Eight
Villa Selino, Kerasia
Elias sat in his hire car outside the property watching the light of the moon reflecting off the roof tiles. He had the window of the car down, the temperature cooling only slightly, the burr of the bugs from the trees and the occasional hooting of an owl were the only sounds.
Earlier, he had spoken to Chad on FaceTime and told him that Kristina was currently not in Corfu as first thought. Elias had been honest and said that although his initial plan had been to speak with her personally, to put the offer they had devised to her rather than through her own solicitor, that perhaps her absence was fortuitous. He had asked Chad to provide him with an inventory of what should be in the villa and Chad was going to put this together overnight. What Elias hadn’t told Chad was that when he had looked through the window of the property that morning, there was an obvious absence of artwork on the walls. Bare space and tell-tale fading of the paintwork told a story. Perhaps Kristina had simply got bored of what was there. But, equally, perhaps they had been expensive pieces she had sold already, or was planning to sell without Chad’s knowledge. And that was the dilemma. Elias had Chad’s authority to go into the house and assess the situation and now he had his mother’s set of keys to give him access to the villa. But all he could think of was the underhandedness of it all. He shouldn’t be acting like some sort of private investigator. If he needed to creep around in the dark to get results then there was something very wrong with his life. And then there was Becky. Becky who he should stay away from, thrown back into his orbit by complete coincidence. Or perhaps, fate. What was he going to do about it all?
