‘What did you do?’ I splutter. This is actually far worse than my story, I’d only been building up the guy for a couple of days.
‘She told me I could still stay at her parents’ house, while she went to stay with a friend.’
This is just too bizarre. ‘So how did it end?’
‘Her dad sat me down and had a talk with me. He basically told me she had a life there – a job with prospects and I was, well, essentially a Greek barman with none.’
‘What a cheek!’
‘Well, they were right and, honestly, I think that talk changed the course of my life. I wanted to prove that I was more than what they predicted for me so I applied for maritime studies in Liverpool, graduated top of my class, and you know the rest.’
I can’t help but feel a tingle of pride. I think of all the people calling out to welcome him home, people who live here all year round, he’s the special one now – off seeing the world on some glamorous cruiseship. She’s probably married to a photocopier salesman. Of course in this particular case she could have made the right choice.
All the same, I can’t help but wonder what impact this early broken heart may have had on him. I’d ask but now the waitress has come to take our order. My finger is in position on the cocktail menu but apparently first she needs to have an extensive catch-up with Alekos. In Greek. I’m trying to adopt a ‘don’t mind me’ expression but my face is too tired to hold it together and I can feel myself glazing over. I wonder if it would seem rude if I took this opportunity to text Jules?
‘If you think your sudden wedding plans were shocking, get this: I’ve gone to Greece with Alekos!’
No one seems concerned – they don’t seem to go much for overly formal introductions here, though the waitress does at one point reach over to shake my hand. I hope she doesn’t think I’m one of his conquests. If I could I’d take her to one side and explain that I am independent, that my presence here is an act of kindness at best, pity for the most part. But she’s off to rustle up our order.
Just the two of us again, I look up at Alekos as brightly as I can, ready to engage, only to find him eyeing up two miniskirted girls giggling into their frosted beer glasses. My heart sinks. Just as I suspected. I can hold his attention in an area with thirty-two inches of leg room but widen the arena and look what happens. I know I’ve made it clear I don’t like him in that way but I still find it rude. I wonder if he’d feel the same way, if the situation were reversed . . .
‘Wow, he’s attractive.’ I point to a passing guy with a jaw-length man mane. ‘Do you know him?’
‘He’s too tall for you,’ Alekos dismisses him in a trice.
‘No he’s not!’ I laugh, a little taken aback by the absoluteness of his reaction.
Alekos merely shrugs – apparently the subject is closed simply because he has decreed it so.
I look back at the girls he was eyeing and taunt, ‘Don’t you think they’re a bit young for you?’
‘Too young and too cheap,’ he agrees, throwing me completely.
‘Really?’ I do a double-take. ‘You mean you wouldn’t—’
He shakes his head.
‘Well, who would you go for?’ I’m curious as I look around the bar, ironically now actively encouraging him to gawp at other women.
‘Of course it would be you.’
‘Tell me why!’ I challenge him, expecting him to flounder but he answers without hesitation.
‘You don’t have to try so hard. You don’t exploit yourself to get male attention. You have class.’
I don’t even get to revel in this compliment for a full minute. All my supposed class is kicked to the kerb with the arrival of my cocktail – it’s not enough that it’s vast and luminous blue with multicoloured paper fans crowding the rim, but it’s also sporting a giant Rio Carnival sparkler.
‘Oh great,’ I mutter, quickly trying to dismantle it before the people of Malia hear that this is where the real party is. ‘Where’s yours?’ I ask as the waitress sets a dessert bowl before him.
‘I’m not having one, I ordered kataifi instead.’
It’s one of my quirks that I find men with a sweet tooth a turn-on. I don’t know if it’s because it takes all the guilt away from my own calorific indulgences but I can feel myself warming to him further as I witness his obvious pleasure.
‘You have to try it!’
I grab the spoon from him before he attempts to feed me. ‘Mmm!’ I’m surprised by the texture. ‘It’s like shredded wheat with golden syrup on top.’
‘Try it with the ice cream!’ he enthuses.
‘Aleko!’ I hear his name called from across the street. In seconds three burly blokes have crowded around and I’ve lost him again. I wonder if its a cultural thing, these men ignoring me, or whether any woman with Alekos is not really worth the investment of a pleasantry because surely they’ll be disposed of within a week or two? I could just be letting paranoia get the better of me, but suddenly ten days seems like an awfully long time. Especially since what little advantage I had on the plane appears to be evaporating by the second. I have entered his world now. And that makes me uneasy.
Come on, Miss Harper! Keep positive!
I try to tell myself that sipping cocktails al fresco on a balmy night beats lolling in Jules’ flat, but does it? Aside from Brothers & Sisters, she would have recorded Ugly Betty and Strictly Come Dancing. Plus there would be a stack of Psychologies magazine and that lovely Thai takeaway around the corner from her . . .
‘Are you ready to go home?’ Alekos appears to have read my mind.
It takes me a second to realise that he means his home.
After returning to the car, we weave along the coastal road, glinting water splaying out to our right, commercial properties thinning out to our left. The night is so quiet, I should just let my grievances waft out to sea but the excess of food colouring in my drink means I just can’t keep my mouth shut.
‘So how come you didn’t introduce me to your friends?’
He frowns deeply. ‘I thought I did.’
‘Not to the majority of them, not to those last guys . . .’
‘Not all of the people I spoke to tonight are my friends.’ He gives me a significant look. ‘I don’t want everyone knowing my business.’
‘Oh. Well.’ I hadn’t thought of that. ‘I just found it a little impolite.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. You know how we English love our manners . . .’
‘Okay.’ He nods as if he’s actually taking on board what I am saying. ‘Do you want me to take you to see the puppies now?’
I can’t help but laugh. Is that his idea of a peace offering? ‘How about tomorrow?’ I reason. ‘Seriously, I’m dying now. Aren’t you tired?’
‘I’m happy.’ He shrugs. As if the two things are mutually exclusive.
Veering away from the coast, we weave up a haphazard collection of dirt roads until Alekos halts beside a multilevelled angular block with a brick chimney-stack sticking up through a corrugated iron canopy. Surely not?
The front is more picturesque with patchwork stonework, foliage draped around the arched window and a stable-style door.
‘After you.’ He allows me to step first on to the marble-slabbed floor. The kitchen-dining area is directly ahead, with an Aga, woven fabric rug and dark wooden table that could comfortably seat eight.
‘This is typical of a Cretan home.’ Alekos draws my attention to the stone arch dividing the main room and enhancing the sense of cave dwelling.
‘I keep thinking you’re saying cretin,’ I snigger as I run my hand over the rough walls.
‘I am.’
‘No, not Cretan, cretin – you know, as in imbecile.’
Again the look on his face suggests that he’s in no doubt which of the two of us best fits that label.
I turn my attention to a photo magnetised to the fridge.
‘That’s my brother, Angelos.’ He points to a face that couldn’t be more dif
ferent to his own – whereas Alekos has a square-jawed Bond quality, Angelos is more lean and Wolverine.
‘Is this his girlfriend?’ I ask, somewhat rhetorically as they are lovingly entwined.
He nods. ‘Birgit. She’s Belgian.’
‘She’s beautiful,’ I coo. She looks almost ethereal, like a water sprite or a woodland fairy with the most delicately sculpted features, gamine haircut and pretty cotton sundress.
I can see this rustic environment suiting them but I’m having trouble picturing Alekos here – on the ship I always perceived him as quite the metrosexual: so groomed and fragrant, Kirby even saw him getting a manicure once. But this is no place for cufflinks and cuticle cream. Even Loulou the dog is wonderfully dishevelled – a scrappy, grey-whiskered, dreadlocked creature – rub her head and the fur in question instantly becomes a backcombed nest.
‘You can have the upstairs room,’ he nods to the wooden staircase, ‘it has its own bathroom and terrace.’
‘Sounds great.’
‘I’ll be down here,’ he says as he nudges his case behind the curtain that separates his camp bed from where we stand. ‘I hope to have my own place here soon,’ he says wistfully. ‘Some of the guys I spoke to tonight have places for me to view – once my brother gets back and I have time to go shopping.’
I do my best to muster a smile – I’d love to stay and chat about the Greek mortgage system but I really do need to get to bed.
‘What time is kick-off tomorrow?’ I ask as I head for the stairs.
‘We’ll leave around nine.’
‘Great, see you in the morning!’ I exit with the merest flutter of fingers as a goodnight gesture. Nightie on, horizontal position, out.
If only.
Lying in the dark in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room brings home to me that I really don’t have a clue where I am. It was so dark on the way here I may as well have been blindfolded in the trunk of the car. You’d think I’d be used to feeling displaced but typically I’m never further than a life-ring’s sling from the ship: no matter how exotic my day’s excursion – from some temple heady with incense or a vast expanse of wilderness, I go back to my own little personalised bunk at night. This situation feels particularly odd, not just because I’m sleeping in someone else’s home, but because I feel like I’m trespassing in someone else’s life.
‘Selena!’
Oh here we go. The night call of the amorous Greek.
‘Are you sleeping?’ His voice wends up the stairs to me.
‘What do you want?’ I grizzle back to him.
He sighs before replying. ‘I know this sounds ridiculous but I am having trouble getting undressed.’
I roll my eyes but simultaneously swing my legs out of bed. I should have thought of this before I slipped into something diaphanous. ‘Hold on a minute!’ I reach for my dressing gown and then creak across the rough floorboards, regretting not having packed my slippers.
‘I managed the first two buttons but the rest are resisting my touch,’ he explains, awaiting my assistance beneath the Cretan arch.
Avoiding eye contact, I duly release the rest of his tiny pearlised shackles and part his shirt.
‘Oh!’ I find myself saying out loud.
‘Oh what?’ he looks curious.
‘Nothing!’ I flush.
‘You thought I would be hairier, didn’t you?’ He tilts his head to the side. This obviously isn’t the first time he’s had this reaction.
‘Maybe,’ I concede, toes scrunching in embarrassment. Certainly the black tufts escaping his cuffs had led me to presume a furry bear of a man lurked beneath. In reality, aside from the strokeable forearms, a pleasant whisking on his pecs and a fine trail leading down to his belly button, his torso is polished-toffee smooth. Not that I’m peering closely or anything.
‘I’m going to undo the sling,’ I inform him, getting back to business.
Gingerly I unclick the clip, cradling his elbow until his arm is resting safely. Now for the grand unveiling. ‘Right arm first,’ I say, lifting the material away from his skin and allowing him to shrug free of the first sleeve. I then walk the fabric around to his now bare back.
‘One moment!’ I put him on pause on the pretext of figuring out my next manoeuvre but really I just need a second to take in all the contours of his back. I didn’t expect him to be so elegantly defined or to have such incredibly sheer skin. Though his body is emanating a warmth that invites touch, I continue to behave like I am doing one of those steady hand, loop-over-a-wiggly-wire tests, never letting my fingers stray from his shirt, even over the bandaged area.
One part of me may be whispering, You’re alone on a hilltop undressing a Greek officer in the moonlight! but the more dominant part appears to be channelling a department store shop assistant: ‘Is there anything else I can help you with, sir?’
‘Well . . .’ He looks sheepishly at his navel.
‘I am not unzipping your fly!’ I splutter in protest.
‘I’m not asking you to, just the button above it. It’s a little stiff,’ he explains, with the faintest hint of mischief.
I take a deep breath and manhandle the metal stud free. ‘There!’ I announce.
‘Thank you. I should be fine now.’
Is that a twinge of disappointment I just experienced? ‘Well, if you have any issues with pyjama buttons—’
‘Pyjamas?’ he scoffs. ‘In this heat?’
‘I was only asking,’ I pout. ‘I realise you’re not really the type.’
‘I sleep naked.’
‘Of course you do.’
I turn to leave but he halts me with the words, ‘Don’t you?’
I tug at a swatch of my nightie: ‘Exhibit A. Nope.’
‘How very puritanical of you.’
I should just let this comment go but a combination of lack of sleep and intense irritation at myself for admiring his bare-chested charms magnifies his patronising tone tenfold and sends me over my overtired edge.
‘Do you have any idea how judgemental you are?’ I switch back to face him. ‘You presume that just because a girl prefers to wear a nightie she doesn’t know how to have a good time in bed?’ I snort with derision. ‘I hate that you address me like I’m some kind of repressed prude!’
‘Well, you are a little that way!’ He can’t hide his smile.
‘How would you know?’ I gasp, outraged. ‘You’ve never even slept with me!’
‘Exactly!’
‘What?’ I reel. This man really is the giddy limit.
‘If you weren’t such a prude we would have had sex by now,’ he reasons.
‘Oh my god, you are amazing! I mean really, the arrogance of you!’
‘You said yourself you find me sexually intimidating!’
‘Yes, in a totally off-putting, turn-off kind of way!’ I’m all up in his face now. ‘Have you ever heard the fable about the sun and the moon competing to get the traveller’s coat off?’ Before he can answer I’m in full flow. ‘The more the wind blows, the tighter he clings to his coat but when the sun gently warms him, he voluntarily disrobes.’ I give him a loaded look. ‘It’s no wonder women load on the layers around you!’ I say, tugging my dressing gown tighter and flouncing out of the room with a highly ineffective parting cry of: ‘You are the wind!’
Unfortunately I’m still within earshot as he informs me that Aesop, originator of the fable, was Greek.
Aaagghhh! I simply can’t win with him. What was I thinking coming here? Before today I hardly knew this man and what little I did know I didn’t like. I hear a few ancient yarns over a couple of glasses of wine and board a plane with him to another country! I must be mad. I don’t even really like beaches. Not like Jules. God, if only she wasn’t already in Mauritius, I’d insist she took the first flight over. She’d make mincemeat of him.
I reach for my phone and text her furiously. I need your man-squishing skills! The Greek is proving seriously offensive. May be at your flat sooner than expected. Sx
Setting the phone on the floor beside me I try to steady my breathing, lying flat out with my palms to the mattress. But then I hear footsteps on the stairs.
‘You’ve got to be kidding me!’
I’m about to reach for the nearby bouzouki to clout him over the head when Loulou jumps up on to the foot of the bed.
‘Oh it’s you!’ I can’t help but smile, giving her straggly head a rumple. Maybe I have an ally after all. ‘That’s right,’ I tell her as we both snuggle down. ‘Us girls have got to stick together.’
6
‘The unexamined life is not worth living.’ – Socrates
No engine burr, no message from the captain announcing our arrival into a new port, no room-mate squealing that she’s late for the art auction and can’t find her name badge or her left shoe. I listen more closely. The only sound I can hear is Loulou’s nails clicking around the slate floor of the kitchen. Alekos must still be sleeping. I don’t want to risk waking him so I tiptoe to the terrace to get some air.
The view widens my scrunched eyes even in the face of blinding sunlight. Last night I thought we’d edged up some enclosed alley; I had no sense of how high we’d climbed and I was hardly expecting a full spin-around panorama to greet me this morning.
The first thing to zap my vision is the electric blue of the sea, tantalising the half-parched land surrounding it. At the farthest ebb, the mountains recline long and lazy, trimming the horizon with gentle undulations, contrasting directly with the angular jiggle of unfinished-looking houses tumbling down to the water’s edge through patches of defiant greenery. I’ve seen more lush and lavish views in my travels but this vista has a certain unfussed-with, take-me-as-I-am charm and I find myself leaning in the doorframe gazing lovingly upon the sea, just as Shirley Valentine did that first morning beyond her package tour. She looked so sun-kissed serene in her lemon and lavender silk kimono donated by Gillian from across the road, in honour of her pursuit of passion. Now that comparison I wouldn’t mind a bit.
In fact, without Alekos affecting my mood, I feel almost at ease with myself in this moment. Nothing seems as scary or daunting in the sunlight. My only regret now is biting his head off last night. I think of his self-satisfied smirk and kick myself all the more – he was being deliberately provocative and I was a fool to react.
Out of the Blue Page 7
