I look at my watch. It’s nearly eight-thirty. Still his number just rings and rings. Perhaps I should send a text?
I opt for straightforward: Scuse late notice but would you like to come to dinner at hotel? I won’t mention anything about Jules at this point. Reservation at Dionyssos at 8.30 p.m. but can hold the table until you get here. Call me!
I press send and then the agonising wait begins.
It’s the strangest thing with texting – the second you know your message has gone you are on tenterhooks. If you don’t get a reply directly, your heart sinks a little more with every passing minute. In the good old days, if you left a message on someone’s home answermachine and you didn’t hear back, you’d simply presume they were out and that they’d get back to you the next day. With a mobile phone you can’t help but think: it’s right there with him – in his hand or his pocket – why isn’t he replying? Even though it could be switched off or they could have no signal or be sitting in a cinema, you can’t help but feel a little rejected. Are they ignoring me? I double-check the message status – definitely sent – and then skulk around for a bit and check the Inbox just in case it forgot to alert me to a new message. Nope. Perhaps he’s asleep. I’d go for the cinema option, except Elounda doesn’t have one. He could be in a noisy bar, however. It is the first night he’s had off from me other than the dinner with his dad. He’s probably out with his mates.
And then the paranoia begins. Maybe he’s glad I’m gone. Maybe he needs this break. Maybe he’s offended that I just dropped him like a hot potato when a better offer came in. No, no, no. Think of how we were in the pool. That was just divine. I have to have faith. He’s not ignoring me, he just hasn’t got the message yet. Got to keep positive.
I walk on, retracing the path of my earlier buggy ride until I reach the beach. Having studied the hotel map, I’m fairly certain I can cut through here, though I hadn’t considered the practicalities of stilettos on the sand. I slip off my shoes and pad barefoot, experiencing a momentary sense of feeling grounded and at peace. Ahead of me is the most rustic of the hotel’s restaurants – Kafenion – designed to look like a quaint beachside taverna. At a table with whitewashed banquette seating I see a youngish couple laughing together – he pulls her to him, kissing the side of her head as she pops a shrimp in her mouth, and I realise how much I want that easy affection in my life. Seeing Alekos suddenly seems more urgent than ever. I know the idea is that you release attachment and let the thing you want flow to you but I am working to a pretty tight time-frame here. Yes, I still have five more days, but what if Jules is planning on hanging around for the duration? It just won’t be the same. Tonight has to be the night!
But what more can I do to make it happen? I’ve told him the name of the restaurant and said I’ll hold the table so all I can do for now is get myself in position.
‘Yassas!’ I smile at the maître d’ at Dionyssos. ‘I have a reservation under the name Julie Webb for two people but my guest may be a little late. Is it okay if I go ahead and wait at the table?’
‘Of course, madam,’ he says, leading me through to a picturesque courtyard with lemon-plaid tablecloths, rattan chairs and a little blue fishing boat beached in the corner displaying a set of giant white shells.
A waiter helps me with my seat and napkin and informs me that tonight is Greek night.
‘Isn’t every night?’
‘Greek dancing and Greek buffet,’ he expands, pointing through an archway to where tables are heaped with succulent goodies. ‘Would you like to see the wine list?’
‘Oh, yes please!’ I perk up. That should take the edge off.
I try and sip slowly but it’s hard not to feel self-conscious and keep reaching for the glass when you are sitting alone at a table. I think of MSV and the conversation we had about dining solo at night. If I had his number I’d call him. But then how would that look if Alekos decided to show? I take a discreet peek at my fellow diners. Mercifully it’s not all couples. The age groups are mixed and there’re enough beautiful dresses to keep me visually entertained. Yikes! I wince as a new arrival weaves through the tables in a skintight leopard-print catsuit, so garishly Eurotrash amid all the streamlined elegance. Mind you, I’m a little bit leopard-print myself with all the bruises from assorted kayak bashings and clumsy speedboat reboarding. I really clunked my shin today. As I reach down to run my hand over the bump, I take a discreet look at my phone in my lap. How can a tiny metal object hold so much power? I feel like my entire destiny is caught up in telecommunication wiring right now.
Another sip of wine, perhaps?
In the absence of a dinner companion, I chink the display glass set with a single flamingo lily. Its red, heart-shaped petal seems a positive symbol of romance to come. Then again, you might also say that the yellow stamen is sticking its tongue out at me. Oh dear. All this switching between anticipatory excitement, impatience and disappointment is clearly taking its toll. I decide to distract myself with a perusal of the buffet.
I reel as I enter the second courtyard – there are so many platters, bowls and steaming tureens, it looks as if an entire village has got together and prepared a multitude of specialities for us.
But as I look around I find myself getting pangs – oh look! Mushed fava beans with diced onion like we ate at Plaka, tomatoey potato wedges akin to our après-Zeus-cave lunch, their version of the chickpea dish Alekos brought back from his father’s the night we visited the puppies. Maybe I should have opted for the Blue Lagoon Polynesian Restaurant and Sushi Bar; I wouldn’t be getting all nostalgic looking at a spicy tuna roll or a smear of wasabi.
Although my intention is to wait and eat with Alekos, I take a mixed plate back to the table as a prop. Fortunately, now the show is starting so all eyes are on the parade of dancers, not on the lone birthday girl.
Watching them bob and skip and stoop and flick, all interlocking arms and assisted leaps, all I can think is that I want to see my own Greek dance. Where is he? I rub the screen of my mobile phone as if the action might conjure a call. But none is forthcoming.
As the show progresses I learn that whereas the national costume for a male dancer is the white pleated skirt and dark red waistcoat, the Cretan man wears black, opting for knickerbockers instead of the ra-ra look and a raggedy tassled bandana. Their native dance – the pentozalis – seems more stompy-clappy in nature, culminating in a frantic double-speed dynamic. Apparently zala means dizzy in Greek. The dancers make it look effortless but as they take a bow I notice they are all steeped in sweat.
Giving them a well-deserved break, a singer takes centre-stage but all too soon the musicians begin plinking the infamous theme from Zorba the Greek and they’re back for the grand finale.
Still no response from Alekos.
Unwilling to admit defeat and even less keen on returning to the suite, I loiter at the dessert table, getting an education on Greek biscuits – I can’t decide on a favourite between the crispy-chewy loukoumas balls with their sticky sesame syrup and the sugar-dusted kourabies that crumble to the finest powder the instant they meet your mouth.
Each fingertip licked clean, I look at my watch: 10.50 p.m. What now?
‘Excuse me,’ I stop a passing waiter. ‘Could you recommend somewhere for a nightcap?’
Well, it’s still early by Alekos’ standards.
He directs me to the Veghera jetty bar – an open circular deck at the end of a rocky promontory, surrounded by swishy sea – such a magical setting I find myself hoping again. I can picture us here – the design emulates a ship with sails flaring taut from a central mast, multicoloured pulses racing the ropes and even a brass wheel for navigation.
‘Champagne!’ I order defiantly, taking a cushioned seat at the very edge of the decking so I can watch the tiny fish do their frenetic formation dance, made visible by underwater spotlights.
I sigh to myself.
There was a time when I would have sat here quite contentedly by myself but now I feel the absen
ce of Alekos piercing into me. It seems scandalous now how dismissive I was of him on the ship – all that time we could have spent together that can never be regained . . .
‘Selena!’ I hear a familiar male voice. But not a Greek one.
‘Graeme!’ I gasp, recognising the chap from the octopus trip. ‘And Emily!’ I cheer as she peeps out from behind him.
‘What are you doing here?’ we all ask at once.
It turns out they came in search of an unforgettable ‘last night of the holiday’ dinner, opting for fish specialities at Thalassa, and now, like me, they are trying to prolong the evening as much as they can.
In turn I explain that I was kidnapped and brought here by Jules, who has since conked out, and I am currently trying in vain to get hold of Alekos so he can join me. (Though I do take this opportunity to text him one more time – You’ll never guess who I’ve just bumped into! I don’t mention to them that it’s my birthday because if I get even a glimmer of pity at this point I’ll probably burst into tears.)
‘Well, as long as Alekos and Jules are not off together – you’re sure she’s asleep in the room?’
‘Emily!’ Graeme reprimands her.
‘Actually, she’s right to be suspicious – Jules did express a keen interest in him at the beach.’
‘Told you.’ Emily pokes Graeme. ‘We saw her all over him as we were leaving – talk about octopus hands! I wanted to turn the hose on her.’
I laugh, loving having someone on my side. ‘It’ll be okay as soon as I get the chance to explain the situation to her.’
‘You haven’t told her yet?’ Emily throws up her hands in horror. ‘What are you waiting for?’
‘Well, it’s complicated.’ I grimace. ‘She’s just broken up with the man she was going to marry so I don’t want to be completely insensitive and tell her that I’m wildly in love when she’s at her lowest ebb.’
‘Yes, well, that’s all very well but delay at your peril,’ Emily cautions.
‘I know, honestly; first thing in the morning I’m telling her straight – she can have any man on the island so long as he’s not Alekos!’
‘Good thing we’re leaving,’ Emily teases, putting a proprietorial hand on Graeme’s knee.
We chat for a while until it dawns on me that I may be cramping the romance of the situation for them and bid them a most grateful goodnight – they were just the distraction I needed, I feel almost human again.
‘Wait!’ Emily calls me back. ‘Graeme, have you got one of your cards?’
He duly obliges.
‘I’ll give you my email address,’ she says, scribbling busily. ‘In case you want to keep in touch.’
‘That would be great!’ I grin, smiling all the more as she draws three little hearts beside her message – ‘One for each of those octopus hearts!’ She winks as I leave.
Strolling back to the suite I decide that, seeing as I only have one heart myself, I don’t want it to be filled with anxiety and foreboding. I’d much rather it was brimming with love and optimism. So, yes, for whatever reason Alekos hasn’t responded to my texts but these things always seem more dramatic and significant in the dark. It’s not like I’ll never see him again. Come morning, I know exactly where to find him, the sun will be shining and I’ll tell him just how I feel. But first there’s the small matter of getting through the night . . .
As I slip back into the suite, I first check on Jules – mercifully exactly where I left her – and then sit out on the deck listening to the breeze. I stay there until midnight. Only when my birthday is officially over can I finally retreat indoors and succumb to the unbelievable comfort of the pillowtop mattress and luxury cottons.
Lying there in the dark, I try to be grateful for all that is around me but all I can see in the blackness is the digital display of the running machine, reminding me just how far I am from the love shack.
18
‘Everywhere man blames nature and fate, yet his fate is mostly but the echo of his character and passions, his mistakes and weaknesses.’ – Democritus
My eyes ping open – I made it through the night!
I’m so raring to go I reckon I could project myself from the bed to the shower in one leap – even taking into account the solid wall between the two – but before I disturb Jules I sneak a surreptitious hand out to my phone. No messages, but then it’s still early – Alekos would probably presume we were up all night talking, as girls are wont to do. Right. No more time to waste – I vowed I would take the very first opportunity to explain my change of heart to Jules and though it’s going to be a shock, the good news is that she’s already lying down. I take a breath and turn to face her.
Oh. She’s already up.
‘Jules!’ I call, sitting up in bed.
No reply. I swing my feet on to the rattan mat and stagger through to the bathroom – she’s not in the shower, bath or even dangling from the gym bars. I heave back the patio door. She’s not on the deck, or in the pool. No doubt she woke up ravenous after missing dinner last night; she’s probably already gone to breakfast. I’m surprised she didn’t leave me a note, though . . . A-ha! It’s then I spot a sheet of hotel notepaper held in place with a peach on the writing desk.
Wide awake at 1 a.m., darn this jet lag! Have mad craving to see Alekos! If I’m not in bed with you in the morning, you know it went well . . .
What? One of Zeus’ thunderbolts has just struck straight through my heart. She can’t mean it! Surely she wouldn’t have driven over there in the middle of the night? I look around the room for further evidence. Her handbag is gone and, more significantly, her make-up bag. Oh god no.
Instantly I’m shaking. It can’t be, it just can’t be! Why didn’t I ignore her stupid ‘no talking about men’ rule and tell her about Alekos when I had the chance? I feel panicky as I picture them together. Surely he wouldn’t? Even if she is there, he couldn’t possibly have slept with her after what we shared at the pool. I feel my legs giving way and fall back on the sofa.
Got to try to think rationally, keep the hysteria at bay – okay, so say she went there with a very specific sexual intention, it doesn’t mean he would have obliged. If Hugh Dancy had propositioned me last night at the Veghera bar I would have told him his timing was terrible and that we’d have to take a raincheck. Maybe she felt humiliated by his rejection and went back into town and picked up some random holidaymaker? She’s probably at his hotel room right now. Although he’d have to be quite something for her to give up this deluxe set-up. I take a wobbly breath. I refuse to react until I know exactly what has happened. The best thing I can do is pull myself together, get dressed and get to Driros so I can confront Alekos directly.
All the same, I find myself angrily ripping her note to shreds – she instigates a man-ban and then does this behind my back?
In the shower, I wash my hair and scrub my body with excessive vigour. I’m really seething now. I was so happy before she arrived – how dare she turn up here and ruin everything? This can’t be happening. It just can’t. I blast my hair with the hairdryer and apply my make-up double-speed. Gone is the dreamy gliding on of products from last night – then I took the time to smooth on some handcream, now I find myself making a fist and giving the punchball a good thwack.
I’m yanking a blue sundress from my suitcase with little concern for seams or stitching when I hear the door go and Jules call cooo-eee.
My heart stops. I’m going to find out the truth sooner than I thought.
Okay, there’s no need to go out there all guns blazing. Anything could have happened. Alekos could actually have proved that he is trustworthy beyond my wildest dreams.
I take a deep breath and emerge from the wardrobe. ‘Hi!’
‘There you are!’ She skips over from the lounge area.
‘I got your note.’ I stay rooted to the spot.
‘Isn’t that mad? Out for the count at eight and wide awake at one a.m.!’
‘Did you really go and see Alekos?’
I find myself shaking again.
She nods, looking positively devilish.
‘And you stayed over?’ This is absolute hell.
Again with the nodding.
‘Did you have sex?’ I know it’s blunt but I have to know.
‘Yes!’ she squeaks, giddily doing a stupid celebratory, rub-my-nose-in-it dance.
I want to pass out. I want to drop to the floor and for my head to hit the wood panelling hard. But instead I duck back in the wardrobe. ‘Just give me a minute to jump into this!’ I say, waving my dress at her.
Out of sight, I lean on the wall and try to withstand the flood of emotions. So he really is a lousy womaniser, no better than the Norwegian, no better than any other man. He did a few nice things and I dropped my guard – how could I have been so easily swayed? He booked me a massage and took me octopus hunting and I thought he must really love me! And now this. The ultimate betrayal. I close my eyes and try to wish myself numb. This is too much to bear. I have to get away from here. I have to get a flight or a bus or a buggy, whatever it takes – just get me out of here!
‘Selena?’ Jules pokes her head around the door.
‘I hate all my clothes!’ I say, throwing my sundress back at my suitcase.
‘Oh, you’re having one of those moments,’ she tuts. ‘Maybe you’d like to borrow something of mine?’
I look daggers at her. Is that how it works? She takes my man and in return I get a T-shirt? Why oh why didn’t I say something last night? But what if I had? The fact that Alekos was willing to sleep with the first woman who offered herself to him – and at a time when I thought we were at our closest . . .
‘Selena? Are you alright?’
‘Actually, I feel a bit off.’ I pull my queasiest face and paw at my stomach.
‘You do look pale.’
I move away from her, afraid she’ll touch me and I’ll be forced to savage her. ‘Um, I don’t know what your plans are for today . . . ?’
Wherever she’s going to be, I’m going in the opposite direction.
‘Well, I just came back to have a shower – I don’t know how you managed in the bathroom over there, it’s so mank, isn’t it?’ She doesn’t wait for my reply. ‘And then I was planning on going to the beach.’
Out of the Blue Page 20
