by Lisa Heidke
Then there was Marcus. After George, I was at a really low point. But I hit absolute rock-bottom when I found out George was getting married, not more than six months after he dumped me. Despite my debt, I spent even more money. Marcus seemed to understand and I came to regard him as a friend, not just my boss.
I knew he was married but, until he mentioned it, had no idea he was separated. It suddenly made sense why he put in long hours at the office. He didn’t want to go home to an empty house. At first I felt sorry for him, but then I started thinking about him more and getting distracted when he walked past my office or I heard his voice.
We started flirting and our relationship shifted. He was charming and the attention was flattering. After the humiliation of George, it was exciting to feel desired and needed again. It sounds crazy but as much as I thought of Marcus as my protector, I also believed I could rescue him. I couldn’t see that Marcus didn’t need saving, and that he and George were birds of a feather.
2
‘Does anyone know any Greek?’ Tara asked as we dragged our bags through Athens airport in search of signs for the bus terminal.
‘Kalimera, Anito,’ I said, confident that bits and pieces of Greek, left over from a useless Arts degree and in particular Greek Language 101, still resided at the back of my brain. My knowledge also included a partial understanding of Latin, the Mycenaean civilisation and art history, circa fourth century Athens BC. I optimistically assumed that I’d pick up the language as I went.
I was bubbling with excitement. Greece! This was the moment I’d been waiting for. We’d finally arrived in paradise. I intended to immerse myself in the culture, the language, the food — everything. Athens, the Acropolis, Santorini — it was all ahead of us and I planned to make the most of it.
‘It’s all so beautiful,’ I said, feeling emotional as we walked towards the exit past huge posters of ancient temples, the Greek Islands and the happy, smiling faces of the locals who’d no doubt welcome us with open arms. I was already in love with the country.
Out on the street, a searing wall of heat slapped me in the face. The air was thick and hot, and the ground was grey and dusty. Sweat oozed from every pore of my body. Except for a few grubby buildings in the immediate vicinity, and a couple of dusty mountains in the distance, the airport sat smack bang in the middle of a gigantic dustbowl.
‘Just remember, ochi means no and nai means yes,’ I told the others, wavering in the heat.
‘No means yes,’ repeated Tara.
‘Nai.’ Despite the clips holding it back, my lifeless hair stuck to my face. Perspiration trickled down my forehead, under my boobs and the backs of my knees. So much for making a glamorous debut in Greece.
‘Is that it?’ demanded Tara, scratching the damp hair plastered to her scalp.
I shrugged. ‘Obviously I know the odd swear word.’
‘Obviously.’
‘Let’s catch a cab,’ said Sophie, her face hidden by large dark sunglasses and a navy silk scarf. The epitome of movie-star cool despite the wretched humidity, which only made her hair even shinier, her ringlets more defined.
Nearby, old beaten taxis sat idly next to the kerb, their drivers leaning against them, either alone or huddled in small groups, smoking fat cigarettes and twirling worry beads. A couple of heads turned our way as we walked by, mostly to admire Sophie, but no one rushed over demanding our business. Perhaps it was Levi’s whimpering that made them wary. Or maybe Tara’s snarl.
The stress of being cramped together on a plane for over twenty hours showed. We were more than ready to be driven by airconditioned limousine to our opulent five-star hotel and promptly escorted to our glamorous airconditioned suite where, after the requisite luxurious bubble bath, I imagined draping myself in a fluffy white guest robe and sipping chilled Moët — while Levi played quietly, perhaps sedated, with his roly-poly Greek nanny.
‘No,’ said Tara. ‘I read somewhere that the local drivers will rip us off. Three women and a child. Talk about a gift. They’ll take us for everything. How hard can it be to catch a bus?’
We traipsed past several taxis up to a line of yellow buses. None of their destination signs read Acropolis or Plaka (the old town at the base of the Acropolis where we’d be staying), or other words I vaguely remembered from my Lonely Planet guide to Greece, usefully hiding at the bottom of my suitcase.
I studied the oversized road map on a nearby information board but still had no idea which bus to catch. Our patience and Levi’s sudden quietness couldn’t last. Any minute one of us would explode. I hoped, for dignity’s sake, it wouldn’t be me.
‘Which direction?’ Tara asked.
No one answered.
We joined the long queue of fellow travellers at an official-looking yellow booth near the buses. Behind the counter, a diminutive, ferrety-looking man handed out tickets at a leisurely pace in between cigarette puffs and gulps of coffee.
‘Kalimera. Acropolis?’ I said brightly. He looked at me, grunted and raised his left arm, in what I assumed was a pointing motion, towards a bus several metres away.
The four of us trudged over, Sophie lugging a bedraggled and grumpy Levi and several pieces of luggage. I should have felt sorry for her but I found it hard to rouse sympathy. I knew her monogrammed Louis Vuitton suitcases would hold the latest colour-coordinated fashions, gorgeously accessorised with the newest belts, hats, bikinis and shoes. Meanwhile, my scruffy red Samsonite bag contained little more than pea-green sandals (gorgeous but impractical in size seven and a half — on most occasions, I take a size eight), some very expensive duty-free cosmetics and a few Witchery casuals, none of which had been purchased on sale.
Tara carried a tattered black backpack holding essential toiletries, swimmers, a change of underwear and a few comfy mix and match ensembles, circa 2001. I knew because I’d watched her pack. It had taken all of seven minutes.
We climbed aboard the bus, hauled our bags into the already overcrowded luggage section and sat down.
‘Why didn’t we just catch a cab?’ asked Sophie into the thick air as we stuck to the sticky vinyl seats.
A few unpleasant minutes later, the engine started up.
‘I feel sick,’ moaned Levi as the bus screeched around the fifth corner in as many seconds.
Fair call. The driver was travelling at speed along the congested dirt tracks that passed for roads and overtaking other vehicles regardless of bends and oncoming traffic. None of the passengers except us seemed to care. Instead, they read books, chatted amongst themselves or slept, while the four of us (even Levi) gripped our seats in terror with every screeching brake and blaring horn.
Forty minutes later we arrived at what could loosely be described as a backpacker’s hostel. We were hot, tired and pissed off.
‘Fu — fecking feck,’ said Tara, hauling her backpack up the six flights of stairs, only pausing reluctantly when it was her turn to cajole Levi to continue his crawl up the steep narrow steps.
Our two meagre rooms had no airconditioning, no fluffy white robes, no comfy beds and barely enough space to stand in, let alone unpack clothes and other personal items. So much for ‘Grecian decadence and splendour’ promised on the hotel internet site.
After showering, I climbed into a crumpled denim skirt, white T-shirt and sandals with a four-centimetre heel. I don’t wear lower. Sensible shoes, like Tara’s Birkenstocks, were not my style, though I had to admit they did look comfortable and certainly wouldn’t pinch the toes the way my shoes did. Tucking my hair behind my ears, I clipped several loose strands into place under my red Nike baseball cap.
‘Shower’s free,’ I said to Sophie, who’d already pulled out her knitting, despite the heat and her noticeable tiredness.
I could always tell when anxiety gripped Sophie. She knitted. She’d taken it up years ago as a form of therapy. ‘It’s really quite soothing,’ she told me. ‘It’s easy to control and there are no surprises.’ If it was good enough for Sarah Jessica Parker and Julia Robe
rts, it was good enough for Soph. And she was really quite talented. Between them, Alex and Levi had dozens of jumpers, cardigans and beanies, and my hall stand back home (now in storage) had always been overflowing with Sophie’s colourfully knitted scarves.
‘Thanks, but given that he’s crashed,’ Sophie replied, pointing a knitting needle in Levi’s direction, ‘I’ll sit for a while.’
Levi, bless him, was asleep in a small wooden chair. He looked exceptionally uncomfortable. His arms and head were scrunched in an awkward ball and he was snoring loudly.
‘You have to go and meet him now?’ asked Tara in disbelief as I rummaged through my suitcase.
‘As much as I don’t want to wander the streets of Athens feeling exhausted, it’s better to deliver this now and get it over and done with.’ I unzipped the side pocket of my suitcase and withdrew a substantial yellow envelope. ‘Then we can get on with our holiday. Anyone want to come with me?’
No response.
The ‘something in Athens’ that Marcus wanted me to do, in return for an idyllic Greek Island holiday, was to deliver this envelope to his new investment associate, Con Kafentsis. I had to witness Con’s signatures and take the papers back to Marcus. I also had to give Con a USB flash drive, which was all of three centimetres long and was currently sealed in the envelope together with the papers. Con happened to live in Athens, a short plane trip from Santorini and paradise. Simple.
Now all I had to do was track him down — in this sprawling city of four million people.
3
Stepping out of the hotel foyer (Ha! Hotel foyer, my backside! More like a dark narrow corridor) and onto the uneven street, I checked the address on the envelope, read the instructions and consulted my guidebook. Joy! Another bus ride was in order.
I headed towards Syntagma Square, pretty sure I could catch a bus from there. It was easier walking the cobbled streets without dragging luggage, but it was still draining in the afternoon heat and high heels. Every couple of minutes I looked up from my map to cross a street or backtrack. The square was nearby but jet lag and hunger had joined forces to ensure my sense of direction was completely unreliable.
Then I saw a vaguely familiar face in the crowd. The Akubra guy. The departure card embarrassment was still a fresh memory. So, in a moment of extreme maturity, I shielded myself from his view under my oversized map and cap.
I thought the map and cap combo worked well because I couldn’t see a thing. Therefore I assumed — incorrectly as it turned out — that no one could see me. (Like I said, I was tired.)
Moments later, I crashed into a sunglasses stand, my right knee slamming violently into the side of the cart, the force knocking over several stands of glasses. I even managed to catch a pair as I fell to the ground.
Unsurprisingly, the proprietor was not happy. ‘Klefti! Fiye!’ he yelled, obviously thinking I was a dimwitted foreigner trying to rip him off.
‘I’m not a thief,’ I yelled back from where I’d slumped in the filthy gutter, holding my bleeding knee.
As people paused to gawk, the vendor, spurred on by the growing crowd, continued ranting in Greek.
This would have been a good time for me to charm him with my fluent Greek language skills, so it would have helped had I been paying attention in Greek 101 all those years ago instead of doodling Rob Lowe love hearts.
Lamely, I mumbled, ‘There’s no need to call the police. I’m not a thief,’ as a hand reached out and pulled me up.
‘Chloe? Isn’t it?’
‘Claudia,’ I said as he held out the same hand again.
‘Jack. Jack Harper.’
Shaking his hand while hopping on my good leg, I briefly wondered whether other women would fall into sunglasses stands at the sight of Jack Harper walking towards them. Probably.
Jack reached across and relieved me of the sunglasses I was clutching in my other hand. ‘I think these are what he’s upset about.’ He then asked the irate vendor how much they were. The man held up ten fingers.
‘Entaxei. Efcharisto,’ Jack confirmed, and handed over a ten Euro note.
Pocketing the money, the vendor hastily shooed us away and began reconstructing his display.
After Jack helped me up onto the pavement, he bent down to inspect my wound. I’d have rather he didn’t. It was embarrassing enough as it was. I didn’t need him poking me.
‘You’ll live,’ he said finally.
‘Thanks,’ I sniffed and pointed at several carts cluttering the streets. ‘These really shouldn’t be blocking the roads.’
‘It helps if you look where you’re going.’
‘I guess,’ I said, noticing his perfectly arched eyebrows. I couldn’t get mine to do that, and I’d spent years and hundreds of dollars trying. Jack’s were perfect male specimens. They were thick but there weren’t any strays lurking on the bridge of his nose.
He held my eyes far longer than necessary. ‘You sure you’re all right?’
‘Fine. Thank you.’
He handed me the newly purchased sunnies. ‘Okay, see you around then.’
‘The glasses, wait. I owe you money —’
Jack shook his head. ‘Buy me a drink sometime.’
I watched as he disappeared into the swarm of afternoon shoppers before examining my newly acquired Armani rip-offs. Then my swollen knee. It hurt like hell, but my pride hurt worse. I’d made a fool of myself the first time I’d seen him and now I’d just made an utter arse of myself again. Not that it mattered. I usually made an arse of myself when it came to men.
Thankfully I was swearing off all men for good. I didn’t care how charming, good-looking or perfect they appeared. Even if Jesus Christ himself made a pass at me, I was determined to say NO!
Eventually I found the right bus to take me to Con Kafentsis and, after nabbing a window seat, I sat staring out at the passing throng. Thick grey clouds had formed in the sky, trapping the smog and humidity below. The smell of petrol fumes was overwhelming and around me people fanned themselves with newspapers and hats, probably more to disperse the putrid air than to keep cool.
Thanks to heavy traffic, the crowded bus ride was tediously slow. I could have walked faster if I’d had two good legs and known where I was going. To compensate, the driver sat on his horn, as did all the other drivers in stationary vehicles stalled in a car yard of honking horns. Hello chaos! Now I knew how the English came to get this word from the Greeks.
Some half an hour later the bus arrived at a block of shabby public toilets in a desolate area and all remaining passengers jumped off. The bus driver turned to me, clicked his tongue and in no uncertain terms motioned for me to disembark. My asking for directions appeared to test his patience. Tired and grumpy, probably at the end of a fourteen-hour shift, he pointed past the toilet block, away from the main drag.
Once off the bus, I checked my map and instructions again. Where the hell was Marcus sending me?
It was late in the day and the further I walked, the more concerned I became. According to the map, I was heading in the right direction, but I quickly got the feeling it was a dodgy area — mostly because men and adolescent boys lurched in broken-down doorways or leered at me from mopeds. Despite the oversized map of Athens, I hoped I looked like any other local gal out for a stroll at the sleazy end of town.
‘Sighnomi, thelis parea?’ a guy in tight black pants, unbuttoned shirt and thick gold chains around his neck, breathed in my ear.
The good news — I understood what the creep had said. The bad news, apart from saying ochi, I could only respond in English. ‘Ochi. No, I don’t want any company. Ochi, ochi!’
I stared straight ahead, focusing on task. Because of the thick grey cloud cover, the air was hot and the breeze nonexistent. I was tired, sweating profusely and in pain, but I still managed to find speed in my step as the whistles and stares intensified.
My relief at making it to the given address quickly turned to annoyance when I found myself facing a decrepit, disused warehouse —
at least, what was left of a decrepit, disused warehouse. It was little more than a shell, the remains of an ugly graffiti-covered grey building with boarded-up or smashed windows and concrete bits sticking up out of the ground at odd angles. Broken glass lay everywhere and syringes littered the ground.
Feigning confidence, I stuck my piece of paper under the nose of a middle-aged woman walking by. ‘Excuse me,’ I said in Greek.
She merely shrugged, raised her hands in the air and kept walking.
My heart sank. I was in a foreign country trying to communicate with shady-looking characters in limited Greek and feeling decidedly nervy and uncomfortable. I should have tried harder to get Tara to come with me. I was in the middle of nowhere, looking for someone I didn’t even have a photo of.
I hobbled to a small convenience store at the end of the street to try my luck there. Several locals — all men — sat outside on old wooden stools, drinking thick Greek coffee and playing backgammon. Without exception, all of them stopped playing and looked up at me as I opened my mouth to speak.
Yippee, the proprietor’s name was Con. Unfortunately, he wasn’t the Con I was looking for. His ruddy, whiskery face was friendly enough, but his dark eyes twitched when I asked about Con Kafentsis and showed him the address written on the front of the envelope I’d been hugging for what seemed like hours. He lifted his arm and pointed back up the street towards the condemned building.
As I hiked back to the crumbling ruin, I could feel the shopkeeper and his cronies staring after me. I was starting to get a little tired of this, not to mention a teeny-weeny bit furious with bloody Marcus.
Back at the address once more, I ventured around to the side pathway, carefully avoiding jagged pieces of glass and used syringes. There was another building at the back of the property. It, too, was grey and covered in graffiti but the structure appeared to be intact. I guess you could call it an office, just. But the Greek signage dangling from the wall was mostly faded and could have read Drug deals done here for all I knew.
