Under a Greek Moon

by Carol Kirkwood

  Meanwhile, Demetrios took his Nokia out of his pocket and made a few calls. Moments later, the police arrived. Demetrios sat by and listened while she told her story. The taverna began to fill up with locals, intrigued by the police presence and wanting to know what all the fuss was about. Unfazed, the girl patiently repeated her story. Observing her poise and cool-headedness, Demetrios couldn’t help but be impressed.

  Eventually, the police went away and the crowd dispersed, and Demetrios came to sit with her again. ‘Did you speak with your father?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, he’s offered to wire me some money.’

  Demetrios nodded. ‘A good man.’

  ‘He’s definitely that. I think he wants me to come home, though.’

  ‘And do you want to go home?’ he asked her.

  ‘No, not at all. I’ve been looking forward to this trip forever, it would be awful to have to turn around and go home when I’ve only just got here.’

  He clapped his hands in a gesture of finality. ‘Then Ithos will take you to its heart and keep you until everything is well. But first you must eat.’

  Without asking, he called for Teresa, who hurried over from the other table she was serving. Demetrios spoke to her in Greek, then she hurried off and returned a few moments later with a Greek breakfast: olives, cheese, eggs, cold cuts, yogurt with a fruit compote, and a basket of fresh bread rolls.

  ‘Please, eat,’ he insisted, and after a polite, but brief hesitation, the girl fell on the food like a starving person, tucking into the delicious fare and trying not to speak with her mouth full as he gently questioned her.

  ‘Where are you from, Grace Taylor?’

  ‘England. A town just outside Manchester – it’s so small, you’ll never have heard of it. Who are you?’

  Demetrios laughed.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude.’ She shovelled another mouthful of the delicious bread and cheese into her mouth, her troubles briefly forgotten. ‘You look less serious when you laugh, and your eyes crinkle up nicely.’

  ‘My name is Demetrios Theodosis, and my family have lived on this island for many generations. Perhaps always.’ Demetrios grinned. ‘I’m in shipping, hence those many lines you describe kindly as crinkles, and Teresa here is the wife of Níko, owner of this taverna. Níko is a cousin of my father and one of my oldest friends, the two of us are like brothers.’

  Teresa had been following their conversation as she waited on the other tables. Her eyes sparkled as Demetrios beckoned her over, and the two started speaking rapidly in Greek.

  She peered over Demetrios’s shoulder and studied Grace, as if assessing her. ‘Are you looking for work?’

  Grace hesitated for a moment, then nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you waitressed before?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you start this evening?’

  ‘Er …’ Grace looked at Demetrios.

  ‘Let me explain,’ he said. ‘You need money and somewhere to stay?’

  Grace nodded.

  ‘Teresa and her husband Níko need a waitress – their last one has run off to get married, so they are a pair of hands short.’

  ‘But I don’t have anywhere to stay, and no money—’

  Demetrios held his finger up to stop her talking. ‘They have a room above the taverna that you can stay in. They will pay you a week in advance, which I will act as guarantor for, in case you do a moonlight flit, which I don’t think you will.’

  Grace shook her head fervently. ‘Of course not, but I couldn’t possibly let you—’

  ‘I insist. The sea has delivered you to Ithos, and Ithos must provide. You have a job and a room, Teresa has the help she needs. Everyone is happy, no?’

  ‘What about my passport?’ the girl asked.

  ‘You gave the police your details, yes?’ She nodded. ‘Then leave it with me,’ he said, standing to leave. He leaned down and kissed her lightly on both cheeks in the Greek fashion, leaving a hint of citrus and sandalwood in his wake.

  The girl blinked, not quite believing what had just happened, but Teresa didn’t give her time to think. ‘Come, let me show you to your room.’ Grace grabbed her backpack and Demetrios smiled as he looked over his shoulder and saw her running to keep up with the departing Teresa.

  Ariana ran a brush through her long thick hair, her amber eyes looking back at her angrily from the mirror. Her father was so infuriating – why would he never listen to her or care about what she wanted in life? She was furious with him.

  We have provided you with the best education in the world and this is how you repay your parents? he had berated her.

  Ariana slammed the brush down. What would he know about what was best? Neither of her parents could wait to be rid of her, bundling her off to an English public school when she was thirteen. Best education, indeed! They had done what suited them, not her.

  ‘You only sent me to Marlborough because you wanted to get on with your own lives without me in the way,’ she had shouted at him.

  ‘You asked us to send you there. I wanted you to stay in Athens!’ he had yelled back at her.

  Ariana huffed, picking up the brush once more, dragging it through her hair vigorously. One hundred brushes a day, that was what Yaya – her grandmother – had told her to do to keep her hair beautiful and silky. So what if she had asked to go to an English public school, she huffed to herself, suppressing the memory of the way she’d badgered and nagged at them for months about it.

  For the first few terms, it had been fun. She’d found it a relief to be away from her parents, who could never be together without arguing, so they spent most of their time in different parts of the world. Her mother had immediately moved to London to be nearer to her, but whenever she went to visit her at her Chelsea townhouse, Sofia was usually preoccupied with one of her lovers or lunching with friends at Harvey Nichols or Cipriani’s.

  It hadn’t taken long for Ariana to become bored with the school. Most of the English girls were alike, they all had long blonde hair and fathers who were investment bankers or peers who spent their days in the House of Lords. There were a few exceptions, girls like her who didn’t want to marry a prince. Her best friend Maddy, or the Honourable Lady Madeleine Dorchester, was one of them. They’d discovered they were kindred spirits – Ariana doubted there was anyone else at the school who knew how to catch tuna with a line, or could free dive up to fifty feet. As the second daughter of a English Lord, Maddy had been raised in a ramshackle stately home in Derbyshire by a succession of nannies until she was bundled off to public school when she was nine. By the time she arrived at Marlborough, she was already a wild child. Ariana quickly became her willing disciple. Eventually, they were both caught smoking weed, and while Ariana had taken the punishment of a suspension and the loss of all her privileges with a shrug, Maddy had gone completely off the rails. Still only sixteen years old, she ran off with a musician. Rumour had it her parents eventually tracked her down to a squat in Camden Town, where she was living in squalor and hooked on hard drugs. Ariana had never heard from her again.

  For Ariana, her father’s disappointment at her suspension had been the worst part. She’d tried to be a dutiful daughter after that and to focus on her studies, but it was so boring. Now he wanted her to go to a good university, but all she wanted to do was stay on Ithos. She had everything she needed here. Her old friends down in the harbour town, her grandmother who let her do exactly as she pleased, and her father – who she loved, but who didn’t understand her … OK, so she missed the shops of London and Paris and New York, but how many clothes did a girl need?

  Of course, the one thing that Ithos really had in its favour was Christian, Níko and Teresa’s son. Ariana smiled dreamily at the thought of his blue eyes and hair the colour of golden sand. His sister was already married with two children, but Christian was still a bachelor. All he needed was a push in the right direction, she figured. Her father treated Christian like the son he’d never had, so he was bound to wan
t him as a son-in-law, wasn’t he? She imagined herself on her wedding day – the hundreds of guests, the tradition of wearing stefana crowns, the dancing afterwards … For a moment her anger at her father was forgotten as she imagined him walking in the bridal procession alongside her, his face full of pride as she shone with radiance in her beautiful dress.

  The thought cheered her up and Ariana smiled to herself. She’d get her grandmother to plait her hair for her and then she would go down and see Christian. It was well into the afternoon and, if she was lucky, Christian would be back at the harbour after working with her father at the boathouse on the other side of the island.

  Ariana padded over to her walk-in wardrobe. When her mother and father were first married, her mother had insisted on a complete remodelling of the Theodosis villa if she were to live there. A new wing had duly been added. It was modern compared to the rest of the villa, which was still occupied by her grandmother. Ariana’s bedroom was more like an apartment, with a large en-suite bathroom, and a balcony that looked out over Ithos Bay and the harbour.

  She eyed the long row of clothes, the Guccis, Alexander McQueens and Balenciagas all catalogued and arranged by colour. She tilted her head to the side; today she would be casual yet eye-catching, an outfit that showed a little of her taut and toned body, but not too much – just enough. Her eyes settled on a pink and cream boho-style beach dress, that criss-crossed over her bust and had a slit up the side to show off her legs. She might be nearly ten years younger than Christian, but this would grab his attention.

  She slipped out of her strappy vest and shorts and caught sight of her naked body in the large full-length mirror, feeling pleased with what she saw. Her olive skin was now tanned and golden again after being hidden away in England all winter.

  Yes, there was no way Christian would be able to ignore her today. He might have thought of her as a child before, but she was eighteen now and he was about to see just how much she had grown up.

  Chapter 22

  ‘Come on, a touch more mascara.’

  Shauna groaned and laughed. ‘It’s a good job I like you, Mel.’

  ‘You have to,’ said Mel, in her nasal New York accent with her usual sassy belligerence. She was as much a friend as co-worker. ‘I’m here to make you look good and if you piss me off …’ She raised her dark, finely plucked eyebrows in mock threat.

  ‘I’ll be on my best behaviour,’ Shauna promised.

  It felt strange to look in the mirror and see Grace Kelly again, though she’d grown used to it during the months of filming at Pinewood Studios near London and on location in Europe. She had loved seeing herself transformed into her idol each day, mastering her voice and her mannerisms. There had been only one occasion when she faltered: the day they arrived at the Grimaldi palace. The place had barely changed since her first visit, and memories of that night in the summer of 1982, when a young Shauna O’Brien was presented to Princess Grace of Monaco, came flooding back. Chantelle’s parting words had echoed in her mind: One day, the pain will be gone, and you will have these precious memories. The memories were as vivid as ever, but she wasn’t sure the pain had gone. Shauna had pushed the memories away and focused only her work.

  It had been her first time working with Spielberg and she was impressed by his technique, his ability to get what he wanted – all the actors got on well and Spielberg had taken such good care of her. Although it was draining being in every scene, Shauna rose above it to give the performance of a lifetime. Spielberg had put his heart and soul into the film, and she had done the same.

  For the Love of Grace was still in post-production, with the release date still to be fixed, yet already there were whispers of Oscar nominations. The publicity machine wanted to exploit the rumours to full advantage, so today she was recreating the moment in 1955 when Grace had won her Best Actress Oscar.

  Mel stood back and admired her work. ‘There, that’ll do, Grace. I’d better win an Oscar for this too.’

  Shauna studied herself in the mirror and the soft gold of her hair swept up into a sophisticated chignon that emphasized her features. Mel had brought an elegance to her today which fitted the occasion. ‘I’m more than ten years older than Grace was when she retired from acting.’

  ‘The camera never lies,’ Mel told her.

  There was a sharp rap at the door. ‘Ten minutes.’

  ‘That’s my cue.’ Shauna rose and pulled off the light silk dressing gown protecting her costume. It was as breathtaking as the original and for a moment she wondered what Princess Grace might have said to her if she were here. She took another look in the mirror at the faithful replica of the dress Grace Kelly had worn to the Oscars: a figure-hugging mint-green satin sheath with elegant spaghetti straps.

  Outside, the photographer, Kevin, and his lighting assistant were waiting.

  ‘Hey, Shauna,’ Kevin threw down his clipboard and began to clap, ‘you look amazing.’

  She inclined her head, still in her Grace persona, and smiled. ‘That mine?’ she asked, and picked up the replica gold Oscar being watched over by the young assistant. She turned around to face the camera and held it in the same pose as her idol had done forty-seven years previously. Then she let out a girlish laugh, herself once more.

  ‘I hear on the grapevine that you nailed it,’ Kevin said.

  ‘It went well,’ said Shauna, with a quiet smile of real satisfaction.

  ‘Ever the understatement. Rumour is, that production is hot.’

  Shauna had heard it all before and although quietly confident in her performance, she knew anything could happen. Politics in Hollywood played a huge part in who won and who didn’t, which films the Academy took to their hearts and which they hated. It didn’t pay to make bets.

  ‘I can’t think that far ahead.’

  He laughed. ‘Isaac can. By the way, he called a couple of times. Says he really needs to speak to you.’

  ‘He always says that.’ Shauna shook her head and leaned back in her chair ‘Right, let’s get to work.’

  After Dan’s death, Shauna had sold the big house in Malibu and downsized to something a little less ostentatious. It was a much smaller, classic Art Deco home in West Hollywood. Shauna loved its classic design and the vintage features, it was the perfect setting for her antique collection. Somehow the place had immediately felt like home, the intimate size more suited to her than the house in Malibu, especially now that she was living alone. As she closed the heavy oak door behind her, she paused for a moment to savour the calm ambience of the house. This was her sanctuary now; though she’d hung on to the apartment, she hadn’t used it in months, perhaps because she no longer needed a bolthole to escape to. Maybe it was time to let it go.

  So much had changed since Dan died. She was still feeling her way, trying to come to terms with it all. Overnight she had gone from being a wife to a widow, and though almost two years had passed, she found it a struggle to recognize herself in that role. She was no longer sure who Shauna Jackson was. As for Shauna O’Brien, she was so far removed from her old self, all that remained were a collection of faded memories.

  She’d had little contact with her mother since her father died. While he was alive, Shauna had made the effort to play happy families, keep up the pretence. Now they only called one another on birthdays and Christmas, and even then the conversation was stilted. Shauna was convinced her mother felt the same way she did: they were too tired of each other to keep trying.

  Shauna kicked off her shoes, poured herself a drink and took it outside, debating whether to take a dip in the heart-shaped pool to unwind. In the end she decided to postpone her swim until later. There was admin to catch up on, and she needed to return Isaac’s calls – judging by the last message he’d left, he was on the brink of apoplexy. He wanted a decision on the two scripts that were currently sitting on the desk in her office, and would no doubt have another try at getting her to write her memoirs – a couple of international publishers had expressed an interest.
/>   ‘About damn time, too,’ he barked when his secretary put her through. His crotchety tone amused her; he liked to forget that he actually worked for her and not the other way around.

  ‘I haven’t decided on either of the scripts – I’ll be honest, they aren’t giving me that tingle. When do you need to know?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, maybe you’re right.’ There was an uncharacteristic pause at the other end.

  ‘What’s up, Isaac?’

  ‘Look, you’re not going to like this …’

  ‘Isaac, not that again. I told you, the lawyers took care of it all. I have no intention of speaking to her.’

  ‘Just hear me out—’

  ‘No, I don’t want to talk about that woman again.’ Shauna felt her voice rising in anger; why did he have to keep raking this up? It was done.

  ‘Shauna, listen … Frankie Ferreira is sick. Real sick.’

  ‘I’m still not going to see her. Please, Isaac, this is my final word. I don’t want anything to do with her.’

  ‘The woman’s dying, Shauna. She’s called, collect, five times in two days. She’s desperate to speak to you.’

  ‘How do you know she’s telling the truth?’

  ‘I called the clinic, spoke to her physician, Dr Scott, he didn’t pull any punches. It’s cancer – terminal.’

  Despite herself, Shauna felt a jolt of shock. Frankie was a young woman, with a child. Whatever the woman had done, there was no denying how cruel a prognosis that was.

  ‘Did she say what she wanted to speak to me about?’

  ‘She said it wasn’t money.’ Isaac cleared his throat. ‘She … she said she wants to talk to you about the child.’

  Shauna closed her eyes. She’d done her duty in that regard. The child was provided for. Generously so. What more could the woman want? ‘I’ll have to think about it, Isaac. I can’t promise anything …’

  Shauna sat in the hospital corridor sipping the dark liquid masquerading as coffee and feeling incongruously out of place with her immaculate make-up. A couple of the nursing staff shot her curious glances as they squeaked past in their sensible shoes on the glossy rubberised floor. She had spent a few sleepless nights since Isaac’s phone call, her slumber troubled by dreams of Dan trying to reach out to her, jumbled with the cries of a child just out of reach that stayed with her when she awoke, drenched in sweat, and left with a profound sense of loneliness that she couldn’t shake. Torn by indecision and an unwanted feeling of responsibility, she called Isaac in the middle of the night and demanded the name of the hospital where Frankie was a patient.