Single for the Summer: The perfect feel-good romantic comedy set on a Greek island

by Mandy Baggot

  A sigh left Sonya. ‘I wish Joey could see this.’

  Tess linked her arm through her friend’s. ‘Stop that. He turned it down,’ Tess reminded her. ‘And you’ve got me.’

  ‘I know,’ Sonya said, squeezing Tess’s arm. ‘It’s like our weekend in Brighton but with better weather and baklava instead of sticks of rock.’

  Tess smiled before her attention was drawn to a rather delicious-looking meze being brought to a couple at one of the tables on the terrace. Bright, glossy rings of tomatoes, purple olives, creamy-looking taramasalata and succulent pieces of grilled meat. She hadn’t eaten since the Fox’s Glacier Mint she’d sucked on the plane to relieve her ear-popping during the descent.

  ‘Oh my!’ Sonya said, looking too. ‘I didn’t realise how hungry I was until I saw that.’

  ‘Let’s get one,’ Tess agreed.

  ‘To share?’ Sonya asked.

  ‘No.’ She grinned. ‘One each.’

  ‘Bring on the girl time,’ Sonya exclaimed, punching the air then rapidly retracting her arm. ‘Ow, tendonitis, tendonitis.’

  Andras had no idea how a restaurant could run out of bread. He had ordered the right amount every single day for the past five years but today, despite the eatery being at usual summer capacity and having considered all the bookings, it was almost all gone. As he powered up the steps to the Kalami Cove Apartments, white shirt clinging to his body with the heat, he wondered if he had made a mistake with the order this time. He didn’t like mistakes. It was rare for him to make one, at least where the restaurant was concerned. But with the wedding stuff going on around him and the need for a new business partner on his mind, it was easy to get distracted. He only hoped that Alex would be able to bail him out.

  Rushing up the final steps to the property Andras turned right, heading across the terrace and manoeuvring past the urns and ceramic pots spilling bright bougainvillea, towards the bar area where he was confident the hotelier would be found. Like himself, Alex owned this place, but with times tight, some owners had to be managers and workers rolled all into one.

  A breath of relief left him as he saw his friend was behind the bar.

  He hurried forwards, waving a hand. ‘Alex.’ Andras stopped at the bar, leaning his elbows on the countertop and relishing some time in the shade.

  ‘Yassou, Andras,’ Alex replied. ‘Ti kanis?’

  ‘Ime kala.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ a woman’s voice interrupted. ‘I don’t mean to be rude but I was here first.’

  Andras turned his head, noticing for the first time that someone, a woman, was stood at the bar, just a little way away from him. She was maybe five foot nine, slim, with wavy blonde hair that just touched her shoulders and she was wearing designer-style jeans, a formal-looking top and a jacket.

  He immediately held up his hands. ‘I apologise. I did not realise.’

  She shrugged. ‘That’s OK.’

  ‘But if I could just—’ Andras restarted. In Greek he asked Alex for a favour.

  The woman swung around then, fully facing him. She had blue eyes. Aquamarine blue eyes. Andras offered her a smile.

  ‘So you now know I was here first and you’re still going to carry on with your lunch order anyway?’ the woman stated.

  He watched her place a hand on her hip.

  ‘I do not want to order lunch,’ he answered. He looked to Alex who was intently watching them, order pad and pen poised for action. ‘I need some bread.’

  The woman cleared her throat loudly then spoke. ‘I would like to order two mezes please and a side of bread.’

  Andras looked back to her. ‘You want a side of bread with a meze?’

  ‘You’ve ordered bread. Why can’t I?’

  ‘How much do you need, Andras?’ Alex asked him.

  ‘Whatever you can spare. I have three boats due in fifteen minutes.’

  Alex smiled at the woman. ‘One moment please.’ He then headed off, out from behind the bar towards the kitchens.

  ‘Stop! Wait! You can’t just leave, I was first …’ the woman called to Alex’s departing form. She looked hot and now a little flustered.

  ‘You should take off your jacket,’ Andras suggested to her.

  ‘What?’ the woman asked, her eyes on him again.

  ‘It is hot today. Even for people who live here. You arrive here today, yes?’

  The woman pulled a mobile phone out of her bag and began tapping the screen, then shaking it in the air. ‘What’s wrong with this place?’ she asked. ‘We’re on the side of a mountain. A side of a mountain should be able to get some sort of mobile phone connection.’

  ‘Maybe your phone is too hot too,’ he suggested. ‘Perhaps if you put it away, let it have a holiday, then when you are both cooler and more relaxed it will work again.’

  She stopped shaking her phone, looked at it one more time then dropped it back into her bag with a sigh.

  ‘Andras Georgiou,’ he said.

  She looked confused. ‘What does that mean? My Greek isn’t very good.’

  He smiled. ‘It is my name.’ He offered out his hand as he watched her cheeks heat up.

  Tess felt a roll of embarrassment flood over her, adding to her already sweltering temperature. She couldn’t shake his hand. Her palms were dripping like a melting Cornetto and she didn’t want to wipe them on her Burberry jeans. And, despite noticing he had that archetypal Greek jet-black hair – cropped short but not too short – olive complexion and rather nicely toned forearms, he was a queue jumper. Plus her man radar had been forcefully turned off. Had it been on though, he was definitely someone who would have got a second glance, maybe, if he hadn’t usurped her.

  ‘I’m here with my friend, Sonya,’ she told him. She looked behind, seeking out Sonya and the sunlounger she’d left her on. She couldn’t help but notice her friend was tying a bright yellow scarf around her head, probably to shield her red hair from the scorching sun.

  ‘It is nice to meet you. I hope you enjoy your holiday. There are many sights to see here.’ He smiled. ‘Perhaps it will make a change from just looking at a piece of metal made by Apple.’ He turned away from her.

  She baulked. What had he said? Getting himself served before her and now insulting the fact she wanted to communicate with the rest of the world while she was here. Just who did he think he was?

  The barman was coming back from the main building, a plastic tray of covered loaves of bread in his arms.

  ‘I need my phone for work,’ she stated, feeling compelled to explain herself. ‘I have a very important job that requires me to be … here, checking for … things … because if something happens then—’

  He looked at her again. ‘An earthquake?’

  ‘No. I—’

  ‘A fire?’

  ‘I don’t think—’

  ‘A flood then? You must build the arc like Noah? As soon as an email comes through?’

  ‘I—’

  ‘Bread,’ Alex interrupted. ‘I could spare one more tray but give me a call after three.’

  ‘Perfect,’ Andras answered, taking hold of the tray. ‘See you tonight?’

  ‘Your mother has not booked every table for wedding guests?’ Alex asked him.

  He smiled. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Book me in,’ Alex replied. ‘When I finish here. Ten o’clock.’

  Tess watched Andras balance the bread on one arm and wave a hand before turning away and heading off the terrace. What had just happened? This man – what had he said his name was? – had just got the upper hand with her. No one did that, personally or in business. She was always the one in control. She took a breath, looking for her drink that wasn’t there.

  ‘Now,’ Alex said, picking up his notepad and pen again. ‘Two mezes and some bread, yes?’

  ‘And two large cocktails please,’ Tess added. ‘The stronger the better.’ She swallowed. ‘And do you have Wi-Fi here?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Alex smiled. ‘When it is working.’

&n
bsp; ‘It’s not working?’ Tess exclaimed.

  ‘Not today,’ Alex admitted. ‘But maybe tomorrow.’ He busied himself with the drink-making. ‘You should try Georgiou’s Taverna for dinner tonight,’ he suggested. ‘I think you would like it. Dorothea makes a wonderful cuttlefish stew, and there is Wi-Fi.’

  ‘That works?’ Tess inquired.

  Alex shrugged. ‘There is only one way to find out.’ He laughed, picking up the metal cocktail shaker. ‘It is on the beach, just down the hill.’

  Six

  Taverna Georgiou, Kalami

  Andras’s mother, Isadora held her hand up in the air and clicked her fingers like she was summoning a Greek god down from the clouds. Then his cousin Marietta gave a little wave. A bottle of wine was in Andras’s hands, the stubborn cork making him perspire even more. He turned away from his family’s table and concentrated on the job in hand, literally.

  ‘Andras!’ Isadora called.

  Cringing, his hand tugged at the corkscrew until finally the cork gave way with a satisfying pop. All the staff were fighting their way through a very busy lunchtime service and his mother wasn’t helping with her constant need for attention.

  ‘Andras! Come here!’ Isadora squawked again.

  He couldn’t ignore her again. He turned around, offering a smile … until he saw Papa Yiannis. The local priest was joining the table. In his long black robes, hat and beard almost reaching his midriff, Andras knew that there was going to be wedding talk. He didn’t want to face wedding talk. Marietta turned to look at him again, her cheeks a little flushed. There was no escape. He would have to just make it quick.

  Taking a deep breath, he moved towards them, with the hope of bringing the conversation to a swift resolution. He needed to focus on the restaurant … and run some lettuce up to the tortoise he’d installed in his garden and named Hector.

  ‘Mama,’ he greeted, offering a smile.

  ‘Did you not hear me calling for you?’ Isadora asked him.

  ‘I did hear you but I also heard the shout of Dorothea from the kitchen. We are very busy today,’ Andras said. ‘Business is good.’ He looked at Papa Yiannis then did a double take. Papa Yiannis. He hadn’t thought of asking a priest for an investment in the restaurant. Were men of the cloth allowed to own stakes in businesses? He could be the perfect candidate: quiet, obviously trustworthy, and in regular employment. He smiled at him. ‘How are you, Papa Yiannis?’

  ‘I am well, Andras. It is good to see the restaurant is thriving in these difficult times.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Andras said. ‘I have plans to make it even more successful next season.’

  ‘Sit down, Andras,’ Isadora ordered.

  ‘I cannot sit, Mama. I have customers to serve.’ He held out his arms, indicating the full tables and the hubbub of lunchtime going on in their midst.

  ‘Sit, Andras.’

  Now the instruction wasn’t a request but an order. Arguing would take longer than just doing as he was told. He pulled out the wood and rattan seat and sank down next to Marietta. His cousin hastily reached for a glass and filled it with water, setting it down in front of him.

  ‘You would like some more food?’ Andras asked his mother. ‘Dessert perhaps? We have Dorothea’s peach and vanilla cheesecake you like.’

  ‘Papa Yiannis is here,’ Isadora said, smiling at the priest as if they were all in the presence of God himself.

  ‘I know that, Mama, I asked him how he was.’ He picked up the water and took a swig.

  ‘He would like to speak with you and Marietta,’ Isadora stated.

  Andras almost dropped the glass. A little water spilled from his lips. ‘What?’

  ‘Where are your manners, Andras? Wipe your mouth,’ Isadora said, ripping a serviette from the wooden holder on the centre of the paper cloth-covered table.

  He took the offered napkin and dabbed at his lips, mainly to stop himself from saying anything else. What did the local priest have to discuss with him and his cousin? Spiros’s earlier comments started to come back to him.

  ‘We are the chief members of the wedding party, Andras,’ Marietta told him. ‘It is our job to guide Spiros and Kira along their journey this week.’

  Guide his brother and his soon-to-be-wife along a wedding journey? It sounded like something straight out of the kind of sickly romance novels that tourists read on the beach. And who was he to be some sort of a relationship guru? He had a failed marriage behind him. The only advice he was going to be able to offer was, unless you want your heart broken, don’t do it.

  ‘It is important,’ Papa Yiannis began, ‘that Spiros and Kira are fully supported by their family at this time. For them to understand how serious their vows of marriage will be and to prepare them for their upcoming lives together.’

  Andras felt sick. He hadn’t signed up for this. He might love his brother and want to be there, standing by his side at the ceremony, but this mentor business was a step too far. He was ill-equipped for it. Or maybe that was the point. Perhaps this was a kind of penance – from his mother and Papa Yiannis – a punishment for getting married in the town hall and not a church.

  ‘Do not look so worried!’ Isadora exclaimed, her face smiling. ‘I have a list.’

  ‘A list?’ He tried to keep his voice even, but everything about this conversation was teasing each tender nerve.

  ‘Cousin Antonia has all the wedding customs that must be performed and we need to help with this,’ Marietta stated.

  ‘Mama, of course I want Spiros and Kira’s wedding to go smoothly but I run a restaurant and—’ Andras began. He seemed to have to repeat himself several times before things actually sunk in. Or not.

  ‘This is not for when you are running the restaurant,’ Isadora assured him, her hand patting her tight bun of black hair pinned, like always, to the crown of her head. ‘This is for when you are not running the restaurant.’

  He blinked at his mother. ‘But I am always running the restaurant.’

  ‘Nonsense! There is down time,’ she said, hands flapping. ‘Things get quiet here around three or four o’clock, before the evening crowd come in.’ She sniffed. ‘Do you think I notice nothing?’ She paused to swat at a mosquito. ‘Then there is after dinner service, and your day off.’

  He swallowed. He had one day out of seven away from the restaurant. It had been that way since his father had died. Most of his days off recently had been taken up with something that needed organising for the wedding. As much as he loved his family, he equally loved those few hours of peace. Lately he had been working on long-overdue renovations to his house.

  ‘One day, Andras. For your brother’s wedding … I cannot believe you would think of being so selfish and not straightaway say yes to this!’

  He stayed quiet, knowing he was never going to win this argument.

  ‘I can do most of it myself,’ Marietta chipped in. ‘But I thought perhaps we could talk about it more, over dinner tonight.’

  A sinking feeling took hold of his gut and dived it down like a submarine hurtling towards the seabed. This wasn’t just about wedding customs, this was, as his brother had forewarned him, about his mother wanting him paired off with someone she approved of.

  ‘I cannot,’ he said quickly. ‘I will be running the restaurant.’

  ‘Andras, you have staff,’ Isadora interrupted. ‘That is what staff are for. And this is an important week for our family.’

  He didn’t need to be reminded of that. ‘I know.’

  ‘Then what is the problem? After the service tonight you will leave your staff to run the restaurant and you will have dinner with Marietta,’ Isadora directed.

  Marietta topped up his glass of water. ‘I will serve the marithes you like.’

  He shook his head. He couldn’t do this. It would be cruel. To go along with this to appease his mother. Agreeing now would give Marietta false hope. She needed to know that he wasn’t in the market for a relationship.

  ‘I am sorry, Marietta. We are fu
lly booked for tonight and—’

  ‘And after?’ Isadora snapped. ‘When you are closed?’

  ‘I am …’ What was going to end this conversation if running a restaurant, clearing it up for the next day, tackling the accounts and remembering to order the right amount of bread wasn’t going to do it? Papa Yiannis was looking at him like he should start repenting now or end up in hell. ‘I’m meeting someone.’

  He picked up the water glass and concentrated on rehydrating as the sentence settled in the air.

  ‘Meeting who?’ Isadora snapped back.

  And that’s why he should have thought this through. How could he expect a simple, nondescript ‘someone’ to suffice when it came to his mother? He could pick one of his friends, perhaps Panos or Vasilis, but he had a feeling Isadora would just dismiss any friend like they were unimportant compared to this wedding of all weddings.

  They were all looking at him now, his mother, Marietta, Papa Yiannis. He needed to say something.

  ‘My girlfriend,’ Andras rushed out.

  The first thing he saw as he set his eyes to the paper table-covering was a water glass falling over and its contents spilling. Marietta quickly got to her feet, swiping up napkins and dabbing the mess.

  ‘There is a lot of noise in here,’ Isadora stated, leaning her body closer to him. ‘I do not think I heard what you said.’

  ‘Andras said he was to meet a girlfriend,’ Papa Yiannis stated for half of the restaurant to hear.

  He felt his cheeks heating up under the scrutiny of his mother and the priest. The one word – girlfriend – coming from the mouth of the man of the cloth sounded more like ‘hoe’. What had he been thinking?

  Isadora’s eyes flew to Marietta. ‘He does not have a girlfriend.’

  ‘No?’ Papa Yiannis asked.

  ‘Of course not!’ Isadora continued. ‘He works all of the time. He has just said so. And if he had a girlfriend then I would know about it.’