Romantic Comedy Box Set (Helen Grey Series Books 1 & 2)

by Hodge, Sibel

  I scrubbed my hands for ten minutes at the old ceramic sink before Osman’s mum and Ayshe came into the house, still chuckling. Osman’s mum said something to Ayshe.

  ‘She wants to know if you enjoyed it,’ Ayshe translated for her.

  ‘It was…’ I glanced at Osman. ‘Interesting.’ I dried my hands on a piece of kitchen roll.

  Osman’s mum beckoned me towards her.

  Uh-oh. What now? This family was definitely crazy.

  ‘She wants to read your coffee cup,’ Ayshe told me. ‘Which means she’s going to see babies, rings, and marriage – just like Mum does.’ She grinned at me.

  ‘Well, that’s a dead cert at the moment, seeing as I’m getting married and you’re pregnant.’ I sat down next to Osman’s mum, Turkish coffee cup in hand.

  Ayshe sat forward in her chair. ‘OK, you have to put the saucer on top of the cup, with your thumb on top, then flip it over. That’s right. Now, leave the cup upside down to drain in the saucer.’

  Osman plonked himself on a rickety wooden chair. ‘She’s so accurate, it’s amazing. People come from miles around to get their coffee cups read. She’s been doing it since she was a little girl. Her grandmother taught her. She’s got the gift, you know.’ Osman beamed at me.

  Osman’s mum lifted up my coffee cup, placed the saucer to one side, and stared intently into it. She sucked her teeth.

  Was that good or bad?

  She slowly rotated the cup clockwise; starting at the handle and working her way back round. She smiled. Tutted. Frowned. Then looked like she’d seen a ghost.

  ‘What? What can you see?’ Butterflies flew around in the pit of my stomach.

  The whole room was silent as we all waited in anticipation.

  When she finally spoke, Ayshe translated.

  ‘She can see a ring.’

  I relaxed with relief. She was probably just being a drama queen, and all she would see was exactly what Ayshe had predicted.

  ‘This means marriage.’ Ayshe translated Osman’s mum’s rapid Turkish and gave me a sceptical look.

  Surprise, surprise.

  ‘She can see a baby.’ Ayshe patted her stomach. ‘She says it’s a girl.’ Ayshe looked at Osman’s mum open-mouthed. Ayshe really was having a baby girl. ‘And she can see a rat.’

  ‘A rat? Ew. A rat sounds bad. What does a rat mean?’

  Osman’s mum tilted the cup to get a better look.

  ‘It means something will be stolen,’ Ayshe said.

  I thought about the sculpture. Ayshe and I passed an “oh fuck” look between us.

  Osman’s mum brought the coffee cup closer to her face, peering inside, tutting again.

  ‘She’s looking to see if there’s a dot inside it,’ Ayshe said.

  ‘What does a dot mean?’ I shouted anxiously.

  Was it like a black dot? Maybe it meant a sniper shot! Murder! The dreaded black dot of death.

  ‘She says if there’s a dot inside, the item will be returned.’

  Look for the dot! Look for the dot!

  Osman’s mum tilted the cup again.

  ‘She says she can’t see clearly. There might be a dot or there might not be. But she can see a ladder.’

  Hmm. A ladder could be good, couldn’t it? It might mean I’d be climbing to great heights.

  ‘But it’s broken.’

  Oh. My shoulders deflated. Not so good. More like falling into a pit of despair, then.

  ‘It means you have a difficult journey ahead of you,’ Ayshe translated.

  Oh, for God’s sake, tell me something I don’t know.

  ‘She can see a Turkish coffee cup,’ Ayshe said.

  I know that! Get to the good bits.

  Ayshe said something to her, then turned to me. ‘It means someone will be drinking Turkish coffee.’

  Well, that wasn’t exactly hard in a country where practically everyone drinks it.

  ‘And a glass of water next to it.’

  ‘Yes, but what does that mean? Everyone drinks water after having Turkish coffee because it’s so strong,’ I said.

  ‘She’s not sure. But she can see a man. He’s lying down.’

  Osman’s mum gasped at the cup.

  ‘Is he…sleeping?’ I asked hopefully.

  ‘She can’t tell. He could be sleeping, or he could be dead.’ Ayshe locked fearful eyes with me.

  The palpitations started again. I did some deep breathing. In. Out. In. Out.

  ‘And she sees a fish.’

  Agh! That man lying down would be sleeping with the fishes!

  ‘She sees a big fish. It means money, apparently. A lot of money.’

  I thought about the five hundred thousand dollars in the suitcase. Well, that bit was accurate, at least.

  Osman’s mum drained the coffee cup residue into the saucer and turned her attention to that.

  No, not more. I didn’t think I could take much more. Maybe it was better not to know what was going to happen.

  ‘She can see a cross.’

  Uh-oh.

  ‘Sometimes a cross means victory. But it could also mean a hospital sign.’

  No, no, no. I definitely couldn’t take any more. Ibrahim Kaya was going to be shot by a black dot and would end up in hospital, then he’d die and be swimming with the fishes.

  I was about to slap my hands over my ears so I couldn’t hear anymore when, thankfully, Kalem and Charlie returned.

  Kalem looked pale, bordering on a greenish tinge.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I asked him.

  ‘My job.’ Kalem swallowed hard. ‘They’ve cancelled it. They said the funding has unexpectedly been cut for their department and there’s no job available anymore.’ He slumped down in a chair.

  Chapter 9

  ‘They can’t do that,’ I said to Kalem on the drive back to the hotel.

  ‘They just did. They told me the government has suddenly cut their funding without giving them a reason.’

  My mind started running away with me. ‘Who in the government?’

  ‘He didn’t say.’

  Why would the funding suddenly be cut when the University had practically begged Kalem to take the job? I thought back to Erol Hussein and his interest in Kalem’s job. Call me cynical, but it had to be him. Who else could it possibly be? He probably didn’t want us running around town, spouting off about suitcases filled with hundred dollar notes or plots to kill Kaya and steal the Cleopatra sculpture, because he didn’t want anyone to know about the money. I bet he was probably spending it as we spoke. Horrible little man.

  ‘That was my dream job.’ Kalem shook his head, more to himself than anyone else.

  ‘Kalem, I’m so sorry,’ Ayshe said from the back seat.

  ‘What do you think happened?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘I bet it was that bloody Erol Hussein,’ I said.

  Although, actually, maybe he’d done me a favour. I know this is going to sound really bad, but I didn’t know if I could really live here now, anyway. I thought that moving abroad to start a new life in the sun would be an exciting adventure. I’d wanted to live the dream, but so far it had been a complete nightmare instead. I ran through my mental list, counting off the reasons I had not to stay. I mean, yes, I did have a list of nice things about the country that were probably good reasons to stay – things that I couldn’t experience in the UK. But the list of reasons to leave was getting worse by the day…

  1) Crazy extended family.

  2) Involved in assassination and art heist.

  3) Cursed by Queen Cleopatra’s statue.

  4) Spooky demons and giants running around mountains scaring the shit out of people.

  5) No convenient superstores or big shopping malls.

  6) French Fancy wedding dresses.

  7) Erol Hussein.

  8) No job for Kalem.

  9) No custard creams.

  I felt a kind of weight lift from my shoulders. I’d really wanted to tell Kalem that I was having some serious doubts abo
ut moving here, and that I wasn’t sure if I was cut out for the simple life. I know it might sound selfish, but now I wouldn’t have to pretend anymore that I really wanted to stay here for Kalem’s sake. If there was no job for him, we couldn’t stay anyway. At least it meant that after the wedding there was no chance of us running into Ferret Face again if we were on the next plane home. But it was awful because I did feel heart-broken for him, losing his dream job. And all probably because of some greedy, nasty little man and my clumsiness in picking up the wrong suitcase. It was all my fault.

  ‘Do you think we should try and speak to Erol again?’ I suggested, because inside I was battling with thoughts of relief that we could leave the island, versus thoughts of self-loathing that, if it hadn’t been for me, everything would be just going along as we’d originally planned. Poor Kalem.

  ‘It won’t do any good,’ Kalem said. ‘You saw him throw the evidence in the bin. He’s not likely to investigate anything if there’s a chance the money will be discovered. He just wants us off the island, so we don’t tell anyone he’s got it.’ He paused for a beat. ‘No. No, we’ll just have to go back to the UK, and I’ll have to find another job.’ He smiled, but it was half-hearted, and I could see the pain behind it.

  ‘I’m sure the college will give you your old job back.’ Charlie tried to be helpful.

  Kalem glanced in the rear-view mirror. ‘Thanks, Charlie. When I left, they said I could always come back. It’s just that this job was so perfect for me. Whereas in the UK I was teaching sculpture and woodcarving, here I was finally getting the chance to teach about my passion – historical sculpture. Now we’ve got to tell Mum and Dad that we won’t be living in their house as well. They always knew my dream was to live the simple life here. They’ll be really disappointed. And Dad will want to kill Erol Hussein.’

  ‘Why don’t we wait until after the wedding to tell them,’ I said. ‘It’s probably not a good idea to tell Deniz now. His blood pressure is pretty high as it is, without being ill as well.’

  ‘My lips are sealed.’ Charlie clamped his lips shut.

  ‘We’ve got enough to worry about at the moment. We’re getting married soon, and I want to be able to relax on my wedding day. And in order to relax, we need to get the President to take notice of us tonight, and I need to find my wedding dress.’ I kissed Kalem on the cheek.

  Kalem took his hand off the steering wheel and gripped mine. ‘Yes, you’re right. My job – or lack of it – will have to take a backseat until we get this mess sorted out.’

  ‘I found you a possible replacement sort-of wedding dress,’ Charlie piped up in the back.

  I knew he couldn’t keep his lips sealed for long.

  I swung around in the front seat. ‘What’s a “sort-of” wedding dress?’ I dreaded to think.

  Charlie pulled a face. ‘It’s a gorgeous dress, and it would look super-freaking stunning on you…but…there’s a slight problemo.’

  ‘What?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s black.’

  ‘Some designers are saying that black is the new white,’ Ayshe said, trying to lessen the bad news.

  ‘Black! No. Absolutely not. No way. No sodding way. I can’t wear black at my wedding.’ I shook my head manically.

  It was a sign. I was sure of it. And it wasn’t a good one.

  ‘OK, don’t panic. I’ll go back out and keep looking for something else when we get back to the hotel.’

  ‘I can’t get married in Osman’s mum’s dress, either. It’s hideous.’ I rocked back and forwards in the seat. I might have a nervous breakdown at any minute. Help. Mama. Mama.

  ‘I don’t care what you get married in, as long as I get to actually marry you.’ Kalem caressed my cheek as he drove.

  But all I could think was that the black dot of death and the curse of Queen Cleopatra were upon us.

  ****

  At 6 p.m. Kalem and I were standing with the hordes of other President wannameets at the Apricot Festival. It was being held in the village of Esentepe, at their wedding park, which, yes, you guessed it, was where the locals held their wedding parties.

  The village was charming – quaint, with an eclectic mix of Cypriots and other nationalities. The wedding park had been set up so that little stalls, selling various wares, lined either side of the entrance. Further into the park there was an amphitheatre where the entertainment would be shown. To the side of the park, little cafes and makeshift bars had been set up. The smell of smoky barbeques and slowly roasted lamb cooked in traditional clay ovens wafted through the air.

  I hopped from one foot to the other, fingering the letter in my hand.

  I had it all figured out. I’d written a detailed letter to the President, explaining everything that had happened so far in concise detail. All I had to do was to get close enough to hand it to him.

  ‘So, as soon as he’s cut the ribbon to the entrance, we’ll both rush forward and try to hand him the letter,’ I said to Kalem.

  ‘OK.’

  I craned my neck over the crowd. A black Range Rover with tinted windows pulled up.

  Right. Get ready.

  The crowd let out a roar as the President exited the vehicle. Four bodyguards with earpieces flanked either side of him.

  He gave the crowd a huge smile and an enthusiastic wave. Then he made a speech.

  I carried on hopping. I needed a nervous wee as well. Stress was so not good for your bladder.

  The speech seemed to go on for ages.

  Oh, get on with it!

  Ten more minutes of speeching, and then someone handed him a pair of scissors. He said something else in Turkish and cut the ribbon to huge applause.

  Here we go!

  I jostled my way through the crowd, all elbows and argy-bargy, with Kalem close behind. I heard a couple of yelps as I accidentally stood on a few feet. ‘Sorry,’ I mumbled.

  I was half a metre away from him when a grumpy looking bodyguard stepped in my way.

  ‘Hello.’ I gave him my best no-of-course-I’m-not-going-to-attack-the-President smile. ‘I just need a quick word with the President.’

  Kalem said something to him in Turkish.

  Grumpy shook his head, holding his ground.

  Kalem said something else, his hands making urgent gestures as he talked.

  Grumpy glowered at him and did more head shaking.

  Some of the other bodyguards pushed the crowd away from the President.

  I pushed forward again. Ouch! Someone’s bag jabbed in the base of my spine.

  Grumpy pushed me back.

  In all the kerfuffle the letter got ripped from my hand. ‘Hey!’

  I scrambled around in the middle of the crowd, frantically trying to get a view of the letter on the ground.

  Where are you? Where? Come on, I know you’re here somewhere.

  I twirled around in a circle, eyes glued to the concrete.

  Kalem tried to barge his way closer. He shouted to the President, trying to catch his attention, but the President just waved his hand in return.

  The weight of the moving crowd pushed us back further as the President moved.

  There! I bent down and grabbed the note from the concrete. When I looked up, the President had drifted another metre away from us.

  Oh, this was ridiculous. There was no way I could get close enough to give him the letter. Maybe I could throw it at him and hope he’d catch it.

  I quickly turned the letter into a paper airplane, aimed it at the President, and shot for dear life.

  It sailed through the air, above the heads of the crowd, in a perfect arc.

  I held my breath. Just another bit further. Come on. Come on. You can do it.

  And that’s when it hit Grumpy Bodyguard, slap, bang in the eye, and then fell to the floor in amongst the crowd.

  Oh, shit.

  Grumpy’s hand flew to his eye. With his other watery eye, he scrutinized the crowd for offensive weapons.

  He looked at me.

  I ducked.
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  When I got up again the President was gone – through the crowd and making his way to chat with the stall holders, bodyguards protectively positioned on either side. The crowd around the president gradually reduced as they sought out the excitement of the food stalls and the entertainment which had just started in the amphitheatre.

  ‘Look.’ I pointed to a stall at the end of the line, selling household goods. ‘There’s no one on it. We’ll just pretend it’s our stall, and I’ll write out another note to give to him when he stops.’

  We ran to the stall and stood behind it. I grabbed a pen out of my bag.

  ‘Why did we have to get the worst stall?’ I stared at everything with dismay. ‘What can we write on?’ Why hadn’t I brought some spare paper with me for just such an event?

  Toilet brush holders, mugs, toilet rolls, wooden spoons, potties.

  What the hell could I write on?

  I glanced up. The President was three stalls away.

  To my right, a tall guy was heading our way, waving his fist at us.

  Oops, must be the stall holder.

  ‘Kalem, go and distract him before he comes back.’

  Kalem shot off to talk to the stall holder.

  I looked around the stall frantically. What can I write on? A potty? No way. A mug? No. Toilet roll! Yes.

  I took a toilet roll out of the packet and quickly scribbled:

  Ali Kaya will be assassinated! Statue will be stolen. Please help. Must do something! Not a joke!

  The President appeared at the stall. Grumpy stood next to him, rubbing his red, and very watery, eye.

  ‘Hello, Mr. President,’ I said, ignoring Grumpy. He couldn’t prove it was me, anyway.

  If the President noticed my flushed, sweating face, he didn’t let on.

  He held his hand out to shake mine. ‘Hello.’ He politely studied the stall for a moment and went to move on.

  ‘Wait!’ I shoved the toilet roll in his hand. ‘It’s a lucky toilet roll for you, Mr. President.’

  He looked down at the toilet roll, slightly perplexed. Then he smiled politely. ‘Thank you.’ He gave me a slight nod and handed the roll to his bodyguard. The bodyguard frowned at it, as if wondering what he was supposed to do with it and they wandered off.