by Angela Dyson
A voice from behind us cut in, “But you are not old Thanos.”
It was Chris. He had caught me unawares after all. His eyes scanned my face and then turning he made a sweeping gesture to include the whole room and slapped Thanos lightly on the back.
“For a man of sixty it is the time to enjoy the fruits of a life of labour and to appreciate all that he has achieved.”
The older man laughed good-naturedly, nodded at me, and then left us. Chris and I looked at each other. “I’m glad you came,” he said smiling into my eyes. Again, he was wearing a dark suit and I found that it was hard to imagine him in anything else. The formal cut became him and lent him an air of authority. I liked the way that his hair showed just a few strands of grey on the sideburns and that his eyes were so dark they were almost black. His olive skin looked healthy and well cared for. He looked expensive, sure of himself. Dangerous, just as Flan had said. He reached for a glass of wine from a nearby table and clinked my glass with his own.
“What are we toasting?” I asked.
“Getting to know one another,” he replied.
“Perhaps we should start then,” I said. “You know my name is Clarry. I’m twenty-six and I’m in the restaurant business.” I thought this sounded better than, ‘I wait tables.’ I went on, “I don’t like carrots. I’d love to go to Egypt. I’m very kind to animals except daddy longlegs which I’m scared of. I’ve invented my own cocktail… which is really good by the way.” I checked the list off my fingers. “And I sometimes wish I was slimmer but I know that I never shall be.”
He laughed as I finished my recital. “So now it’s my turn?”
I nodded. You bet it was.
“I am forty-four years old,” he began. “I have various business interests mostly in property.”
This much I knew.
“My family comes from Thessaloniki. I drive my car too fast. I like twelve-year-old malt whisky. I am impatient with fools but rarely lose my temper and… I enjoy beautiful things.”
The way his eyes never left mine as he said this made his meaning clear.
Slick, I thought and a little too practised for my taste, but there was something about the way that he didn’t fidget or look about the room that was oddly compelling.
“The food looks terrific,” I said waving a hand towards a dish of shiny purple aubergines topped with cheese and at a platter of glistening stuffed tomatoes. “What’s that?” I asked pointing to a huge earthenware casserole of something richly aromatic that pulsated with herbs.
“Ah, that’s Kleftiko or Robbers lamb. You’ll like it.”
“Interesting name,” I said.
“Bands of guerrillas hiding out in the mountains during the Second World War devised a method of cooking meat in a tightly closed oven, so they would not draw attention to their presence by smoke from their fires. This makes the meat tender and moist. Try it. It’s perfumed with bay leaves.” He picked up two plates and ladled out generous portions, then led the way to a table in the corner where we sat down.
The noise level in the room had upped a decibel. The backgammon boys were clicking their worry beads in earnest now and a couple of kids who had been surreptitiously sneaking down dregs of ouzo from abandoned glasses were being berated by their mother, a woman of about my age in a plain black dress. As she passed our table she gave me a swiftly appraising glance that had a hostile edge to it. Why? I wondered. And I couldn’t help but notice that despite the relaxed party atmosphere, the guests appeared to be keeping their distance from Chris. Every now and again he would give a polite nod or word of greeting in Greek and although I didn’t understand what was said, the body language was clear enough; in each case the response was formal and slightly wary. I noticed that it was the women in particular who seemed the most guarded, looking from him to me and then exchanging significant looks. He didn’t introduce me at all.
As we ate I asked him about his native homeland and he seemed relaxed and content to tell me of its customs and its geography. Framed by high mountain ranges that included Mount Olympus home of the immortal gods, and bordered on its eastern side by the Aegean Sea, the place sounded beautiful and in many ways still unspoilt. I sat back with my wine as he talked of ancient Byzantine monasteries dotted amongst the mountains and of foothills studded with picturesque villages that had been rooted for generations amongst the olive groves. All very interesting but it was time to do what I’d come for and try and worm out a little information.
“Restaurant life is great fun but I’m not sure that I see myself doing it forever and I…”
“Which restaurant is it?” Chris interrupted me.
It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him Abbe’s, but instead I said, “Oh, nowhere fancy. You wouldn’t know it.”
“I might?”
“Just a place in the village,” I said, trying my best to sound vague. I then hurriedly asked, “What about you? Do you enjoy what you do?”
He relaxed back in his chair. “I suppose that I never stop to think about it, but yes I do.”
“You said property, didn’t you?” I asked playing with my fork. “What does that mean exactly?”
“I’m a developer. I buy properties cheap, do them up, and sell them on.”
I forced myself to look impressed. “That sounds fascinating. I’ve seen programmes about it. Are you busy with any particular projects at the moment?”
“One or two.” He smoothed a hand across his well-cut hair. Nikko’s hadn’t done a bad job. I wondered what on earth he’d think if he’d known that I’d been sitting outside the barbers on Tuesday secretly spying on him.
“I have a refurbishment project on in Clapham and there is a big house in Wimbledon that I should exchange on next week. So, there’s enough to keep me busy.”
That had to be Alwyn Road. And from his manner he seemed totally confident that the deal was in the bag. Don’t count on it I thought. Teasing a strand of my hair around my ring finger, I smiled encouragingly and probed some more.
“How impressive. It sounds like you have your own empire. I should imagine that finding the properties in the first place can’t be easy, however do you do it?”
As in my dealings with Simon, I wondered if I was laying it on too thick. This man was a whole different ballgame to Simon and it didn’t do to underestimate him. But as before, I had misjudged the male capacity for a flagrant display of ego. Chris seemed to find nothing suspect in my breathy admiration. That he should be praised and flattered was something he appeared to take as his due.
“In this business, it’s all about contacts.”
“Really? I suppose you mean estate agents. But surely there are so many buyers looking for a good deal?”
“Estate agents are a particularly greedy breed but they serve their purpose.” He took a sip of wine, his eyes grazing my neckline and I sensed that he was just about to change the subject but I wasn’t done yet.
“I seem to remember from those programmes that some developers can be pretty unscrupulous and do all kind of things to bring down the value of the properties they are interested in… things like… um… turning off the water mains… or getting in squatters… that kind of thing.”
He smiled. “These programmes. Must they give away all our little secrets? So…” And this time he wouldn’t be diverted. “Let’s talk about something else. For example, do you like fish?”
And as I couldn’t for the life of me see any way of continuing the topic, I decided to let things roll.
“Because there’s a restaurant I know that I would like to take you to where the sea bass is excellent. And they serve a goat’s cheese from Thessaloniki, “Graviera” that is sweet and fresh and like nothing you have ever tasted. One thing I believe,” he said looking directly into my eyes, “is, that anticipation is everything. We Greeks have a saying slowly slowly wins the day.
And we
have a saying in Wimbledon I thought; brush up your pulling patter if you want to get laid. I was conscious, however, of a feeling of relief. This man was undeniably attractive but he should never ever speak. Before I could make any kind of answer however, his mobile rang.
“I must take this. Wait for me please.” And he got up and went out of the restaurant.
I exhaled. There really didn’t seem much more to be gained from staying any longer. I’d make my goodbye to Chris and then I’d be off. Deciding that I needed the loo first, I made my way to the back of the restaurant and pushing open the door walked slap bang into the woman in the black dress who had looked at me with such hostility earlier.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said, making way for her.
She glanced at me as she was about to leave and then her expression sharpened as she recognised me. With remarkable speed she banged the door closed behind us with a decisive slam and placed her back against it thereby barring my exit. Then folding her arms in front of her she stood glaring at me. It was clear she was seriously pissed off. I kept my expression neutral.
“You do know that he has a wife?” she hissed, her accent thick and her voice reverberating with anger.
“I’m sorry?”
Her eyes flashed fiercely. With clear olive skin, thick black glossy hair pulled up and away from her face, and with a strong bone structure, she was very striking. “Don’t pretend you don’t know,” she spat.
“I honestly haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about,” I replied.
“Well you’re screwing him, aren’t you?”
Suddenly everything clicked into place – all those meaningful looks between the women. Of course, he was married. I should have guessed that. But, I told myself, I hadn’t done anything wrong. It was Chris. Why hadn’t he just asked me out rather than to this intimate party where people obviously knew his wife?
The woman continued in a tight angry voice. “I pity Maria for having a husband who parades his whore in public!”
Was that what he was doing, parading me in front of people? Why would he do that? But I’d have to think through this later because right now I had something to say. And no one likes being called a whore.
“I am not sleeping with Chris. And… I have absolutely no intention of doing so. Actually, I didn’t even know he was married. I’m sorry if that’s what you all think but it simply isn’t true. Look, let’s start again. I’m Clarry.” I smiled and stuck out my hand and after a brief hesitation she took it.
“I’m Nuala.”
“I take it you are a friend of Chris’s wife?”
“Maria doesn’t deserve to be married to a man like that. The Zakiats are an important family.”
Zakiat. My brain did a quick backflip. That was the name of the other director of Cornett Developments which had bought the house in South Park Road that Simon had previously sold.
“So, if you are not with him in that way then why are you here?”
I considered lying, considered claiming that we had some kind of business dealings together, but this woman wasn’t stupid and besides there was something about the way that she had championed her friend Maria that I liked. “I’ll tell you the truth,” I said. Well at least part of it I thought. “I was in for a meal earlier this week with a friend and Chris got talking to us and he invited me here today. That’s it.”
Her gaze was steady and unblinking. “Why did you come?”
I held up my hands. “Well I didn’t know he was married or I wouldn’t have. A good-looking man put a move on me and I responded.”
Her face had darkened and I asked quietly. “You really dislike him, don’t you?”
“I despise him,” she shot back. “He’s a hypocrite. He demands respect from our community yet he pursues only his own interests.”
“And those interests are?”
“Money. I don’t know exactly what his business dealings are and I don’t want to know. But that club he is involved with…” she broke off shaking her head.
“Club?” I pressed. This was interesting.
“It’s only what I have heard. It’s not a place I would ever go to. Knights it’s called – somewhere around Waterloo.”
“But why is Chris respected if he is such a shit?” I asked curiously.
“Because of his family,” she answered flatly. “The Lianthos are one of the old families, as are Maria’s family. Stavros Zakiat, Maria’s father, is so generous with his time and with his money. Even though he lives here, he still organises aid for all those poor refugees that wash up on our shores. He comes from Samos where many thousands have come to escape their country. But Chris is a very different man. I heard that Stavros was so happy when his daughter married into the Lianthos family, but now who knows? Chris is powerful. No one wishes to speak against him and yet so many have been humiliated by him.” The bitterness in her tone was unmistakable. “I’ve said too much I must go.”
She had. And whilst I didn’t doubt that she believed what she had told me, it seemed clear that her information was limited. Was she aware for example that Maria’s father was working with Chris on his property scams? I was guessing not.
“And his wife?” I couldn’t resist asking. “She knows all this?”
Nuala’s shrug was eloquent. “I don’t know for sure but I suspect she does.”
“Have you seen Chris with women before?” I asked.
She nodded.
“And you’ve told Maria that? Told her directly I mean?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
She looked away and then said, “I am not a close friend of hers even though we see each other most days. She has her hairdressers and my husband and I have our delicatessen next door but we are not close. She is a proud woman and would not want to know that other people knew of or discussed her affairs, so, no I have not…”
I nodded and then asked, “Where is your delicatessen?”
“Just around the corner on the Green,” she said hesitating. “I have to go now. You will not tell Chris what I said?”
I shook my head. “No, absolutely not. I will go back and talk to him a while longer as if nothing has happened and then I’m off.”
“And will you see him again?”
I raised my eyebrow. “What do you think?”
I sat back at the table and moments later Chris returned.
“I am sorry for keeping you waiting.”
“That’s fine,” I said. “I have just been soaking up this warm family atmosphere.”
From then on I kept the conversation light but I sensed that he discerned a change in my demeanour and I was relieved when I spotted Nuala, her two children, and a man that I presumed to be her husband making signs of preparation to leave. For form’s sake, I gave it another ten minutes and then with an air of a woman who was packed and ready to depart, I glanced at my watch. “It’s late. I must be going.”
“Must you?”
I got up and held out my hand to him. “I’m afraid so. Please say goodbye to Thanos for me and goodbye, it’s been fun.”
He kept hold of my hand. “Let me take you home.”
“No don’t worry, I’ve got my car.”
“I will walk you to it.”
There was no way I could graciously refuse this offer and so without a word to Thanos or any of the other guests, he took my arm and together we made our way out of the restaurant. Once in the street he dropped my arm and silence descended upon us. At last we reached my car and I turned to him.
“This is me. Thanks again.”
He didn’t speak and for a moment I felt a shiver of apprehension. I didn’t know this man and yet here I was alone in the dark with him. Instinctively I took a step back, the handle of the driver’s door pressing into the small of my back.
“Well,” I said brightly. “So I’
ll say goodnight then and…”
Still he didn’t speak but as he looked at me I could see that an assessment was being made and that he’d come to a decision. What that decision might be I could only guess. I waited. After a beat, he turned and with slow deliberation walked back along the street in the direction of the restaurant. It was only when he had rounded the corner and was lost from sight that I let myself into the car.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Sometime during the night, I had been dimly aware of the sound of rain drumming against the windowpane, and when I awoke just after eight, it was still beating a steady tattoo on the casement. I drew back the curtains to gaze out on to a glowering grey sky where sulky little rags of cloud did their best to block out the light from a watery sun.
Whilst I was in the shower I missed a call from Laura.
“Hey babes.” She sounded happy and excited. “Sooooo much to tell you.”
I winced. So she’d slept with him. Well of course she had.
“I wondered if you’re about today for a coffee. I don’t have to work because of the Norwich trip. How about I come around to yours at about noon? Right, if I don’t hear from you then I’ll assume that’s OK. See you later.”
Ordinarily I would have loved the idea of a lazy Monday morning gossiping on the sofa with my best friend but not this time.
I needed milk and so walked into the village. Although rain still fell in steely rods from a gunmetal sky, I felt the fresh air was doing me good. I’d shoved my newly washed hair up into a beanie to keep the dreaded frizz at bay. Little did I know that before this day was out, hat-hair would be the least of my worries?
I opened the door to Laura who was standing on the mat under a dripping umbrella and proffering a packet of chocolate digestives.
Taking in my appearance with a swift glance, she asked, “What’s with the hair? New look?”
She strode into the hall, laughing and pulling off her wet jacket. Her long brown hair, I noted, fell about her face in damp strands, without even the slightest suggestion of frizz.
