Halfway through the flight we saw Cillian leaning against a wall at the front of the plane chatting to one of his colleagues. Well, we could see their legs; the rest of them was hidden by a thin curtain with the airline emblem on it.
‘Did you see what happened in Hell Hole last night?’ Cillian said.
‘No, what?’
‘Oh, it all kicked off with that one I can’t stand.’
‘You can’t stand any of them.’
‘That wee Scouser one now. Argh, she makes my shit itch.’
‘Why? What happened?’
‘Well, you know they took her out of the Hole and everyone thought she’d been evicted?’
‘No! You are joking.’
‘Well, she’d been living in her own secret hole watching everything on a screen with headphones on. So she heard them all slagging her off.’
Just then we heard a buzzer.
‘Och, it’s only the cheap seats. So anyway, they let her back into the real Hole last night and of course she’s fuming coz they’ve all been vile to her, so on my life . . . did it kick off or what?’
‘Did you see Madonna’s taken her navel piercing out?’
‘Stephen, will you put that down? I’m talking. So anyway –’ Cillian clearly didn’t realize how loud his voice was. In his head a flimsy curtain was the equivalent of a mid-air padded cell ‘– it ended up with this massive fight. The cops were called and everything, and now they’ve had to take the show off air.’
‘Fuck me, that’s terrible.’
‘Well, that’s what I said to our Claire, so I did.’
The buzzer went again.
‘Och, I best go.’
The curtain went back and we saw Cillian slide down the aisle to the seat in front.
‘Sorry, madam, I was just serving the pilot his lamb Caesar wrap. What can I get for you, my love?’
I looked to Iggy. He was biting his hand to stop himself from laughing too loudly.
By the time we were stepping off the plane, Cillian was stood at the door with that grin on his face that looked like it had been painted on along with his eight inches of make-up, but his eyes couldn’t lie. They were screaming, Here she comes. Fanny Craddock on crack. And who’s that with her? Her dealer?
‘Have a great trip now, you hear?’ He grinned, while his eyes said, Really hope you die a painful death tonight. Or maybe sooner. Careful on those stairs, bitch!
I returned a similar smile and hurled back, ‘Everything you wish for me, I wish for yourself.’
Which foxed him. In fact I heard a whispered ‘What was she on about?’ as we descended the steps to the runway. I didn’t wait for the reply.
The interior of one airport looked very much like the next in my experience: dazzling overhead lighting, chugging conveyor belts, Gestapo-like security observing your every move, strange-smelling toilets, someone crying because they can’t find their bubble-wrapped shopping trolley. The exterior wasn’t what I expected, though. I’m not sure what I expected a Greek airport to look like, but this appeared to be plonked in the middle of the desert like something out of a Hitchcock film set in the Middle East. I was Doris Day, and Iggy was James Stewart, and we’d come here to find the toddler son we’d lost to international kidnappers. The greying low building with archways all round it spoke to me of countries other than the one famous for olives and grappa. On closer inspection, we weren’t in the desert; it was just that the earth surrounding us was baked dry, and actually the building should have been typically Greek – smart white pebbledash reflecting the sun – but had darkened, possibly from the pollution of the planes it welcomed and farewelled. But looking at us, and the way our cab driver from the cacophonous rank viewed us, we were no Doris and James. We were two overdressed loons who looked like they could do with a good wash/rest/holiday. One had enough luggage to fill a small palace; the other clasped a sports bag as if he were off to school for one lesson, then planned to bunk off.
The hotel I had booked us into, Ompreles, was incredibly expensive, but if the website was to be believed, promised laid-back luxury. After a twenty-minute cab drive through narrow streets and then dusty tracks, climbing forever higher, we were deposited at a gap in a very low, pudgy, whitewashed wall that appeared to have nothing beyond it but the sea and sky. The only thing I knew was we were vertiginously high up. As our driver sped off, I was convinced he had left us at the wrong place, but then I noticed a faint ‘Ompreles’ painted in very pale blue lettering to the right-hand side of the gap. We stepped forward and almost fell into the hotel. The view was breathtaking. We both gasped audibly, then looked to each other in amazement. It was like we were standing at the pinnacle of an amphitheatre, with terraced gardens built on a succession of steps leading down to an infinity pool, which itself seemed to seep into the sea below. I wanted to don a parachute and float down to the bottom. Instead we walked. As we hauled our luggage – I still had my massive rucksack containing all my belongings – down the steps that wound through the terraces, I noticed that the rooms were built into the rock of the hill itself. Each one appeared to be a sort of cave with turquoise shuttered doors. I could see why April had been so drawn to this island. It was like nowhere else on earth. A crescent-shaped volcanic lip protruding from the sea, everything about it was steep, and the villages and towns appeared to cluster at the top of the lip, white buildings with soft edges clinging like lichen to a stone.
As we neared the bottom, a woman magically appeared with a tray holding two glasses of water with lemon in. She greeted us calmly and quietly, informing us she was Petra Boniface, the guest relations manager, and showed us to our own cave.
Petra Boniface. She sounded like a drag queen. What was it about this island? I had to stop myself from asking if she had a sister called Bonnie Boniface as we followed her down some steps, and instead I asked her where she was from.
‘Chicago. The Windy City,’ she said without turning round.
Behind me, I heard Iggy mimic the sound of a fart. And then giggle. If Petra Boniface heard this, she didn’t flinch.
‘I believe Oprah Winfrey lives in Chicago,’ I commented, hoping to convey to Petra in that one small sentence that I was well travelled, well mannered, well-to-do.
‘She’s stayed here,’ said Petra.
‘She didn’t stay in our room, did she?’ called Iggy.
‘No. She hired the whole hotel.’
She stopped and then yanked back some turquoise doors. We’d arrived.
The cave/room was simple but clean and elegant. Inside there were more caves hollowed into the rock, like a rabbit warren, all painted white and divided by white lacy curtains. The furniture – beds, chests of drawers – was a dark mahogany, and the sheets on the beds and the throw on the sofa boasted white and lurid lime-green stripes. I had my own little cave bedroom; Iggy had his. Petra looked surprised that I had brought so much luggage for a three-day stay (that is how much time I’d guessed I’d need to find Rose and confront her), but she was too professional to ask questions.
I went in the flap of my rucksack and pulled out a tattered piece of paper. I showed it to her.
‘Would you know where this address is, please?’
She glanced at it and nodded.
I couldn’t make head nor tail of it. I had transcribed it carefully from what Irish Alan had showed me, but it was all double Dutch to me. Actually, it was all Greek to me, as that is the language I had attempted to replicate.
Petra read it aloud. It sounded like ‘Kleftico-mexico-kobodoba-doodiko.’
I felt a wave of relief at that nod and that gobbledegook; the worst thing would have been to discover I’d copied it wrong and it made no sense.
Iggy popped his head out of his cave bedroom. ‘I want what she’s on,’ he said. ‘Mental!’ Then he disappeared back to unpack.
‘That is the post office in Oia,’ Petra said coolly.
I didn’t know if she had kids, but could just picture her reacting coolly to whatever life thr
ew at her.
Mom, I got a U in my geometry.
[Ice queen voice] Get to your room.
Mom, I pooped myself.
[Ice queen voice] This is ridiculous. You’re twenty-three.
Mom, my head fell off.
[Ice queen voice] There’s a needle and thread in the third drawer down.
My heart sank. The post office?
But wait. Maybe April was the postmistress in Oia.
I suggested this to the woman. She kindly shook her head.
‘No one has an address as such in Oia. Everyone collects their post from the post office.’
‘I need to find this woman, you see.’
I pointed to the name at the top of the paper.
‘April Hunt,’ I said, like she couldn’t read.
I heard Iggy calling out from his room, ‘We all know what that’s cockney rhyming slang for! Don’t we, girl?!’ and then a fit of the giggles.
I was starting to regret bringing Iggy. Fortunately Petra ignored him.
She smiled, efficiently folded the paper in two and handed it back to me. ‘You will have no trouble. The postmistress knows everyone. And if she doesn’t, the man in the bakery does.’
How odd.
‘And . . . and we are in Oia now, yes?’
I was talking to her as if she was foreign. Well, as if she didn’t speak English. She nodded.
‘We are on the outskirts of Oia. The town, well . . . village centre is a fifteen-minute walk.’
‘Thank you.’
Our guest relations manager proceeded to explain about breakfast by the pool, or in our room if we preferred, but I wasn’t listening. I was looking out of the cave door. It was cool and mellow in here, but out there was all bright white light. From here I could see the village of Oia. It was your typical Greek poster view, white dots and blocks with bits of blue and the sun shining like a pink rubber ball behind it. I realized where I had seen it before, on Rose’s kitchen wall. And as I stared towards the village, I imagined the walls falling away on all the buildings and seeing a thousand different Roses going about their business like awkward mannequins in doll’s houses. I wanted to reach in and pluck one of the dolls out and bring her down into the palm of my hand and say, ‘I know.’
I sighed.
Yup, Rose, I did know.
When Petra had left, Iggy said he fancied sitting by the pool and asked if I was going to the post office. I nodded and said I was. As he disappeared into the Iggycave to change, I noticed he’d not pulled the curtain to as he started to strip. I averted my eyes and headed to my own cave. But not before looking back to see the peachiest of bare bums on display. I could feel myself blush, even though he didn’t know I’d seen, then almost fell onto my bed.
And even though he’d had his back to me, I heard him call out, ‘Hey! Stop fancying us, Pips!’
I laughed loudly to show I thought that was hilarious. And he echoed the laugh back to me.
I didn’t.
I couldn’t.
I didn’t fancy Iggy, did I?
Oh God. Was this going to be ‘a thing’?
(And I loathed that phrase ‘a thing’, so I really hoped not.)
We go on holiday together and end up sleeping together and falling for each other, like they did in the film of One Day? That’s what happened, isn’t? Suddenly I was no longer Doris Day; I was Anne Hathaway. And Iggy was . . . was . . . whoever that British bloke was in that film. That, admittedly, quite fit bloke. And we’d cavort semi-clad in the infinity pool after one too many cocktails and then one day we’d be married.
OK, so that’s not quite what happened in the movie, but . . . you know what I mean.
I didn’t want that to happen. I didn’t want to suddenly see Iggy in a new setting and suddenly have the hots for him. For God’s sake, he only came up to my nipples.
Nipples. Why did I think nipples? Why didn’t I say elbows?
Oh God, I fancy Iggy.
Then I took a deep breath. No, I didn’t. He was my friend.
But people sleep with their friends all the time.
Not necessarily. Heterosexual people of the opposite sex are more than capable of remaining platonic.
I felt better now.
Just then Iggy came bounding into my room and threw himself onto the bed. He seemed to land cross-legged, like a genie in a Disney film. He was wearing a hotel towelling robe and matching white slippers. Underneath, he wore Bermuda-style shorts that had silhouettes of dogs on. Green silhouettes. Bless him, he matched the accessories.
He said, ‘Just been reading the blurb in the book thing. These used to be caves what people lived in. Fishermen and farmers. Three hundred years ago. Imagine that, Pips.’
‘Wow.’ I agreed that was pretty impressive.
‘Shame that farmers and fishermen couldn’t afford to live here now, like.’
I nodded. And as if for the first time noticed how blue his eyes were.
Oh, Holly, stop this.
‘You all right, Pips?’
I nodded.
‘Worried about Rose and that?’
I nodded.
‘Want me to come with you?’
I shook my head.
‘Well, I’ll keep me phone on. In case you need to call.’
I smiled and mouthed the words ‘thank you’.
‘Thanks for bringing me, Pips.’
I smiled again. Bless him. He did look adorable in the sunshine. When did runts of the litter get so cute?
‘And if there’s anything you need me to do, anything, you just holler. Yeah, Pips?’
‘Thanks, Iggy.’
Oh, what, like make love to me? Make love to me like I’ve never been made love to before?
‘I might have a cold shower before I head out.’
‘OK, babe. I’m gonna head to the pool.’
He hopped off the bed. Just before exiting my cave, he looked back.
‘Have you noticed anything weird about here?’
‘No. What?’
‘There’s no tellies. Anywhere. We’re cut off from the outside world.’
I chuckled. ‘I imagine it’s to encourage us to relax.’
‘I’m not half gonna miss my Hole.’ He winked, then walked out.
The hotel might have been a treat to walk into, but it was a bloody nightmare to walk out of. That hill was a steep climb, and the biscuit tin became sweaty in my hands. Although I’d put on one of my thinnest summer dresses and flip-flops, it clung to me like a wet shower curtain. And who did I see as I neared the top and clung to the wall to drag myself the last couple of steps out of the hotel?
Cillian.
Or whatever his name was. Mr Orange from the flight.
He didn’t see me at first. He was walking past the entrance, still in his orange jumpsuit, dragging a matching orange travel trolley with him. He had earphones in and was humming a Gaga tune, shades on. I smiled, even though he didn’t see me, and once he’d passed, I followed him and the sign – which wouldn’t have looked out of place on a pantomime set – that pointed to Oia. If I just kept a good ten feet behind him all the way, he’d be none the wiser. And that’s how it turned out. Until. He obviously wasn’t paying much attention to where he was going, too busy staring, as was I, at the magnificent view of the volcanic lip to our left, when he took a tumble and fell flat on his face, emitting a very girly scream.
Instinctively I ran over to him and bleated, ‘Oh God, are you all right?’
His sunglasses had flown off his head and he seemed more bothered about them than his own discomfort as I helped him to his feet.
I saw his sunglasses a few feet away and recovered them for him. When I turned to hand them to him, he looked surprised.
‘Oh, it’s you. The chef.’
‘I’m not a chef,’ I said softly. My tone was non-confrontational; it was appeasing. I was convinced it was probably the one Mo Mowlam had used at Stormont.
He smiled. ‘No, you’re just a picky bitch.’
I mock gasped.
‘I can say that – I’m not at work now!’ he shouted very quickly. And loudly. A passing stray Labrador even looked back to see what the fuss was.
I winked. He laughed. And we walked together.
His name was not Cillian; it was Clifford. Not far wrong, then! And, boy, could he talk. He burbled about seven words a second and I found it impossible to keep up.
‘Icomehereallthetimewithwork.Iloveitsomuch.It’samazing.HaveyoutriedtherestaurantsinOia?They’reamazing.What,you’ve neverbeen?Oh,you’regonnalovetheplace!What’reyoudoinghere?Oh,you’revisitingfamily.Oh,that’sbeyond.Itreallyisbeyond.IwishIhadfamilyherethatwouldbeamazingonaplate!’
Well, you get the idea.
Though I did clock he used the phrase ‘amazing on a plate’.
‘Did you just say “amazing on a plate”?’ I gasped, slightly rudely.
‘I made it up.’ He nodded proudly. ‘Isn’t “amazing on a plate” amazing on a plate?’ and then he shrieked.
‘Do you know where the post office is?’
‘I know where you post letters. It’s near where I’m staying. Come on. I’ll show you.’
When we eventually arrived at the dusty village square, and what was allegedly the post office, we discovered it was shut.
Oh well. Man in the bakery it was, then.
Clifford/Cillian pointed me down a narrow lane, we bid each other goodbye, and off I went. The bakery and cafe smelt so sweet I thought I might OD on sugar just breathing in. Fans beat down on me, cooling both myself and the shelves upon shelves of cakes and pastries that looked like adornments in a doll’s house. Oh well, that fitted my doll’s-house imagining from earlier. The rotund man behind the counter smiled and bid me good afternoon in a very convincing English accent. Did I really look that English?
I showed him the piece of paper.
‘I am looking for a woman called April Hunt.’
His eyes lit up, thrilled to be able to help, and he started ushering me back towards the door.
‘I will show you where she live,’ he said.
The Girl Who Just Appeared Page 28
