After the Honeymoon

by Fraser, Janey

  They reached the small reception desk before the other couple. To his irritation, there was no one there, although there was the sound of scurrying behind a door leading off the little hall. Winston rang the tinny bell that was on the reception desk. No answer. He tried again.

  This time, the door opened and a young man walked in. On closer look, Winston realised he was more of a boy and that his older appearance came from a smooth, unblemished skin uncommon in adolescents, plus a very polite, assured manner.

  ‘So sorry to have kept you,’ he said in impeccable English with a very slight Greek accent. Good. So there wouldn’t be any communication problems here then. Winston bent his head in acknowledgment.

  ‘It’s Mr and Mrs Walker, isn’t it?’

  That wasn’t the false name he’d instructed Poppy to use! ‘Actually,’ he said quietly, ‘we’re booked under Churchill although the real name is King.’ Swiftly he looked behind to check no one else was listening. ‘Winston King.’

  If this kid recognised the name, he wasn’t showing it. Instead, there was a flurry of page-turning. ‘Ah, here we are. Churchill.’

  Winston’s heart soared with relief.

  ‘But it looks as though it’s been cancelled.’

  No! Winston felt sweat trickling down his back – and not just because of the poor air conditioning. ‘That can’t be right.’

  The boy gave him a look, the type you got if you returned something to a shop and were told that no one else had ever complained. ‘Do you know who you spoke to when you first made the booking?’

  Of course he bloody didn’t. ‘My assistant did it.’ He was struggling now to remain polite. ‘Are you sure it was cancelled?’

  ‘Look.’ The boy pushed the diary across the desk. Winston stared. The booking had a big red line through it. Someone had cocked up big time. Either his assistant or someone at this end. No prizes for guessing who his money would be on. Poppy was never wrong.

  There was a hand on his back. Melissa. Every time she touched him, he wanted to melt. She looked so beautiful in her halter-neck red cotton dress, which set her dark hair off to perfection, that he could hardly believe she was his.

  Nick. Forgive me.

  ‘Is everything all right?’

  He nodded, desperately trying to collect himself. ‘Sure. Why don’t you go and sit in the cool? We won’t be a minute.’

  He turned back, gritting his teeth. ‘Please find me your manager.’

  The boy looked him straight in the eye with what seemed like more than a whiff of arrogance. If he’d been one of his men back in the Royal Marines, he might have got a warning.

  ‘I’m afraid she’s away for a few days. Would you like to wait on the patio? We can give you a complimentary drink while we try and find you another place to stay.’

  Winston’s voice was low and steady. ‘I don’t want a complimentary drink. And I don’t want alternative accommodation either. I want the cottage for my wife and myself. The cottage that we booked. We’ve been travelling all night, and frankly, we want to rest. Is that clear?’

  There was the sound of someone retching behind him. Great. The man with the honeymoon sweatshirt was actually vomiting on the ground.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ The blonde woman was hastily mopping up with tissues from her bag. ‘I’m afraid my husband isn’t feeling very well. Do you think we could go straight to our cottage? The name’s Walker.’

  Winston let out a silent groan. So this couple had got their rooms! He waited as the woman filled out the registration form while the man was sick again, just by his feet. Thank God Melissa was on the patio, still trying to get reception. It might give him time to sort out this mess.

  ‘What are you going to do about us?’ he growled to the kid. As he spoke, Winston willed himself to calm down. There was something about this place that he liked. It had an air of peace about it, despite that man throwing up. Nice position, too – right on the sea, which always soothed him. Close to the hills so he could climb high and lose himself. He didn’t want to have to find somewhere else.

  ‘Please.’ The boy was picking up the phone. ‘Give me a moment and I will see what I can do.’

  He carried the handset through the door but Winston could hear the odd word. ‘Not sure whose fault it is. Really, Mum? You’re sure?’

  Then he returned, his young face revealing a dark flush. ‘The manager apologises for any mistake. Unfortunately we’ve had a leak in the main house guest rooms so they’re out of action.’

  What kind of dump had they come to?

  The boy, as though sensing his annoyance, hurried on. ‘So she has suggested that you have her room. It has a luxury en suite, a terrace and a stunning view over the sea. There will, of course, be a discount.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said firmly. ‘I appreciate it. There’s something else. My wife needs to make a phone call and she can’t get any reception.’

  The lad shrugged. ‘Rather hit and miss, I’m afraid.’

  In one way, that was good, Winston told himself, although he didn’t like the casual attitude. ‘In that case, I presume there’s a phone in the room.’

  The boy’s face suggested he’d asked for the moon. ‘Sorry. The only landline is in reception.’

  ‘Then may my wife use it? She needs to ring her children.’

  Immediately, the boy looked sympathetic. ‘Of course.’

  His wife didn’t need telling twice. ‘Thank you so much,’ she said to the boy.

  ‘Pleasure. Mr and Mrs Walker, would you like to come this way?’

  Meanwhile, Winston picked up one of the tourist magazines in the little hall and pretended not to listen in to his wife’s conversation. But it was difficult not to.

  ‘Really? Why? I see. No, Marvyn. That’s fine. I mean, if there’s no option. Yes, I know they’re my children too. No, Winston won’t mind.’

  Something was up.

  ‘Marvin’s been urgently called out to Hong Kong for work.’ Melissa’s face was fixed on his with a mixture of hope and uncertainty. ‘He can’t have the children any more. He’s rung around their school friends but everyone has gone away, and my sister’s gone back to France. So he’s booked them on the next flight here.’

  She leaned on his shoulder and he felt his body melt, even though his head was beginning to throb. ‘That is all right, isn’t it?’

  HONEYMOON FACT

  The Queen took her corgi Susan on honeymoon to Balmoral.

  Chapter Six

  ROSIE

  ‘Problems?’ asked Greco quizzically, when Rosie dropped her mobile back into her bag.

  ‘You can say that again!’ She sighed, running her hands through her hair as she was prone to do when stressed. ‘Either Jack has messed up – I’m pretty sure it wasn’t me – or one of our clients has got it wrong. It would be pretty bad at any time but this one is with some wedding guests who have requested absolute privacy. Apparently, they booked one of the cottages in a false name, but in the book it’s been cancelled. Now they don’t have anywhere to stay.’

  Rosie took a deep breath, steadying herself. ‘So I’ve given them my room. Jack’s going to have to tidy it up and put my stuff somewhere. And on top of that, Cook’s decided to leave this week instead of next month – something to do with his arthritis – so Jack’s having to hold the fort until Yannis arrives.’

  Yannis was a distant cousin of Greco’s who had been working on the mainland but had applied for the position of cook back on the island. Cara had been inexplicably opposed to Rosie employing him, but, as Rosie had told her, they desperately needed a cook and there were no other decent candidates. It was always worrying when someone new started, in case they didn’t fit in, and now she had this extra problem to deal with.

  Couldn’t the villa cope for five minutes without her?

  ‘It sounds,’ said Greco soothingly, ‘as though you need a drink.’ Sharing the rest of the carafe between her glass and his, he gave a lazy smile before moving his chair closer to the t
able just as a motorbike zapped by. The wine felt good. Rosie could feel it sinking in as she stretched out in her chair, enjoying the buzz of the pavement cafe around her with its smartly dressed women in tailored skirts and sunnies talking animatedly to their girlfriends or men in dark suits.

  Greco had been right. This break was exactly what she needed. Much as she loved Siphalonia, it could be too quiet and insular at times. Of course, she missed the sea. Without it, she felt dry inside. It was odd without Jack, too, although not quite as odd as she’d thought it might be. Maybe Greco had been right on that one too. A mother needed her space, just as a teenage boy did.

  ‘Anyway,’ added her companion, his eyes on hers as he signalled to the waiter for another carafe with an authority that suggested he had lived here all his life, ‘why the hush-hush over this booking?’

  Rosie shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea. In fact I don’t know their real name – not until I see their passports, that is.’

  ‘Aren’t you curious?’

  ‘Yes and no. More flattered really, that they’ve chosen to come to us, whoever they are.’ She shook her head. ‘It was a last-minute booking through the ad that my friend Gemma put up at her school in England, apparently.’ She groaned. ‘Such a nuisance about the flooding in the main guest rooms, or we could have put them there.’

  That was one of the infuriating things about living in a small place. Simple plumbing parts weren’t always available. Greco gave her a reassuring smile, his hand brushing hers as he handed her the topped-up glass. ‘I’ll see if I can get those washers while we’re here.’

  ‘That would be great.’ Rosie had planned on trying to source them herself but DIY had never been one of her strengths. She felt a sudden warm surge of gratitude, which helped to ease the annoyance at having to give up her room at home.

  ‘They’re only here for a week,’ she added, as though reassuring herself. ‘I’ll just have to find some corner when I return.’

  ‘Or stay with me?’ There was the flash of a cheeky smile that could be interpreted as jokey or serious.

  ‘Not so fast,’ she said lightly. ‘We don’t want to spoil a good friendship, do we?’

  His strong brown hand reached out and clasped hers around the wrist, sending little unexpected – but not unpleasant – electric tremors down her arm. ‘But you don’t rule out something more?’

  She hesitated. ‘No. Not exactly. I don’t know.’

  Was that the wine talking or herself? she wondered. Maybe it was because they were somewhere different; somewhere where no one was watching them, interpreting every move and nuance. It was like that in a small place, whether Greece or England, which was one of the reasons she had chosen to flee all those years ago. If she’d stayed, she’d have had to put up with the neighbours gossiping about her unmarried state along with her father’s snide comments.

  But now what?

  Rosie drained her glass, knowing she’d had far too much for the middle of the day, closed her eyes in the warm sunshine and tried to imagine herself in ten years’ time. Jack would be in his mid-twenties then, perhaps with a family of his own.

  There would be some benefits in that, surely, she thought guiltily. She’d be able to do what she wanted without worrying about him. She could enjoy life on her own; after all, she wasn’t the kind of person who needed others around her all the time to make her feel complete. When it was quiet at work, there was nothing she liked more than to find a shady patch on the terrace and read a book, or to go for a swim before drying off on the beach, grateful that she didn’t have to make conversation with anyone, unlike some of the couples she saw struggling at the dinner table.

  Then again, she thought, glancing at Greco lying back in his chair, eyes closed in a post-lunch haze, there were times when she desperately craved some male company. There were also times when, even though it made her blush to admit it, her body needed it, as well as her mind. And there was far more to Greco than she’d realised.

  That reminded her.

  ‘Don’t you have a meeting soon?’ she asked.

  His eyes snapped open as though he hadn’t been dozing after all. ‘Right. Thanks.’ Sitting up, he heaved a large bag onto his shoulders. ‘Want to come along?’

  When Greco had first admitted at the airport that his check-in bag contained ‘stuff made from driftwood’, she hadn’t taken him very seriously. There were a lot of artisans in Greece, mainly amateurs who sold to holidaymakers keen on bringing back a souvenir.

  It wasn’t until he’d opened it up that she realised how good he was. Stunned, she’d taken in the beautifully crafted jewellery boxes and small figures. ‘Did you really make these with your own hands?’

  He had looked down at his broad brown fingers as though seeing them for the first time. ‘No one else’s.’ Then an uncertainty flitted across his face. It was a look she had never seen before on this man who generally acted as though he told the world what to do, rather than the other way round.

  ‘Thought I might see if anyone was interested in buying them,’ he’d added casually. ‘Not on the island. But in Athens.’

  Instinctively, Rosie guessed why. If these beautiful pieces didn’t sell on the mainland, then no one on Siphalonia would be any the wiser. Whereas if they flopped at home, Greco might lose face. It was a measure of trust in her that he’d confided this much.

  To her surprise, he’d already made some firm appointments with a couple of shopkeepers whom he’d found, he said with just a touch of embarrassment, on the net. She’d been impressed.

  ‘Have you worked out your profit margins?’ Rosie asked as they made their way down the street to the first meeting.

  ‘Not really.’ Greco shrugged. ‘Just wanted to see what they thought first.’

  Rosie’s own business experience set alarm bells ringing. ‘Don’t undersell yourself,’ she said quickly, moving to one side as a pair of teenagers strode towards her. ‘I don’t want to interfere, but do you actually want me to go into the meeting with you?’

  He gave her an amused smile. ‘Hold my hand, you mean? Like you do Jack’s?’

  That wasn’t fair. ‘I’ve left him in charge of the villa, haven’t I?’

  Another shrug. ‘Then let him sort out this room problem without worrying about it.’ He touched her arm briefly. ‘Meanwhile, you’re welcome to come with me, Rosie, but please don’t say anything. I know what I’m doing.’

  Did he? Unable not to fear for him, Rosie followed Greco into the shop, looking around. It was one of those upmarket gift places with security guards on the door and some rather nice ornaments with pricey tags. Her friend had set his sights high. Rejection would hit him hard and, to her surprise, Rosie found that she really didn’t want that, even though she’d often thought, back home, that he needed to be taken down a peg or two.

  ‘Mind waiting here a bit?’ whispered Greco as the manager approached.

  Apprehensively, Rosie pretended to busy herself by picking up a pair of jade earrings and then putting them down again. On the other side of the display, she could glimpse Greco laying out his wares and could hear low murmurings taking place between him and the manager. How she cringed for him! These shopkeepers were used to dealing with sharp-suited reps, not fishermen. Poor Greco had no idea what he was doing.

  ‘Utterly exquisite!’ exclaimed an American voice, slicing through her worries. ‘How much is that?’

  Peeping through the display, Rosie could see a tall, elegant woman in a pair of tapered cream trousers, leaning over the jewellery box she’d admired earlier, made of driftwood and shells.

  ‘It’s not for sale, madam.’ The manager’s voice was smooth. ‘This gentleman is simply showing me his goods.’

  ‘Then may I buy it from you direct?’ The American, to Rosie’s astonishment, was opening her purse and handing over a fistful of notes to Greco, who promptly pocketed them with a satisfied smile. ‘Here is my card,’ he replied, extracting a slip from his wallet. ‘Let me know if you are interested in anythi
ng else on my website.’

  He had a website? That was something he hadn’t mentioned earlier. The manager was now looking distinctly edgy. ‘You have more of those jewellery boxes if I place an order?’ he was saying now.

  Greco gave an easy smile. ‘Only two.’

  ‘But there are four in your bag.’ The manager was pointing. ‘I can see.’

  Her friend shrugged. ‘I need to keep them for my next appointment.’

  The manager’s voice grew terse. ‘I will buy them all.’ He then named a price which nearly made Rosie drop the china pot she was ‘admiring’.

  ‘I’m afraid that is not enough.’ Greco then named a higher figure. Mesmerised, Rosie overheard the manager agree. A few minutes later, Greco walked straight past her and out of the shop as though he didn’t even know her. Rather cross, she hurried after him.

  ‘That was amazing!’

  He nodded briskly. ‘Hang on a moment. It is not finished.’ He strode on and she had to run to keep up with him. Where was he going? Then he stopped suddenly, took a right into a little lane and then went down another on the left, into a small wine bar.

  ‘Haven’t we had enough …’ Rosie began to say before stopping. There was the tall American woman in the cream trousers. The same one from the shop.

  ‘Thanks,’ he was murmuring, giving her a brief kiss on the cheek. ‘I appreciate it. Sure I don’t owe you anything?’

  The woman, a well-preserved forty-something, was almost purring. ‘Only the usual.’

  Greco glanced back at Rosie, who was waiting awkwardly by the door. The wine bar was almost empty so she was able to hear nearly every word. ‘Sorry. My circumstances have changed. See you around, maybe. Keep the box.’

  Then he walked back to Rosie jauntily, took her arm and steered her out into the street. ‘It was a set-up!’ Rosie exclaimed. ‘I don’t believe it. How did you manage that?’