After the Honeymoon

by Fraser, Janey

‘After the honeymoon, my new husband got made redundant. So I handed in my notice and we blew our savings on a backpacking trip round South-East Asia.’

  Marion, now settled in Surrey

  Chapter Forty-Four

  ROSIE

  Weddings were big affairs in Greece. Rosie had been to more than she cared to count, during her years in Siphalonia. They were always raucous, joyous celebrations, involving great quantities of food and drink from the minute that an engagement was announced, right through to the end of the wedding reception, where the couple would be showered with rose petals and money.

  And now it was her turn!

  ‘You will make a beautiful bride,’ said Cara, pins dangerously poised between her yellow, gappy teeth as she knelt at Rosie’s side, weaving her magic. In truth, Rosie had initially wanted to buy a British designer dress which she’d spotted online, but hadn’t wanted to offend Cara, who insisted on making her wedding gown. ‘You are my adopted daughter,’ she had declared firmly. ‘It is only right.’

  Now, as Rosie viewed herself shyly in the mirror, she was glad she’d agreed. It wasn’t just the proud, self-congratulatory grin on Cara’s wizened brown face. It was also the cream silk dress itself, with its nipped-in waist and Grecian neckline, which would go down well on any London catwalk.

  ‘Beautiful bride?’ she repeated, smoothing down the skirt and wondering if that really was her in the mirror. ‘A rather old one, I think.’

  ‘Tsk,’ scolded Cara, smacking her hand lightly for touching the material. She put another tuck in the side. ‘Nonsense!’

  Like any self-respecting Siphalonian woman, Cara had an ability to speak while threading a needle. ‘Look at you! You do not seem your age. Besides, better late than never for both of you. It’s not as though Greco is a spring cockerel, as you say in England.’

  Cara was attempting to learn English phrases from Jack’s new iPad (a present from Winston) in order to impress the British guests. She was right, Rosie conceded. Most Greek men were married by their early thirties at the latest. Indeed, the majority of Greco’s friends had grown-up children by now.

  Her mind went back to their argument in March and that wonderful make-up kiss afterwards. Soon after that, Greco had suggested a moonlight trip on the Siphalonian.

  ‘I have a favour to ask,’ he had said casually, tossing her one of the smaller fishing nets. ‘There is something caught inside, I think. Can you help me find it?’

  Surely not … Yes! Her heart beating and her mouth dry, Rosie reached down and disentangled a glinting diamond ring which was neatly tied to the net with a piece of string.

  ‘You will marry me, I think.’

  It was a command rather than a question, but before she could reply, Greco lifted her up and twirled her around in the middle of the boat. Around them, the water sparkled with the reflection of the stars above.

  ‘You will be Mrs Greco Angelis?’

  This time, it was a question. Greco’s handsome face stared down at hers, waiting. That confidence, Rosie was beginning to learn, was only skin deep.

  ‘Yes,’ she said clearly, only realising as she said it, how right it felt. ‘Yes, I will.’

  Of course, she’d had to run it past Jack first.

  ‘Just as long as you’re happy.’

  She’d hoped for a more demonstrative response.

  ‘Our life won’t change.’ She tried to cuddle him but he stepped away. ‘We’ll still stay in the villa.’

  ‘But I can’t be here for ever, Mum.’ His words sent a shiver through her. It was so hard being a mother. You looked after them every minute, every day. And then, before you knew it, it was time for them to spread their wings.

  Now that Jack was so friendly with his dad, always on Skype to him, Rosie wondered if her son had secretly hoped they might have become the family they could have been.

  Why did families have to be so complicated? Even Gemma seemed to have misgivings.

  ‘You don’t think your backgrounds are too different?’ her best friend had asked with a worried furl on her forehead when Rosie had broken the news about her and Greco on Skype the following morning.

  ‘Because he’s a fisherman, you mean?’ Rosie had waved her hands dismissively. ‘Not at all. In fact, he’s more educated than I am. We spend hours reading in the evening before we …’

  ‘Don’t go there!’ There was the sound of a baby crying in the background. ‘You’ll make me jealous. This one is definitely going to be the last. Joe and I are so exhausted, we’ve forgotten how to do you-know-what any more!’

  Rosie hoped that wasn’t true, but even if it was, those two definitely had a solid relationship. When Gemma had first told her, some years ago, about this sullen, rude man who had become her boss at Corrywood School, Rosie had really felt concerned for her. Then, when Gemma had confessed they’d become an ‘item’, she’d been worried for her friend. But those months in England had shown Rosie how well suited they were, and what a decent, honourable man Joe was.

  Just like Greco.

  ‘Is that my lovely god-daughter?’ she cooed as little Lucy loomed into view, all snug and wrinkled in the pink Babygro she’d sent over.

  ‘She doesn’t smell so lovely, right at this moment,’ joked Joe, who was holding her in his arms. ‘But she can’t wait to come out to Greece to see her Auntie Rosie get hitched.’

  Rosie giggled. Not just because Lucy was making such delightful baby faces at her but because Greco had now come into the room and was tickling her. Rosie only hoped he hadn’t overheard their earlier conversation.

  ‘I am looking forward to meeting you,’ he said gravely to the baby.

  ‘Same here,’ said Gemma keenly. ‘Actually, Greco, I’m dying to ask how—’

  ‘Sorry, but we have to go.’ Rosie didn’t want to be rude but this wasn’t the time to start interrogating her new fiancé. ‘We’ve got guests arriving and I still need to check their rooms. I’ll call next week. Bye!’

  Since then, thought Rosie, watching her dress taking shape in the mirror, thanks to Cara’s skilled hand, there had been several more excited Skype conversations with Gemma. Was Jack getting used to the idea, she wanted to know? (Possibly, although he spent a lot of time in his room on the computer.) Had she heard about Winston’s new television show? (Yes. It was even being screened over here.) Did she know that Melissa had remarried her love-rat of a first husband? (Yes. Winston had told her himself.) And finally, did she know Emma, or the blonde bride as they couldn’t help calling her, had had a little boy? A honeymoon baby.

  They’d given birth in the same hospital.

  Rosie had felt a jolt of apprehension, recalling how Yannis had come striding proudly out of the copse during their island boat trip last summer, flamboyantly doing up his shirt with a rather drunken Emma stumbling by his side. ‘Very premature,’ Gemma had added, ‘but it looks as though they’re finally out of the woods. Spitting image of Tom, his dad, with bright red hair.’

  Phew! That was all right then. Rosie breathed a sigh of relief. Yannis had walked out on them a few weeks before, without so much as a day’s notice. The man had got a job in one of the big hotels in Athens, apparently. Well, good riddance! After hearing from Cara what Yannis had done to her daughter, Rosie had found it hard to stomach his presence at the villa. He might be Greco’s cousin and they might look alike with their dark hair, aquiline noses and proud manner of bearing. But that was as far as the similarity went.

  ‘I do what I like,’ he had declared, eyes narrowing. ‘I know more about you than you realise. As you English say, walls have ears.’

  What did he mean by that? But he’d flounced off before she could tackle him.

  Fortunately, she and Cara had managed to find another chef, not just for the villa but also for the cookery courses which were part of their new summer entertainment programme. Greco had also offered to do wood-carving demonstrations in the little gallery that was to house his figures.

  Already bookings were up – espe
cially during the month that Winston was coming over to run his summer special workout, during his programme’s August break.

  ‘A whole month!’ Jack had said when she’d told him, his face breaking out into a big grin. ‘Cool. I’ll take Dad fishing and we can …’

  Rosie had listened to her son gabble excitedly about all the things he intended to drag Winston to: things that most boys wanted to do with their fathers.

  ‘You were right,’ she said now to Cara.

  ‘About the waistline?’ Cara was eyeing her creation with an approving look. ‘I told you so.’

  ‘About Jack and Winston. A boy does need his father.’

  Smugly, Cara tied the white satin bow behind her back. ‘And a father needs his son.’ She eyed Rosie squarely in the mirror. ‘He also needs to be friends with his child’s mother. It makes life much easier.’

  ‘We are friends,’ protested Rosie, aware as she said so that Greco still prickled every time she mentioned Winston’s name.

  ‘You need to do something that shows Greco he does not need to worry any more,’ said Cara, spitting out the remaining pins into the box with gusto. ‘In fact, I have an idea …’

  The wedding would be a mixture of English and Greek traditions, Rosie and Greco had decided. They would get married in the small church built into the cliff over the sea, and Rosie’s dad – who was, incredibly, coming over from England – would give her away. Afterwards, there would be a massive reception on the terrace of the Villa Rosa. The paying guests would be invited too.

  And now the day was here! Cara had woken her with a sweet honey drink, clacking and fussing and shooing away anyone who dared interfere with the dressing of the bride.

  Jack had spent last night with Winston (‘I’d like some time with Dad’) and her own father had arrived yesterday morning, along with Shirley, who was as excited as her own daughter had been when she’d come here last year. ‘This is paradise, isn’t it, Derek?’

  There was only one person missing. Someone whom Rosie often thought of, even though it was becoming increasingly hard to remember the precise details of her face.

  ‘Your mother would have been so proud,’ said her father, standing beside her outside the villa, awkwardly stiff in what looked like a new suit. Before them, the baker’s pony, its mane plaited, was pawing the dusty ground impatiently, waiting to take them to church in a cart festooned with red ribbons. He wiped away a tear. ‘I’m sorry, love. For everything.’

  ‘Me too.’ She put out her hand. ‘This is a new beginning, Dad, for all of us.’

  As the cart made its way up the hill, Rosie took in the familiar faces, cheering and throwing flowers: the woman who ran the small local supermarket; the postman; one of Greco’s fishing friends; some of the mothers from Jack’s school. So many people who had shown a complete stranger such love and care when she had turned up, pregnant and alone, seventeen years ago.

  Was it wrong to wear cream, considering she was meant to be a widow? she had asked Cara. The old woman had grinned. ‘You really think they believed that story?’

  It made their acceptance even more reassuring.

  ‘Nearly there,’ said Dad nervously, gripping her hand. It had taken a lot for him to come over here; she knew that. A day’s journey for an old man who wasn’t particularly strong was a big ordeal.

  ‘Shows how much he wanted to be here,’ Shirley had declared, knocking back last night’s welcome drinks. ‘’Sides, I’d have dragged the old so-and-so here if he hadn’t.’

  Dad had definitely met his match there.

  ‘Not too late to change your mind,’ her father added as the cart came to a halt. Around them was a sea of yet more locals, all waving and cheering.

  ‘I don’t want to, Dad!’ Rosie said, turning to him and taking his gnarled old hands in hers. ‘I love Greco. He’s fun. He talks about things that I didn’t know about before. He and Jack get on really well. He’s …’

  She’d been about to say the word ‘sexy’, but there were some things you couldn’t say to your father.

  ‘I’d like to get on with him too,’ said her father slowly. ‘I just hope your lad has really forgiven me for that stupid stuff I said.’

  ‘I’m sure he has,’ said Rosie, hoping this was true. ‘He said you were emailing now. That’s a start. And now you’re here, you can build on that.’

  For a brief moment as they sat in the cart, holding hands, they seemed frozen in time. Never again would she be right here, with her father, about to marry the love of her life, who had been living right here all the time, under her nose.

  ‘I think we’d better go now.’ Rosie gave her father’s rosy-veined cheek a quick kiss. ‘Are you ready?’

  It was a short walk down the aisle of the little white church where Jack had been christened as a baby. She could see him now: a young man in his stiff collar and white shirt, standing at the front next to Greco. All three men had their backs to her, straight and erect.

  Jack. Greco. And Winston.

  That had been Cara’s bright idea. ‘Why don’t you suggest to Greco that he asks Winston to be a best man as well as Jack? It will show him that you do not have feelings in that department any more.’

  Rosie wasn’t quite sure of the logic in that, but Greco seemed to have been reassured. ‘So you do not care for this Winston after all.’ He had given her a shrewd look. ‘A bride would not want to marry a man if her lover was there too.’

  There was nothing like Greek passion, or reason! ‘I’ve told you,’ she’d said, standing on tiptoes to plant a kiss on his lips. ‘Winston is not my lover. But he is the father of my child and now he’s an investor in the villa. It would really make me happy if everyone got on.’

  She was standing next to Greco now, in the middle of her men. Three men who had changed her life in very different ways. Slowly, she reached out for her future husband’s strong, warm hand while holding out her other to her son, to show that she would always love him too.

  The priest stood in front of them. For a second, there was a silence, punctuated only by the sound of the waves outside. And then he began …

  It was nearly midnight but still none of the guests showed any sign of leaving. ‘It is the mark of a good party,’ declared Cara approvingly. They’d certainly had a great time so far. The food had been mouth-watering (the new chef was even better than Yannis) and her English guests had been stunned by the plate-throwing. Luckily, not literally.

  ‘Won’t someone get into trouble, Mummy?’ one of Gemma’s boys said out loud, which had made them all laugh.

  They’d loved the money stuffing tradition too. ‘Shall I give my pocket money?’ asked the eldest sweetly. ‘I don’t mind. I want to give them a present too.’

  They’d even had the ‘baby rolling’ tradition, where they’d had to roll, giggling, on a mattress on the terrace, to symbolise fertility. Poor Jack, who had his arm round one of the local girls (his relationship with Alice seemed to have fizzled out, judging from the reduced mobile phone bill), had looked rather embarrassed by that. ‘Don’t worry,’ she had whispered afterwards. ‘You’re the only son I want.’

  But now Greco was getting impatient. ‘We must go soon,’ he murmured, dancing close to her on the terrace, making her body tingle with expectation.

  ‘We will,’ she assured him. ‘But there are still some guests I have to talk to.’

  Reluctantly breaking away, she headed towards Sally. It was so nice of Gemma’s mum to have come over. ‘Wouldn’t have missed it for the world,’ she assured her. ‘In fact, we’re going to take the opportunity afterwards to have a little trip round some of the other islands. It will be nice to have some time with my grandchildren.’

  Gemma got the feeling that Sally was secretly relieved to get away from her stiff, academic husband who was ‘too busy’ to join them.

  ‘By the way,’ added Sally brightly, ‘there’s a little parcel for you inside, on the reception desk. Don’t confuse it with the wedding present. My husband did a
big clear-out of the garage the other week and found some things that belonged to you.’

  That wasn’t surprising. She’d spent more time at Gemma’s house, after Mum had died, than in her own house.

  ‘Not much,’ continued Sally brightly. ‘Just a jumper and some books and an old letter. It’s actually addressed to someone else, but it has your name and contact details on the back. Do hope it wasn’t too important …’

  The lantern-studded terrace began to blur. Surely not, Rosie thought … Glancing back, she could see Greco talking to Winston, slapping him on the back in a friendly, manly way. There was just time. Swiftly, she made her way to reception and began sifting frantically through the presents. There it was. A carrier bag bearing a well-known British shop name.

  Rosie’s chest thumped as she took out the blue jumper in a style which had been very popular in her teenage days. A book of poetry, too, with her mother’s name written in the front. And a letter. Addressed to one Charlie King.

  Crouching on the floor, her wedding dress spread out about her, she began to read her loopy schoolgirl writing.

  Dear Charlie,

  I’ve got something really difficult to tell you. I’d much rather talk face to face, but I don’t know where you’ve gone, so I’m hoping that if I send this to your base, you will get it before too long. There’s no easy way of saying this …

  I’m pregnant. And I’m scared. I need you here with your strong arms around me, telling me it’s going to be all right. Dad is going to go absolutely mad when he finds out. He wants me to go to university and I want to go too. But I can’t get rid of your baby, Charlie. I just can’t.

  If I don’t hear anything back from you, I’ll presume you don’t want anything to do with me. But I know you’re not like that.

  Rosie read and reread the letter before standing up and walking down to the sea, away from the music on the terrace. So Winston hadn’t received the letter, just as she hadn’t received his. He hadn’t lied. He hadn’t abandoned her. Because he simply hadn’t known about Jack.

  Now was the time to put the past behind them, Rosie told herself as she ripped up the letter into small, thin strips and watched them flutter into the sea like confetti. After all, Jack had his father now. And she had Greco. At some point, she might tell Winston about her own letter going astray, but not now. Maybe later.