by Alice Ross
‘She’s won five and a half million on the National Lottery.’
‘What? You’re having me on.’
‘I’m not. She honestly has. And she fancies herself as a bit of a property developer. She’s having this really trendy new house built in the village that my dad’s working on. Only she’s finding it a bit too much like hard work, so it sounds like she’s going to sell it and buy some flash pad with a swimming pool in Doddingflower.’
‘God! Of all the people,’ puffs Gemma. ‘But anyway, we digress. Getting back to you snogging the face off Dimitri…’
‘I didn’t snog the face off him. I just kind of… kissed him.’
‘I knew you fancied him.’
‘I don’t though, Gem. At least not until I’ve had a drink. Which is why I’m never going to drink again. At least not while he’s still in Chollingflower.’
‘Yeah, right. How long is he staying?’
‘He won’t say. Every time someone asks him, he bats back a flippant reply. But he’ll be here until at least next weekend, because my mum’s roped him in to present the prizes at the WI garden party.’
‘Oh my God, Iz. That is hilarious.’
‘I’m pleased you think so. I’m going to have to spend the entire time between now and then avoiding him.’
‘I don’t know why you don’t just go for it. He’s gorgeous.’
‘I know. Every woman in Chollingflower thinks so too. You wouldn’t believe all the cakes and stuff they keep bringing round for him.’
‘So how come, if all the women in the village are throwing themselves at his feet, you need your beer goggles on to snog him?’
‘I don’t know,’ I puff, an image of Tom’s shiny chestnut curls, twinkling hazel eyes and ridiculously long lashes skittering through my mind. I brush it away and carry on.
‘Anyway, the good thing about him being here is that my mother wasn’t remotely fazed about me and Giles splitting up.’
‘Not even about Carol Middleton’s hairdresser?’
‘Nope. Because she’s somehow got it into her head that Dimitri’s family own a chain of luxury hotels.’
Such a blast of laughter whooshes down the phone, that I hold it away from my ear for a few seconds.
‘I take it you haven’t shown her a picture of the Majest-Dick then?’
‘No way. She’d have a fit if she thought I’d stayed in a hole like that. Plus, I’d have to endure numerous lectures about “Standards, Isobel”.’
‘You’re making me feel so boring,’ Gemma sighs. ‘I’m the one who’s supposed to be having the exciting life in the capital. When all I’m doing is working my backside off day after day. You’re making me wonder if I should come back, because it seems like Chollingflower is where it’s all happening.’
‘It is all happening. To me. But unfortunately, none of what is happening is helping me sort out my life. The reason I came back was to take stock and devise a plan. But it seems like every day, things are getting more and more complicated.’
‘If it’s any consolation, it’s keeping me entertained. Let me know if there are any more developments. And keep sending the pictures of the village. I love them.’
Gemma’s last instruction stays with me. And as soon as she’s made me swear to tell her immediately if there is any more drunken tango-ing of tongues, and we’ve said goodbye, I log onto my Instagram account and flick through all the images of Chollingflower that I’ve sent her so far. I’ve taken far more pictures than I’d realised in the few days I’ve been back in the village. And some of them – especially those including Dimitri (- with one foot down the disused well looking like he’s about to jump in; and with his head in the cement mixer), are so funny, they even make me smile, despite smiling being the last thing I feel like doing today. In every one of the shots, though, the village looks stunning: a beautiful slice of flowery, quintessential England. A million light years away from London. But, as delightful as Chollingflower undoubtedly is, do I really want to live here again? The place isn’t exactly buzzing with neetcloobs or cocktails bars or shops. All the things a twenty-five-year-old female is supposed to crave, but which, in truth, I’m not missing at all. Which is just as well, given I don’t have any money to spend in neetcloobs, cocktail bars or shops. Which brings me neatly round to the main problem with Chollingflower: even if I did want to stay, I couldn’t, because what would I do for work?
Thinking about work and, consequently, money, an image of Caitlin Harmer lolling on a bed of fifty-pound notes springs into my head. (At least I think they’re fifty-pound notes. My purse never having met one – and unlikely to do so any time soon - I don’t know if they’re pink, blue or purple.) As if having Tom’s lovely hands rubbing her neck every night wasn’t enough, the woman also has five and a half million quid at her disposal. Of all the people to land on their feet.
I glance at the clock and wonder what the two of them are up to now. Most probably wandering hand in hand around that enormous house in Doddingflower, giggling about all the frolicking they’ll be able to do in their new swimming pool.
Aware that I’m sinking into yet another pit of misery, I decide to add to the despondency by picking up my phone, opening Caitlin’s Instagram account and flicking through all the photos of her and Tom. By the time I put the phone down again, I’m not just miserable, I’m completely livid. At Caitlin - for just being Caitlin. And at Tom - for being a social media hypocrite, for giving Caitlin lovely neck rubs, and for only going out with her because she has five and a half million in her designer handbag, when I’d imagined there was so much more to him than that. During our time in London, I’d concluded that he was a really nice guy; a guy with principles, as well as being exceedingly clever. And while he hadn’t opened up enough to confide in me why he’d left Harvard - and the chance of a glittering career - to return to Chollingflower and work for my dad, I’d sensed that it was because of something that had affected him deeply.
Which goes to show how wrong you can be. Knowing what I know now, I suspect the real reason he left Harvard is because, having somehow become reacquainted with Caitlin – and her five and a half million – he no longer needed any lofty qualifications, so opted to return to Chollingflower with her and while away a bit of time in the building trade until they found their perfect home. In the meantime, frittering away her winnings on trivial – and, quite frankly, ostentatious – things like Breitling watches.
By the time I stomp back downstairs – now in my shorts and checked shirt - I’ve whipped myself up into the most stonking of stonking moods. One that isn’t helped by Land of Hope and Glory and the rest of the 2012 Last Night of the Proms CD blasting from the speaker.
‘Don’t look at me,’ says my dad when I clomp into the kitchen. ‘According to your mother, it’s all part of Dimitri’s “culture experience”.’
‘Well, you can switch it off because Dimitri and I are going out,’ I announce.
‘Where we going, Izee?’ our Greek guest asks.
‘I have no idea,’ I reply. ‘But wherever it is, you’ll need to put some clothes on.’
Obviously deeming Dimitri’s possible connection to the Onassis family of much higher social standing than my ex-boyfriend’s tenuous link to Carol Middleton’s hairdresser, and therefore keen to encourage international relations, my mother agrees to lend me her beloved Mini Cooper so I can show our guest ‘more of the area’.
During our snog last night, Dimitri made it pretty clear which area he’d like to see more of, but I’m no longer embarrassed about the snog. Because my fury at Tom and Caitlin has overridden every other emotion. So much so, that I’m now thinking I should give Dimitri a chance. After all, he has travelled all the way from Santorini to see me. And I did invite him (allegedly). And he is gorgeous. And I must fancy him or I wouldn’t have snogged him. So, here I am. Ready to make an effort and start focusing on my own life, rather than Tom and Caitlin’s. Besides, if Dimitri and I do become an item, there are worse things than livi
ng in Greece – with all the heat, mosquitoes and tomatoes. And I wouldn’t need to find a job because I’d be far too busy bringing his hotel up to standard. Which would take an inordinate amount of work – like knocking the place down and starting again. But, the more I’m considering giving the guy a chance, the more attractive the package is looking. And on the subject of packages, I really must have a word about him wandering around in his pants all the time.
For several reasons, I end up taking Dimitri to Hadrian’s Wall. First, because I think he’ll find it interesting. Second, because there are lots of people around, so he can’t attempt any nifty hand manoeuvres. And third, because I can’t bear the thought of being in a confined space with him. And even though I know that reasons two and three do not provide a promising start to our fledgling relationship, it’s still early days. And less than a week since I discovered that my ex had been getting down and dirty with an older woman. So, I’ve decided that Dimitri and I need to take things slowly; get to know each other better before there’s any more snogging. Hence us sitting at a picnic table with an ice cream apiece, basking in the sunshine and having a normal conversation - something we’ve never done before.
‘So,’ I ask him, ‘how did you manage to escape from your hotel during peak season?’
Dimitri snaps off a bit of his choc-ice. ‘Because I work for the three years now with no break. And I say my father, if I no having the break now, I am going on the strike.’
I laugh. He’s a sweet guy really, his faltering English adding to his charm. As demonstrated by the blushing, giggling female shop assistant from whom he bought our ice creams.
‘You must meet lots of girls when you’re working in the hotel,’ I remark.
‘Yes. Lots of the girls. All of the time. Sometimes it is getting a bit of the boring.’
I quirk a suspect eyebrow. ‘Really? I can’t imagine many men in their twenties finding it boring being surrounded by semi-clad women seven days a week.’
He shakes his head. ‘All the women are wanting to be with me all the time. There is none of… how you say… the chase.’ He bites off another chunk of his ice cream and a film of chocolate clings to his upper lip. Instinctively I reach across and wipe it off with my thumb. I’m about to withdraw my hand, when he catches it.
‘I am liking you very much, Izee Irveeng,’ he says.
‘I like you too,’ I say. Because I really think I do.
When Dimitri and I – and the Mini – arrive home early evening, a picture of Carol and Pippa Middleton is adorning one of the kitchen cupboard doors, and Nana Mouskouri is giving it her all on the CD player.
‘I thought a little bit of Nana would stop Dimitri becoming homesick,’ reasons my mother, pouncing on us the minute we step through the door. ‘Have you had a nice afternoon?’ she enquires expectantly.
‘We’ve had a lovely afternoon,’ I reply. Because we have. Dimitri, much to my relief, had been fascinated by the wall’s history, asking the guide far too many questions, which he’d got away with because she was female. And because our group mainly consisted of the Burton-on-Trent Embroidery Guild, most of whom had been more interested in Dimitri’s tight-trousered bottom than any Roman toilet facilities. Dimitri, though, had seemed only to have eyes for me. So, when he’d reached for my hand again halfway around the site, I’d let him take it.
Needless to say, because of the lovely afternoon, my resolution not to think about Tom and/or Caitlin, my mellower mood, and the fact that all female eyes had been on Dimitri the entire day - which does much to boost a girl’s dwindling self-esteem, I’d taken lots of pictures of our afternoon together – most of which make us look like a proper couple – and posted them to my Instagram account with a host of hashtags like:
#PerfectAfternoonOut #GreekAdonis #AngloGreekUnion
And the fact that Tom and Caitlin might, at some point, take it upon themselves to glance at my page, doesn’t enter my head at all.
Chapter Six
After breakfast the next morning, my mother announces that we are all going to Doddingflower Summer Fair.
‘And we have to make it look as though we are normal people,’ she instructs me, Dimitri and my dad, before imbibing a mouthful of coffee from her Harry and Meghan Royal Wedding mug.
‘That’s a bit of a big ask,’ I snort.
‘I mean, Isobel,’ she goes on seriously, ‘that we mustn’t make it look like we’re there to garner ideas for the WI garden party.’
‘I didn’t know we were garnering ideas for the WI garden party.’
‘Well, we are.’ She sets down her mug and swipes a stray toast crumb from Prince Harry’s beard. ‘With Dimitri here this year, I feel we should make the party a little more… je ne sais quoi.’
‘If you are liking, Mrs Irveeng, I can be doing the display of the Greek dancing,’ pipes up Dimitri, opposite her at the table in his black thong. ‘I can be giving a little demonstration now, if you are the liking,’ he offers, pushing back his chair.
‘No! No! It’s fine,’ squeaks my mother, holding up her hand in a halt gesture. ‘Your dancing is excellent, Dimitri, but it’s not quite what I’m looking for. To be honest, I’m not going to know what I’m looking for until I find it.’
‘Oh God,’ utters my dad.
Despite being dispatched to Doddingflower Fair on a secret idea-gathering mission, I would have gone anyway, it being one of the highlights of Northumberland’s summer calendar. This year, the experience is further enhanced by Dimitri’s vociferous enthusing, and his determination to have a go at everything from crockery smashing to welly wanging.
I’ve just bought us both a candyfloss, and he’s licked a random bit from my nose, when I hear someone say:
‘It looks like you two are having a good time.’
For one brief second, my heart stops. Before I tell myself that just because Caitlin is here, doesn’t mean Tom is too.
‘Hello,’ says Tom, stamping all over my optimism.
Realising there’s no escape, I resolve to show nothing of my irritation at their appearance, and to act normally. Which is why I suck in an abnormally deep breath, paste an abnormally wide smile onto my face, and swing round to them with so much abnormal enthusiasm that my hair gets tangled in my candyfloss.
‘Oooo, candyfloss,’ gushes Caitlin. ‘I haven’t had one of those for years. And I shouldn’t really now. Not after I’ve forked out a fortune for these teeth. I wouldn’t mind a teeny-weeny taste, though. You don’t mind, do you?’ she purrs to Dimitri.
Then, allowing him no chance to reply, she thrusts out her tongue and, with her eyes locked on his, seductively whips up a swirl of pink floss.
‘Delicious,’ she says, without moving her eyes. Then, straightening up and shaking back her hair, ‘Tom and I are taking another look around the village. Trying to get a feel for what it would be like if we lived here. In the converted rectory with the swimming pool. Did I mention that we were going to look at it?’
‘I don’t remember,’ I lie.
‘Well, anyway, we did look at it,’ she rattles on. ‘And it is fab-u-lous.’
‘Right,’ I mutter. ‘So… are you going to buy it then?’
‘Possibly. If I can overcome my issue about the pool. I’m just not sure it’s big enough.’
‘Of course it’s big enough,’ snaps Tom.
‘Not if we’re planning lots of pool parties, darling. And frankly, what’s the point of having a pool if you’re not going to have lots of pool parties?’ she enquires of me.
‘Er, none probably,’ I utter back.
‘Sometimes we are having the pool parties at my hotel,’ Dimitri pipes up.
Which comes as a surprise to me, the pool at the Majest-Dick being so small it’s practically a foot spa.
‘Oooo, that must be great fun,’ gushes Caitlin. ‘An outside pool you can enjoy in the lovely sunshine. It must be wonderful owning a hotel; meeting different people every week from all over the world. Do you do weddings there?’
‘I think it’s time we were heading home, Caitlin,’ he announces. Sounding a tad naffed off to me.
Before the sun glints off his outrageously expensive watch and I realise that he can’t possibly be naffed off because his girlfriend has five and a half million quid.
‘But we’ve just arrived,’ protests said girlfriend. ‘And I thought you were going to win a teddy bear for me.’
‘I’m not in the mood,’ he replies. Sounding like he really isn’t.
Unlike Dimitri, who really is. ‘I am winning all the things,’ he pipes up proudly. ‘And I am giving them all to the children. But if you are wanting, I can try to be winning the teddy bear for you.’
‘Oooo, how lovely. And I am wanting. Very much,’ flutters Caitlin. ‘You don’t mind, do you, darling?’ she simpers to Tom.
Who shrugs.
‘See you in a bit then,’ she tinkles, linking her arm through Dimitri’s and picking her way over the grass to the Crockery Smash stall.
Which leaves me and Tom standing like a couple of lemons.
The uncomfortable silence is broken by him tugging a packet of tissues from his pocket and saying, ‘You’ve got a bit of candyfloss in your hair. I can…’ – he gestures to the packet – ‘… if you like.’
‘Oh. Yes. Thanks,’ I reply, trying not to notice the sun bouncing off his watch.
‘So,’ he begins, as he attempts to remove the candyfloss from my barnet and I pretend not to notice that having him so close and breathing in the faint scent of his aftershave is making my legs wobble. ‘It looks like it’s going well with Dimitri.’
