Claudia's Big Break Page 8

  I played with my wineglass while remembering the first time I slept with him. I hadn’t seen it coming. Okay, I sort of had. We’d flirted before then, but Marcus flirted with all the women in the office. I’d like to say that the evening’s scenario didn’t include a tired cliché about working back late and Marcus and I realising we were the only two people in the building. But I’d be lying. He had a tender due and I was frantically trying to get all the necessary documentation together. At seven-thirty, when he ordered Thai food and offered me a drink, we were about three-quarters of the way through. Until then, I hadn’t known he kept bottles of vodka, rum and whiskey tucked away in his cabinet drawer.

  I was drinking my second vodka and tonic when he brushed some hair away from my face. Sirens started ringing, alarm bells were going off in every part of my body, but I still let him kiss me. And kiss me again. It was wrong from the beginning. I felt guilty but excited and nervous as well. It was great for my ego, right up until the last month or so.

  Now I was wondering whether he had replaced me. Whether he had taken up with Maddie, the new sales rep. I’d asked him about her and he’d laughed, throwing me his you’re being paranoid look. But why wouldn’t I be? Maddie was barely thirty. Thirty and perky.

  ‘So, Claud, how’s your knee?’ Sophie asked.

  ‘Sore.’

  ‘We should have reported that guy,’ Tara said.

  ‘How?’ said Sophie, peering over her knitting. ‘The black scooter he was riding had no licence plate and he was dressed helmet to shoes in black.’

  ‘It was an accident,’ I said, not wanting to relive it again. ‘He probably didn’t see me.’

  ‘I saw the way he was riding, Clauds, he was gunning for you,’ said Tara. ‘He purposely accelerated into you to steal your bag.’

  ‘It was a scooter. What harm could it have done?’

  ‘Doesn’t it bother you at all?’ Sophie said. ‘What if Levi had been standing next to you? That guy could have run him over.’

  It briefly crossed my mind to tell the others about the dubious characters I’d seen at Con’s ‘office’ in Athens. But I knew Sophie and Tara would go ballistic if they heard even the barest details. Besides, if I started talking about Con, it would inevitably lead me to telling the girls about my affair with Marcus, and they would never approve. I needed to keep that little piece of information all to myself.

  9

  ‘Bugger.’

  Wrenching myself from a peaceful sleep, I realised I’d forgotten to switch off my phone and now it was ringing at the ungodly hour of — I raised my arm to check my watch, and squinted — nine o’clock! In the morning. Who rang at this hour? On holidays?

  Fumbling, I groped for my mobile lying on the bedside table. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Clow-di-ah?’

  ‘Yes, who’s this?’ I sat up on the edge of the bed, pulling hair away from my face.

  ‘Geia sas. Me lene Con.’

  Thank God! I knew I was being paranoid yesterday, and the day before that. Everything was fine. I’d get Con to sign the papers, continue on with my holiday and all would be as it should.

  ‘You have something for me. Nai?’ Con said in Greek.

  ‘Err, nai.’ Nai meaning yes in Greek. It was confusing.

  ‘Fira avrio. Enteka I ora to pro-i avrio, nai.’ Con was all business and talking so rapidly I had difficulty understanding. When I sat the oral Greek exam at uni the examiners spoke V . . . E . . . R . . . Y slowly.

  My palms were sweating and my mind was racing. Could Con have been one of the men I’d seen in Athens? Looking back, that whole afternoon was a blur. I’d been so overcome with heat and tiredness, perhaps I hadn’t been thinking straight.

  ‘Ti? You want to come here?’ I asked, wiping my clammy free hand on the sheets. Stupid, Claudia! Mentally, I whacked myself on the forehead.

  ‘Ochi. The café opposite the bus terminal.’

  Thank goodness. ‘Simera?’ Today? I hoped so. I really wanted this matter dealt with as soon as humanly possible.

  ‘No,’ Con said, irritation rising in his voice. He continued to give me instructions in Greek, which I did my best to interpret.

  ‘Eleven o’clock tomorrow at the café opposite the bus terminal?’ I repeated.

  ‘Nai.’

  ‘How will I recognise you?’

  ‘Marcus sent me your picture. I will, how you say, recognise you.’ Con disconnected before I could say anything more. My brain was spinning. All I wanted to do was get those papers signed and hand over the flash drive.

  I clomped downstairs to the bathroom, determined to put the niggling concerns I had about Con to one side. By the time I’d finished showering, I was feeling more philosophical about his call and had even devised a charming scenario of how my meeting with him would play out. We’d meet at the café for ten minutes, tops, knock back a grainy Greek coffee with a side order of baklava, then I’d hand over Marcus’s documents, Con’d sign them and it would be over. Finito!

  What did Con look like anyway? Perhaps he was a swarthy-looking Greek who’d roll up to the café on his Vespa, dark curls twinkling in the sun, bod firm and tanned from years spent fishing out on the ocean and dragging nets ashore. Those guys looked incredibly laidback when I’d seen them propped up in bars, smoking cigarettes and downing ouzo. Hitch: from the brief conversation I’d had with him, Con didn’t strike me as a laidback fellow.

  Maybe he was more the suave and slick man about town. Wearing a sharp designer suit with the obligatory heavy gold chains dripping from his neck and arms (and maybe a couple of thick gold rings on his fingers), he’d saunter up to the table, engage me in flirtatious chat, while all the time leering at my breasts and legs. Plausible.

  Scenario three, he’d look like any of the hundreds of nondescript blokes I’d observed since my arrival in Greece. Though I doubted Con would be wearing an I’m with stupid T-shirt, and loud red board shorts.

  I walked out onto the terrace, where Marcella greeted me with freshly baked koulourakia — sweet biscuits — and yogurt.

  ‘Eat,’ she said, imploring me to sit with her. This morning she had her hair pulled back in a colourful headscarf and was wearing a peach-coloured dress with faded navy apron. ‘Your holiday, it is good?’

  ‘Very. Thank you,’ I said, taking a scoop of yogurt.

  ‘But you here alone? No husbands?’

  I shook my head. ‘Sophie is married but Tara and I —’ I shrugged.

  She nodded. ‘Men. Too much trouble.’

  I studied her for a moment, taking in her strong arms and worker’s hands. She didn’t wear a wedding ring, not that that meant anything. Plenty of married women didn’t wear jewellery. However, she did seem to be running this business all by herself.

  ‘Are you married?’ I ventured.

  ‘Ochi! No!’ Then she softened. ‘A long time ago, yes.’

  I felt embarrassed. I hadn’t meant to pry.

  ‘I am happy woman. But you girls work too hard.’

  I looked up, inviting her to continue.

  ‘Tourists come from all over the world to Santorini. All year work so you come here for two weeks, get sunburnt. Go back home. Work again. What kind of life is this?’

  I wondered if she was angry that we were being disrespectful to her country. ‘We are having a wonderful time here,’ I said. ‘It is very beautiful.’

  She shook her head. ‘You could live like this, too,’ she said, throwing her hands into the air. ‘My life is simple but good. Here,’ she continued, picking her picnic basket up off the ground. ‘Take these.’

  She handed me a basket of limes, strawberries and oranges. ‘Enjoy life.’

  I watched after her, marvelling at her vitality. In the air I could smell the sharp sweet scent of lemon blossoms and all I could think was that in my next life I wanted to be just like Marcella.

  ‘You’re taking this peasant look seriously, aren’t you?’ Tara said to Sophie, who was clad in a tiered white cheesecloth skirt an
d an embroidered lace-up blouse with bouffant capped sleeves.

  ‘Who are you? My personal style icon?’ Sophie was indignant. ‘This coming from a woman who’s wearing ancient black shorts and a white T-shirt that’s gone a dirty grey colour from years of washing.’

  ‘Take it easy. I’m just saying we’ve been here like two minutes and you’re already hopping on the boho bandwagon.’

  Despite Marie Claire urging us to have a boho spring, I wasn’t feeling the vibe either, but I kept my mouth shut.

  ‘What? It’s the quintessential Santorini look,’ said Sophie.

  Granted, Sophie’s top was groovier than your average peasant’d wear, but it had a definite gypsy edge to it. The whole ensemble looked fabulous on her but I doubted she’d wear it once she left Santorini. Possibly to the beach, but even then I wouldn’t take bets.

  You know how tourists happily embrace new looks in foreign lands — torturing and twisting their hair into thirty-six tiny plaits while confidently embracing the grass skirt and scooped-out coconut-shell bra — only to arrive home and discover they look a smidge silly. No matter how thrilled one is with one’s new shark-tooth necklace or sari, chances are, people back home will stare.

  ‘I think you look great, Soph,’ I said. ‘Wish I could wear that garb.’

  Sophie and Tara looked at me, puzzled.

  ‘Boobs! I couldn’t get away with wearing clothes like that.’

  ‘Oh,’ Tara said. ‘I thought you meant it was an ugly look at best only attempted by two year olds and nannas who don’t know any better.’

  Sophie sniffed. ‘At least I don’t wear tatty clothes from five years ago and try to pass them off as vintage.’

  ‘My clothes aren’t vintage and I don’t feel the need to dress in the latest fad just because it happens to be trendy.’

  ‘Trendy? Who are you, my mother?’

  ‘All right, all right, let’s just enjoy the view, hey?’ I said, taking a deep breath. ‘We’re on holidays remember.’

  At Kamari we positioned our deckchairs on the black sand beach underneath huge blue and white striped umbrellas so our bodies were in the sun and our heads in the shade. Then I set about fixing my beady eyes on the beautiful people happily strolling the beach and watching to see if they flinched while walking barefoot on the unforgiving pebbles.

  ‘Does my bum look big in this?’ Sophie asked after she’d discarded her new clothes to reveal a burnt orange crocheted bikini sitting on her lightly sun-kissed frame. Yeah, yeah, and her blonde curls bounced around her shoulders too. Surprise, surprise, she looked stunning and was fast attracting envious glances from passers-by.

  Meanwhile, I was wearing one-piece miracle swimmers, basic black, which, according to the promotional information, were made of a patented fabric blend delivering three times the holding power of ordinary swimsuits, without needing inner linings or control panels. Whilst wearing them, I apparently looked five kilos lighter. Ha! Anyway, they were comfortable. (Isn’t sporting comfortable clothing one small step away from accepting your body isn’t what it used to be and never will be again?)

  Sophie persisted. ‘Does my bum look big in this?’

  ‘What bum? You don’t have one,’ Tara said.

  ‘Yeah, your back is the width of a Marlboro Light,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘You wouldn’t know the first thing about the pain of buying new swimmers every season.’

  ‘Don’t know why you bother,’ Tara replied flatly. ‘I’ve had these for years.’ She pulled at the worn navy Lycra that used to be a shoulder strap.

  ‘Yeah. I think I remember them from our Hawaiian holiday,’ I said, laughing.

  ‘Hmm. I guess they have had their day.’

  ‘Day? Try decade,’ I said, and then felt a bit catty, even though it was true. Tara’s style, if you could call it a style, was minimal, simple. No tizz. No fuss. She was the type of person who wore clothes until they fell off, then went and bought an exact replica of the clothing that’d died.

  Tara was still smarting over the swimmers comment when she took off with Levi to the water’s edge.

  ‘Her swimmers are atrocious,’ I said to Sophie when Tara was out of earshot.

  ‘Preaching to the converted, lovie. You don’t need to convince me.’

  I watched as Tara and Levi splashed in the sea and played on the black sand. As much as I hated to admit it, because it sounded ridiculously parochial, the Greek beaches I’d seen so far didn’t do it for me. This beach didn’t compare to the shorelines back home. Sure, the fine black sand was a novelty, but what about the uncomfortable pebbles? Try lying against your towel on those without succumbing to serious stone bruising. The good news was that there weren’t any high-rise hotels shadowing the beach.

  I surveyed more of the long stretch of beach, quite taken with an enormous rock rising out of the sea. Further down, three elderly Greek men fishing on an ancient pier caught my eye. They lived the good life, out in the midday sun, laughing and smoking hand-rolled cigarettes with not a care in the world. Obviously, lung and skin cancer didn’t factor into their thinking. Those guys probably guzzled ouzo until the early hours of the morning, then were up the next day, fishing, smoking and drinking strong Greek coffee. What a life.

  ‘Tell me about Jack,’ Sophie said, after several minutes’ lazy silence.

  Jack? Perfectly charming Jack. ‘He’s okay,’ I said.

  ‘Well, if you want my two cents’ worth,’ Sophie said, ‘I think he’s delish!’

  I rolled my eyes.

  ‘What?’ Sophie continued. ‘I’m married. I have to live vicariously through friends. So far, you and Tara have offered very slim pickings.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I didn’t come all this way to hook up with an Australian.’ I closed my eyes and lay back in my chair.

  What was I saying? I didn’t come here to hook up with any man — Australian, Greek or Icelandic!

  I was sound asleep when Levi tapped me on the shoulder with two fistfuls of pumice. ‘You were snoring.’

  ‘Pardon?’ I yelped as his cold little paws pressed against my warm skin.

  ‘Snoring like Daddy.’

  ‘Was not.’

  ‘Yes you were. Wasn’t she, Happy?’

  ‘Happy?’ I opened my eyes to find a small boy about Levi’s age standing in front of me completely nude, nodding his head and playing with his penis. I hoped he was wearing full body sunscreen.

  ‘See. Happy says you were snoring,’ said Levi, who was also nude and tugging on his own penis.

  He wasn’t making any sense. ‘Where’s Mummy?’

  ‘Ober dare.’ He pointed to where Sophie, Tara and another woman were chatting. Thankfully, when they saw me the three of them walked over.

  ‘Claudia, meet Angie. Harry’s mum,’ said Tara.

  Harry. Okay, so Levi wasn’t so peculiar, he just had articulation issues.

  Angie was thirtyish, English, pretty and tall, with honey-blonde shaggy hair and an olive complexion. She had a small red heart-shaped tattoo on her left shoulder, inscribed with the word Harry. I soon found out that she was a divorced lawyer and that she and Harry lived in London, just off Marylebone High Street, near a fancy cheese shop.

  ‘Harry and I are here on holidays,’ Angie was saying. ‘In fact, I’m celebrating the first anniversary of my divorce.’

  It wasn’t long before Sophie began quizzing her about why her marriage had broken down. For a complete stranger, Angie was remarkably candid.

  ‘Peter was a complete shite,’ said Angie after Levi and Harry had momentarily released their penises and started to fling pebbles into the ocean. ‘I came home from work early one day and found him banging my neighbour in the shower. Harry was in the next room watching The Tweenies. Poor love.’

  ‘Then what happened?’ Sophie asked.

  ‘I stood there watching them — only fog, soap lather and a shower screen separating us. When he saw me, he asked for a towel. Wasn’t even embarrassed. Banging bastard.’

 
‘Then what?’ Sophie asked, mesmerised.

  ‘I said a few choice words, then kicked them both out, yeah.’

  ‘Yeah,’ the three of us repeated.

  I was distracted, trying to place Angie’s accent. I guess she sounded a bit like the Queen, but then my experience with English accents boiled down to Billy Elliot and Mary Poppins with not a lot in between.

  ‘Was the neighbour married?’ Sophie asked.

  ‘Nah, she was a singleton, keen to bang a married man —’

  ‘Why would you say that?’ I asked.

  ‘Why wouldn’t I?’ replied Angie. ‘What self-respecting woman goes around shagging other women’s husbands? Can’t they find their own?’

  ‘I . . . maybe she was lonely,’ I ventured.

  Inside, I was shaking. I knew that’s what the majority of women thought about other women who slept with married men, even if they were recently separated. And they were right. I had no excuse. To his credit, Marcus never told me he was lonely or that his wife didn’t understand him. He simply said that they’d stopped being lovers years ago and, though friendly, had stayed together for the sake of the kids. I actually got the impression he quite liked his family. Not that Trish and his kids were a hot topic of conversation between us, but whenever Marcus mentioned his sons, his eyes would light up, confident and happy, like life’s great and I’m having a ball.

  I listened silently to more stories about Peter the banging bastard — followed by Alex the workaholic. Even Tara threw in her two cents’ worth about Anthony.

  ‘At least you lot have had the opportunity to have husbands,’ I said. ‘Why are all the men I meet happily committed to remaining single and then they marry as soon as I’m out of the picture?’ (Okay, I wasn’t talking about Marcus.)

  ‘Marriage is outdated,’ Tara said. ‘No offence, Soph. But men can have sex without marriage. They can enjoy the benefits of having a wife without actually getting that little piece of paper that says you’re bound for life.’