Good Greek Girls Don't (19 page)

It's a love letter. I can't bring myself to read it but I can't stop myself either and I end up skimming enough to know that this woman had a relationship with Chris. Had … or has? There's no date on the letter.

The photo is of an attractive blonde woman, taken from the waist up. She's wearing a bikini and leaning against a railing. The glistening bay is in the background, and I realise with a sickening feeling that the railing is on Chris's balcony. This photo was taken here.

I feel nauseous. The worst bit is, I can't ask Chris about this because then he'll know I've been snooping. Although technically I wasn't snooping – I was just looking for something to wear and the envelope was right there – but I shouldn't have opened it.

‘So? What do you think?' I used the fax in Chris's home office to fax the letter and a copy of the photo to Michael at the shop. A little nuts, I know, but I need Michael's opinion.

‘She's hot.'

Not helping.

‘I mean the letter, Michael. Avert your eyes from the Amazonian fake books.'

‘This is pretty heavy, Des. She's obviously got it bad for him.' But does Chris have it bad for her?

‘She'd be ready, willing and able if Chris said the word.'

‘Michael, that is not what I wanted to hear!'

‘Look, Des, the letter could be old and Chris probably just forgot it was there. Relax.'

‘The envelope doesn't look old, and you don't know Chris like I do. He is so anal-retentively organised. Why would he keep it? I didn't think guys did that whole

“memories of relationships past” like girls do.'

‘Don't obsess, Des. I don't keep memories of disasters past, but not all guys are like me. Not all guys just quickly move on and forget. But he's with you now. He's so mad about you; I thought I was going to throw up all over the garlic sauce when you guys were at the shop. Just forget about it. She's the past, you're the one in his apartment, cooking dinner and trying not to give him gastro.'

I know he has a point … But …

I hear the front door open and the jangle of Chris's keys as he throws them in the wooden bowl on the hall table. I quickly hang up the phone and stuff the letter and photo back in the envelope and throw it behind the pile of T-shirts. I grab one of the shirts, pull it over my head and quickly close the wardrobe doors.

‘Babe, you did it! You made gnocchi from scratch!'

It's what I'd promised to do, but apparently he doubted my abilities as much as I did. Can't blame him there. I wander into the kitchen and he plants a kiss on my forehead. ‘Nice, but it doesn't explain why you've got my T-shirt on.'

‘It got a little bit messy.' That's an understatement. ‘You don't mind that I went through your wardrobe, do you?'

‘So long as you didn't mess it up.' Shit. I can't remember if the envelope is back where I found it. By the look of Chris's wardrobe he would notice if there was a loose thread. I wonder if I can sneak back into his room and check. What are the chances I would remember exactly where it was originally? I'm screwed.

‘I might have messed it up a bit.' That's taken his attention off the pasta for the first time. ‘I'll help you straighten it up if you want.' And then I can turn his attention to the envelope hidden behind his T-shirts and he'll have to tell me what the hell is going on. Why is he shaking his head? Obviously he doesn't want me anywhere near the wardrobe. ‘What's wrong?'

‘It's no big deal.'

I wish I could believe that. ‘Is there something there you don't want me to see?' Whoops. Me and my big mouth. I can almost see him looking right though me and knowing what I've done.

‘No.'

Are men really that dense? He knows. He has to know that I found that note from Danielle. By the looks of it he's got everything in this house catalogued by colour and alphabetical order and probably by size as well. He wouldn't have a stray envelope tucked away in the midst of his super-straight wardrobe and not know about it. And he knows I've been into his T-shirts.

We eat in silence and I'm vaguely aware of Chris staring at me. Is this mystery Danielle my competition? I can't get the letter and the image of her out of my head. She must have been something. She must have been really important in his life. More important than me. There is no other reason why he would keep that envelope and its contents. If it didn't mean anything to him, he would have thrown it out as soon as it arrived. And there's no postmark or stamp on it, so it must have been personally delivered. How recently did she give this to him? Was it after he met me?

I have to let this go. I have to forget what I saw. If I want this relationship to continue growing, Chris cannot know that I snooped through his private stuff.

We finish dinner and I collect the plates to stack in the dishwasher.

‘Do you want to tell me what's wrong?'

‘Nothing.' Denial is a wonderful tactic. If it works for him then it may as well work for me. Can't he just let me load the damn dishwasher?

‘You're loading it wrong. The plates go on the bottom shelf.'

Who gives a fuck where the damn plates go, they all get washed the same. ‘Do it yourself if it's so important. I'm going for a smoke.' I really need to be away from him right now because everything he says and does is irritating the hell out of me.

Tonight the sea breeze is not clearing the haze in my head. In fact, it's making my thoughts foggier. There are only questions without answers. And I need to know the answers. Is there someone else? Do I have a fight on my hands? Do I have what it takes to win it? Because I know, in my heart of hearts, I am not giving up Chris without a fight. But I don't know if I have it in me to fight dirty if that's what's needed.

‘Desi?'

I know Chris is standing just behind me but at the moment it feels like there is a great divide between us. I can't believe I have let a guy get under my skin so much. But then again, Chris has never been an ordinary guy.

‘Hey.' Why can't I ask him the questions that are right on the tip of my tongue?

‘You okay, Des? You've been weird all night.'

‘I'm fine, Chris. Just wiped out.' It's not exactly a lie. It may not be my body that's wiped out but the effect is still the same. ‘Sorry I snapped at you before, just feeling a bit irritable. I think I might just head home.'

‘I thought you swung it to stay here tonight?'

Oh, yeah. Well, there goes the idea of going home. There's no way my mother would believe me if I told her I'd suddenly changed my mind about staying at Ricki's. Maybe I'll just go to Ricki's. At least then I wouldn't be lying to my mother. Who said, ‘What a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive?' I remember reading that in high school.

‘Des, what's going on? What have I done?'

I guess I can't really avoid the topic. And I don't have the energy to leave here and find somewhere to stay.

‘You haven't done anything Chris.' I have. My curiosity got the better of me. I snooped through your private stuff and now wish I hadn't. ‘It's just that, you know, you gave me your keys, told me to make myself at home and stuff.'

‘Call me stupid, Des, but I thought that would be a good thing.'

‘How many other women have you given keys to?' I probably shouldn't have asked that question. Did Danielle have the keys to Chris's place? Did she have the key to Chris's heart?

‘Is this what this is all about? The past?' The past is still present, albeit hiding in his wardrobe. All I can do is nod. I don't trust myself to speak. ‘You're the only one who's got my key now, Des.'

So obviously keys have been given out before.

‘And no one but you has ever been allowed to keep them.'

‘I don't get it.'

‘Keys have been given on a temporary once-off basis. You know, “let yourself in and meet me here” type thing, but the keys always stayed with me after that. I want you to keep these keys. I want you to know you can come here whenever you want, you can escape here and you can come home here.'

So maybe Danielle didn't really have all the keys she needed. But that letter – why has Chris kept it?

‘So I have the only keys on the market?' Why am I holding on to this like a dog with a bone? He's telling me there is no one else. He's telling me that I am the only one in his life. Without really knowing it, he's telling me there is no Danielle in his life. I think.

‘There's a spare set at my parent's place. But I'm assuming that's okay.'

‘I can live with that. So long as they don't plan on using them tonight.'

‘So you're staying?'

I guess I am.

‘Good. I love waking up next to you, babe.'

I love it, too, but I'm terrified that there is someone else out there that also loves it – someone who might want it back.

Besides, I have bigger fish to fry at the moment –such as fighting the urge to kill my baby brother. I came here to deliver a care package from my mother –enough food to feed a Third World country and have leftovers. I love Greeks. In good times and in bad they have the answer: food. With Poppy being what feels like a gazillion months pregnant, Mum has decided that she should not be on her feet all day cooking and cleaning so she sends me to deliver the goods. I did not, however, come here so my brother could interrogate me.

‘Stop holding out on me, Des.'

I would not be having this issue if I had been an only child. Ricki doesn't know how good she has it. I love my brother, but at the moment there is only one way to describe him – ball breaker. I swear he was put on this earth just to torture me.

‘I'm not holding out on you, Tas. It's just bad timing.'

‘I want to meet him, Des. I want to meet this guy who has the balls to take you on.'

God, he makes me sound like a tropical cyclone, a disaster just waiting to happen.

‘Why now?'

‘Come on, sis. It's me. It's not Effie, it's not the folks. Besides, we've always screened for each other.'

He has a point. I was the first person he introduced Poppy to after I busted his balls for days. I was ready to stalk them if it came to that. I had to make sure that she was good enough for my baby brother because I knew deep down that the relationship was heading in a different direction to the flings he'd had before. Prior to Poppy, Tas's idea of long-term was a month. By the time I met her, they'd been together for almost two.