Good Greek Girls Don't (2 page)

Given that I am the only single person at the table, I know, it won't be long until the topic of conversation turns back to me. After all, being single means it's my duty to amuse the clan with tales from my pathetic love life.

‘So, Desi, I thought you were bringing your boyfriend here tonight?'

My cousin Helen is as subtle as a brick. She's another one who recently joined the ranks of domestic bliss. The thing about taking your boyfriend to a family function when you're Greek is that no matter how long or short a time you've known the guy, according to the family you'll be engaged to him within a month – tops. Taking your other half to a wedding is like an unofficial announcement to everyone that they should keep an eye on their mailboxes for the next intertwined hearts invitation to arrive.

‘Broke up with him, Hel.' And that is all that Helen and the rest of the cousins are going to know about that. There is no way I am going to give them the details about my break-up with Denny. Besides, I'm sure that by the time they report back to their parents they will have no doubt come up with their own sordid stories about why Denny and I broke up. And each version of events will squarely lay the blame on me. Well, they can just let their imaginations go into overdrive.

‘But I thought this was serious, I thought you were going to introduce him to your folks and give logies.'

The logies. God, only the Greeks could come up with this concept! The tradition is that the prospective groom goes to his girlfriend's parents and gives his word – the
logo
– that he will soon be asking for their daughter's hand in marriage. This then allows them to be seen together in public. These days it's a little bit different. His parents meet your parents; they talk, decide the kids should get engaged and when they should do this and how, have a big feast and a lamb on the spit, the fathers share a few beers and it's all over. Who ever claimed that Greeks aren't romantic?

‘Shit happens, hey?' I try to make my answer as nonchalant as possible. ‘And no, I wasn't thinking about logies. The folks were just getting their hopes up.' Maybe I had considered it for a moment … after all, it would be the perfect escape from home and my mother's clutches. It would have made my mother so happy, having me settled in domestic bliss. And I guess it's only natural that I thought about the whole domestic scene for a moment or two, given that it has been drummed in to me from before I could walk that the main aim in a woman's life is to marry and have babies. But all thoughts of getting domestic with Denny disappeared when he showed his true colours. Finding out about his little phone sex habit was the final insult. I was out of there. It was the final wake-up call that I needed. He was never going to change and I had suffered long enough.

So the wedding proceeds just like all the others –the traditional dancing, the food, the speeches and all the gushing about what a beautiful bride Sophia is. I can only imagine how many hours she spent with the hairdresser and make-up artist to make her look semi-human. I must admit, she looks okay, but she really should know white is simply not her colour – every bulge is emphasised.

Sophia and Spiro start making their way around the tables. This is the bit I've been looking forward to! I can hardly contain myself, waiting for the happy couple to reach me.

The look of horror on Spiro's face as they approach the table is priceless! This is fantastic; I can see that the happy groom wants to run out of the reception so fast he would leave skid marks. But that would be a little too suspicious wouldn't it? How on earth would he explain the whole thing? Suddenly Sophia throws her elephant trunks of arms around me.

‘Desi, I am so glad you could make it. We haven't caught up in such a long time.'

‘Soph, you look so different. Congratulations.' I wish she would loosen her grip on me; she's cutting off my circulation and crushing my bones. Someone call an ambulance, or better yet, pour me a shot of vodka. ‘Aren't you going to introduce me to your husband?'

‘Oh, gosh, silly me!' She gushes like she's seven years old. ‘Spiro, honey, this is my dear, dear cousin Desi.'

Spiro grunts a quick hello and tries to pull Sophia away to another table, but my dear, dear cousin has other ideas. This is pure magic. I couldn't have planned this better myself. She pulls out a chair and sits beside me, ready to have a deep and meaningful. ‘Desi, I thought you were coming with Denny.' I don't have time to answer before Helen opens her gossip-loving trap.

‘He's joined the ranks of those permanently scarred by the great Desi Delagiannis.'

‘Thanks, Helen, couldn't have put it better myself. Nah, didn't work out.' Once again, definitely not going into details.

‘That's such a pity.'

Why is this self-centred pig bombarding me with pity? I do not need pity simply because I'm single. I choose to be single.

‘You know the longer you leave it, the fussier you will become, and you'll never meet the right guy for you at those bars you love to haunt.'

Bingo! My chance to pounce has arisen. She's totally set this up for me. Pure magic.

‘You know, Soph, you'd be surprised at just who you meet at the bars. Just two weeks ago I met a guy out on his buck's night. Poor guy must have been dreading the wedding because he spent the whole night buying me drinks and trying to get into my pants. Think he was getting married this weekend.' I pause for effect. Yes, I know it's a bit evil of me, but it's revenge for all the horrors this witch has put me through over the years. ‘God, what was the guy's name? Steve? Stelios? Nah, jeez, I know it started with ‘S' … I guess that only leaves Spiro! Yeah, that's it! You know I'm pretty sure he was getting married this weekend. Actually I think it's on as we speak. I hope the fake number I gave him didn't completely shatter his faith in his ability to be a cheating husband.' I see the glances between Sophia and Spiro and I can see the open mouths of everyone within earshot at my table. My work here is done. Bubble burst, the honeymoon is over. They don't call me the Queen of Revenge for nothing.

‘Come on, Soph.' The man finally speaks. My God, for a minute I thought his mouth had been welded shut. ‘We've got other people to see.'

Sophia pulls her arm away from Spiro and I hear her hiss, ‘We'll talk about this later. Of all people you had to crack on to her!'

At the end of the day I'm kind of glad I came along to my dear cousin's wedding. It was priceless. Seeing the look on Sophia's face when she figured out where  I knew her dear hubby from was worth the whole torturous evening. I don't know who I feel sorrier for, Spiro because Sophia will have him by the short and curlies and he'll be afraid she'll do a Lorena Bobbitt if he glances sideways, or Sophia for getting herself into a such a farce of a marriage. The bottom line is, I know (as do most of the people here) that it's a farce. I found out that her father provided a nice dowry for the newlyweds. A mortgage-free home, a six-week honeymoon in Greece and a nice down payment on a fencing business for the groom to start up when they return. That's quite a bit of money. I can't believe that Sophia was so desperate to get married that she was willing to have her father buy her a husband. That's sad, no matter how you look at it. You've got to feel a bit sorry for her, knowing that her husband valued her for the dollars that she could bring him instead of valuing her as a person. I'm so glad I'm single. I would rather be single for the rest of my life than in Sophia's shoes.

Thank God that torture is over. Back home, quick change of clothes and out of here. I know exactly where to find everyone. It was definitely a gift from the heavens that the bride and groom were so desperate to get out of there that by midnight it was all over. Perfect timing, I won't miss any action down at the bars. Nothing kicks off early anyway and there is no way I will be sitting at home before midnight on a Saturday night. I do have an image to protect.

I find the crew easily. They're so predictable – sitting in the first bar I come to. I manage to piss off a few little teenyboppers when I bypass the queue and walk right in, leaving them standing on a street corner on a cold Melbourne night, worried that the predicted rain will start falling and all the women's hair will frizz and curl. It's just not the done thing for these kiddies to show up at a bar with an umbrella, despite the fact they live in Melbourne, the city where if you don't like the weather all you've got to do is wait a minute. It will change. Four seasons in one day, and if you're lucky you'll be subjected to the worst extreme at the worst possible moment.

My mates Johnny, Tom, Connie, Voula, Mario, Soula and a few others are all in the middle of shots when I find them and they take little to no time to include me in the festivities. This is our usual Saturday night ritual. We start of at quieter bar, down a few drinks, and us girls shatter a few guys who think they stand a chance with us and still haven't gotten the hint when their wallet's are empty. Move on to the other bars. We hit them all in the course of the night and by the time dawn breaks you can't tell one bar from the other. They all have the same setup, similar decor, but I still love it. I love the beat of the music beneath my feet. The pulse of the city races right through me as I hit the dance floor. We always have something to celebrate and tonight numerous toasts will be made in my honour and my triumph over Sophia and Spiro.

God I need to pee. The only drawback to bars in the city is the queues at the bathrooms. The queues to get into the clubs are easy to bypass but there is no cutting the line when it comes to the bathroom. Women can be vicious when it comes to bladder control. The wait for the bathroom is the true reason why we women don't go the toilet alone. The wait is too boring. At least I have Voula to keep me company, although at the moment I seem to be holding her up more that than her holding me up. She started drinking a lot earlier than me and she is absolutely rooted now.

‘Hey Vouls. You okay?' Man, if she doesn't stop swaying she's going to make me hurl.

‘Sweet, Des. Nothing wrong that this little baby won't fix.'

What the hell has she got in her hands? Not again.

‘Want one, Des? Want one?'

I have no idea what she is holding in her hand but I know it can't be good. And I am in no condition to deal with another overdose, or with trying to get Voula down in time for her to go home, making sure her family is none the wiser.

‘Pass, Voula. Vodka gives me all the buzz I need. What the hell is that and who the fuck did you score off in here?'

‘Relax, Des. It's just an eccie. It'll keep you bouncing all night.'

Who did she score off this time? The last time she scored off a guy she had just met it ended up costing her an ambulance trip to the hospital and a stomach pumping. I so cannot believe that her parents bought the whole ‘someone spiked my drink' bullshit. How naïve can they be?

‘Who did you get it from?' I need to know if tonight's festivities are going to involve me sobering her up and getting her to a hospital again.

‘Relax. Johnny's got a nice stash tonight. Go grab a couple, Des, and loosen up.'

And off she goes. Jeez I hate nightclub toilets.

By the time we hit the last bar it's seven in the morning and none of us can ignore the rumblings of our stomachs. Food is needed, and after a heated debate we decide the safest option for breakfast is a cafe on Lygon Street as opposed to a post-alcoholic souvlaki at Stalactites. I personally love Stalactites – it's a Melbourne institution, open twenty-four hours a day, and every Greek in the city ends up there after a big night out. But chances are too great that I will run into my ex there. He's so predictable and I'm just not in the mood to end up in a fight with him that would probably end with me pushing him in front of an early-morning street sweeper. It's not that I am a violent person, but Denny always manages to bring out the worst in me.

I finally arrive home at about eight-thirty in the morning, hoping that my folks have already left for church. Unfortunately they're still home. I manage to get to my bedroom without hearing the whole tirade: ‘What sort of time is this for a girl to be coming home? What will the neighbours think? You better not be mixed up with some bum!' I slur a few half-hearted responses before I get to the safety of my bedroom, slam the door shut, strip off and fall into an alcohol-induced coma. In a few hours I'll emerge with a thumping head, hating myself for drinking so much and on the hunt for some greasy food. KFC on awaking I think. Goodnight.

I am never drinking again in my life. Never, ever again. I will remain sober for the rest of my life. I will develop an allergy to vodka. This is my usual Sunday morning chant. Every Sunday morning I swear the same thing. Every Sunday morning I swear that this will be the last ever hangover. This time I mean it. Never, ever again. My head is thumping and my mouth feels like something died in there last night. Oh my God, someone please shoot me. A nice quick bullet in the head would be better than having to face the afternoon with my whole family. I squint a look at my alarm clock. The display torments me. One forty-seven in the afternoon. I have thirteen minutes maximum before the whole clan arrives – brother, sister, their partners and their kids. This is going to be painful.