Those Summer Nights (Corfu, Greek Island Romance) (8 page)

T
he sound
of a garden strimmer roaring into action had Panos shutting the lid of his laptop and simultaneously getting up from his seat, coffee cup swinging from his hand.

‘What is wrong with that boy?’ he asked his grandmother, who was sitting at the breakfast bar reading a thick hardback book.

‘What time is this to start work?’ He put the cup down on the worktop, tension in his shoulders. The restaurant was on his mind but he couldn’t shake the image of Imogen Charlton, coming off the beach in her swimsuit, sparkles of water speckling her skin…

‘Speaks the man who has been working since five a.m.’ Elpida said without looking up.

‘That is different. That is quiet work, not waking up the entire village.’

Elpida raised her head, pushing her glasses up her nose and directing her gaze at him. ‘You did not sleep,’ she stated. ‘That is why you are being like this.’

He took a breath and calmed himself. ‘I just have some documents to look through and it isn’t being aided by the gardener.’ He leant against the work top and put his finger and thumb to the bridge of his nose. He was starting to get a headache. Despite what he had said to Manilos on the phone, he was not going to let the Asp deal go if there was still a sliver of a chance. But the man hadn’t replied to his email last night and there was nothing this morning either. He now had to wait until it was a civilised – not too eager – time to call him.

‘I saw you talking to Tomas yesterday,’ Elpida remarked, turning over her book.

He closed his eyes. He knew Elpida had noticed him taking Tomas to one side before they left. He’d wanted to test the water, to know if the owner of one of the most popular restaurants on the strip was willing to embrace new opportunity. At first he was greeted with resistance where the restauranteur would dig in his heels and flatly refuse to continue the conversation, but, as soon as he mentioned the sum of money he had in mind, he saw the alteration in the man’s attitude. He would fold. Panos was sure of it. And once the other owners folded too, he would be well on the way to his reinvention of the Acharavi seafront. His contact on the council would see to the rest. But his grandmother didn’t need to know that.

‘Yes, I was asking him about the family, getting up to date on the news of the town.’

Elpida looked less than convinced. ‘And what news of the town did he give you?’

Panos smiled. ‘He told me you had employed a gardener.’

‘Pfft! That is not news of the town and I don’t see what is wrong with helping Nico and his mother.’ Elpida reached for her cigarettes, hurriedly opening the packet up.

‘Please,
yiayia
, must you smoke?’ He hated the habit and when he had heard her coughing like a car unable to start last night he knew it was taking its toll on her lungs.

‘Yes, I must smoke,’ she answered, flicking her lighter and igniting the end of the cigarette. He watched her inhale deeply before holding the breath then exhaling a grey-blue cloud that polluted the kitchen air. ‘Smoking is my one pleasure these days. I will give up when I have great-grandchildren, so…’

Panos shook his head. She always brought this up. Continuing the family line was on him and Risto and she never let Panos forget it.

‘Then you will be smoking for a long time,’ he stated.

‘Pfft! So there is still no one special in your life?’

It irked him the way she said it and he thought about Rhea. He didn’t consider her to be someone special. The time they had spent together had been in bed. As agreeable as that had been it didn’t come under the category of ‘special’. He swallowed. There had been a time when he had thought his parents’ relationship was special. Up until those last few years, they had appeared so deeply in love, behaving almost like newlyweds. His father would always hold his mother’s hand, whisper in her ear, gaze at her like she was his whole world. And they would always dance. It didn’t matter where they were – at home, at a neighbour’s house or a restaurant – the sound of
bouzouki
music would have Christos pulling Sophia into his arms and holding her close. He rolled up the lead for his computer.

‘Have you called your mother? Have you told her you are here?’ Elpida continued, thankfully not waiting for an answer.

‘What is this? It feels like an interrogation.’

‘She worries about you, Pano.’

‘I thought you were the one worrying about me. Which is it?’

‘We both worry.’

‘She has John,’ Panos answered. He hadn’t really meant the sentence to come out as hard and self-centred as it had sounded.

‘What sort of answer is that?’

He had no reply.

‘Please, call your mother, that is all I ask,’ she said.

‘
Yiayia
—’ he began.

‘I don’t want to fight with you, Pano. I’ve never wanted to fight with you… but I will if I have to.’

He held her gaze until he had to look away. How could making million-Euro deals be easier than a conversation with his grandmother?

‘You will be back for dinner tonight. I have some friends coming over. I am cooking. Drinks will start at seven.’ She shook a finger at him. ‘Don’t be late.’

It was futile to try to refuse.

I
mogen’s mouth
felt like someone had been sharpening pencils into it. She opened and shut it, looking up at the ceiling and slowly remembering where she was. She reached down to scratch an itch on her leg and shifted into a sitting position, looking around the room for Harry. The two windows she’d opened last night to let some much-needed air into the building were now sending early morning heat into the room and suddenly it wasn’t just the one spot on her leg that itched, it was everything. She pulled the sleeping bag off her body, almost too scared to look. What was there made her scream out loud. Her entire lower half was covered in ugly red welches. How had this happened?

Harry burst through the door, dust and debris all over his face, like someone had coated his cheeks in flour. ‘Immy? Are you alright?’

Imogen let out a frustrated noise as she scrambled to her feet. Both legs were on fire. She stamped her bare soles on the tiles and glared at Harry. ‘Look at me! Look
at
me!’

‘What’s happened?’ Harry moved closer, bending to inspect her. ‘Have you got an allergy?’

‘No! They’re bloody bites aren’t they?! From God knows what! Fleas from all the dust and grime in this place, or mosquitoes!’ Imogen screwed her face up, trying to ignore the itch and heat.

Harry stood up, his head turning left. ‘Did you leave the windows open all night?’ He looked puzzled. ‘I definitely shut them before I went to sleep.’

‘Well… the whole place was like an oven. I had to let some air in somehow!’

She watched her brother march over to the windows and pull them shut. ‘That will be it then. Corfu is well known for its mosquitoes, Immy. I thought you read the guidebook.’

‘I did… but it was all stunning scenery and flora and fauna and—’

‘Ah-ha!’ Harry said, pointing an accusing finger. ‘And that’s why the mosquitoes love it so much. Lots of vegetation.’

‘Tell me there’s a cure.’

‘I’ve got some bite cream,’ Harry answered. His eyes went from her legs to her face. ‘Just let me find it before you look in the mirror.’

‘What?’ Imogen’s hands went to her face and straightaway the itch spread. ‘You have got to be kidding me? Where’s the mirror?’

‘It’s not too bad, well, not from one side,’ Harry began. ‘The cream will bring the redness down.’

‘Get me a bloody mirror now!’

I
t was official
. Imogen looked like a government advertisement about the dangers of not being vaccinated against measles. She had no idea you were supposed to close every window, douse yourself and the entire room in jungle-strength insect repellent to achieve a bite-free good night’s sleep. Now, she was drenched in sweat from sweeping and clearing broken furniture in already thirty-degree heat in preparation for the skip’s arrival… some time.

The outside area didn’t look much different except the broken chairs and tables were piled to one side. She leant on her broom and wiped a forearm over her brow.

‘
Kalimera
,’ a soft male voice greeted.

Imogen looked up to see a Greek man in his twenties standing in the entrance of the restaurant, dressed in jeans and a plain red t-shirt covered in paint. He had a mop of dark curly hair and large brown eyes that gave him a child-like quality. This had to be the cousin Panos Dimitriou had offered to help.

‘Hello, you must be…’ What had Panos said his name was?

‘Risto,’ the young man introduced himself.

‘Hello! Calamari!’ Harry greeted, bursting out onto the terrace, hair flopping with every stride. ‘It’s very good of you to help. Very generous.’

Imogen thought about Panos’ offer to buy the restaurant. She hadn’t told Harry about that and she really didn’t know why. She cleared her throat and addressed Risto.

‘So, we’re just clearing everything to one side out here and in the main room. Broken things, of which there are many,’ Imogen said.

Risto nodded. ‘Yes, I see.’ He looked at the brush Imogen was holding. ‘You have another of these?’

‘I’ll find something,’ Harry said. ‘Then we can get this place looking more like the restaurant I dreamed about last night.’

W
earing sun cream
, bite cream and insect repellent, sweat trickling down her back, hair plastered to her red, blotchy face, Imogen stopped sweeping, stepped back and took in her last couple of hours of handiwork. Thanks to Harry and Risto putting all the rubbish and broken furniture in the skip, salvaging what could be repaired and generally shifting everything from the front terrace, it now looked… almost good.

She leaned against the broom handle and looked hard around the open air terrace. With everything clean and bare apart from the thicket of weeds around the perimeter, it looked so different to the wreck they’d encountered yesterday. The tiles on the floor were actually made up of tiny pebbles – some brown, some white and orange – and she had an idea that when she mopped the area they were going to shine. Even the plants in the wall planters seemed to have perked up a little. Or maybe that was just her feeling exhausted and going cross-eyed. A look left to the sand and the glistening sea every few minutes had kept her going. She’d imagined the perspiration that was putting the twenty-four hour promise of her Sure deodorant to the test was that fresh, cool water on her skin from yesterday. Perhaps she’d take another dip later, after the meeting Harry had scheduled to discuss menus.

‘
Kalimera!
Hello!’

At the sound of the voice Imogen turned her head. It was Elpida Dimitriou, dressed for a cocktail party in a bright, figure-hugging floral dress but with black trainers on her feet. She was holding a brown paper carrier bag in each hand.

‘Hello,’ Imogen greeted, leaning the broom up against the wall and brushing her palms together to remove any dust.

‘Argh!’ Elpida exclaimed. ‘What has happened to you? You look like someone from horror film!’

Imogen nodded. ‘Thank you, I’m taking that as a compliment because I thought I actually looked much worse than that.’

‘These are bites?’ Elpida asked. She planted the bags on the floor, and before Imogen could move the woman had slapped her hands on both her cheeks, examining the damage.

‘Apparently so,’ she sighed. ‘Stupidly, I didn’t know Corfu was twinned with the Congo.’

‘I have something for this,’ Elpida said, stepping back and picking up her bags. ‘We will fix it.’ She strode towards the door of the building and Imogen hastily followed.

‘That’s very kind of you but I got some cream and some spray and—’ Imogen said.

‘What is this?!’ Elpida exclaimed, looking into the main room, eyes bulbous, shock written on her face.

‘What is what?’ Imogen stood beside the woman, trying to see what there was amongst the destruction that was causing this reaction. The chairs and tables that could be fixed were stacked to one side, it was only the other half that was still filled with all manner of rubbish from the kitchen and upper room.

‘This!’ Elpida stated. ‘This holy horror of destruction!’

‘Um…’ Imogen didn’t really know what to say. This used to be this woman’s restaurant. Surely she would know the state she had left it in.

The woman was shaking her head now. ‘This cannot be. How has this happened?’ She turned back to Imogen. ‘This is how this is when you get here?’

‘We’ve cleared a lot out this morning,’ Imogen answered.

‘This was not how I left things. This is terrible! What must you think of me?’ There were tears gathering at the corner of the woman’s eyes. ‘The weeds, they grow so fast in this weather, I will get Nico to fix this. But this… I had a manager, the last few months the restaurant was open. I cannot believe he—’

‘It’s all right,’ Imogen found herself saying. ‘It isn’t your fault.’

‘And your Harry, he buy this like this!’ Elpida exclaimed. ‘Is he crazy?!’

‘Yes.’ Imogen nodded. ‘Yes, he is.’

‘Well, this is not right. Not right at all. I will fix it.’ Elpida began striding through the building, stopping each time she had to navigate the debris in her way.

‘Wait, Mrs Dimitriou, you don’t have to do that,’ Imogen said, hurrying after her and hurdling two plastic buckets in her bid to catch up.

‘Pfft! I say I will fix it and I will fix it.’ Elpida stopped walking when she saw the further mess in the back room. ‘For the love of Zeus! There is more!’

‘We wanted to get the front area clear before we started on this,’ Imogen said, scratching her legs as the bites heated up again.

‘I will make phone calls,’ Elpida told her seriously. ‘But first we fix your face. Come!’

E
lpida had cut
a lemon in half and smeared it all over her face. Now the woman was crushing garlic into a paste Imogen was supposed to apply to the affected areas before she went to bed that night. Sat on a wonky stool in the kitchen, she realised she was exhausted.

‘Where did you say Harry has gone?’ Elpida asked, savaging a fresh loaf of bread with a blunt knife.

‘Well, Risto said he knew someone with a van and they were going to a hotel who are getting rid of some of their tables and chairs.’

Elpida waved the knife in the air and stared at Imogen. ‘Risto? Risto Dimitriou? My grandson?’

‘Yes, I…’ Imogen cleared her throat. ‘Your other grandson offered us his services.’ She hoped this was acceptable to the woman brandishing the bread knife.

Elpida put down the knife and leant on the countertop, both palms on the granite surface like it was bearing her weight. ‘He did, did he?’

‘Should I not have accepted? When he said it was free I thought it was too good to be true, but—’

Elpida shook her head. ‘That boy!’ she cursed.

Imogen frowned, wondering if she meant Panos or Risto.

‘Panos has so much to give but he chooses to chase the dream his father had,’ Elpida said. ‘Of course, he does not realise this. He thinks he is doing the exact opposite.’

Imogen recalled the tall, dark-haired man with the soulful eyes standing beside the beach and looking at the restaurant with half a life story written on his face. She also remembered the taut forearms and the way the espresso eyes had held hers.

‘Some people live other people’s lives, don’t they? Always doing something that isn’t in their own soul,’ Elpida announced. ‘But not you and your Harry, huh?’ She smiled.

Imogen felt sick and the lemon smell emanating from her face was making things worse. What was in her soul apart from her family? A forgotten love of cooking? A dream about working for a hotel company? Worldwide destinations and a suitcase full of trinkets and pens? Or serving bacon and beans in Southampton and looking after her mum?

‘Working here will be good for Risto,’ Elpida stated. ‘He is a good boy who has fallen on hard times…’ She paused. ‘I don’t know why I tell you all this. You do not want to hear these old stories from an old lady.’

‘No, don’t be silly.’

The back door slammed and Harry and Risto appeared, covered in dust and sweating profusely.

‘We’re back!’ Harry announced. ‘Got twenty tables in the back of the van and they’re perfect.’ He put his hands into his hair, shaking flakes of sand and shavings onto the floor.

‘Pfft! Risto! You know better than to come into a kitchen covered in grease! Out!’ Elpida ordered, turning to face the man and making shooing motions with her hands. ‘Out!’

Both men backed away. Imogen looked at her brother, juice running down her face, palms up as she shrugged her shoulders.

‘You can come back in when you have dusted yourselves down and then I will start to work on this kitchen,’ Elpida said, following the men as if to make sure they were going to leave. ‘Lunch will be five minutes.’

‘Mrs Dimitriou—’ Imogen began.

‘Elpida,’ the woman corrected.

‘Sorry, Elpida.’ She wet her lips then screwed up her eyes as the lemon tainted her tongue. ‘You really don’t have to do this, you know.’

‘Do what? Make this meal?’

‘No… I… well, maybe. I mean, not that it isn’t all appreciated, but we don’t want to put you out,’ Imogen tried to explain.

‘Put me out?’ Elpida asked, her face creasing with misunderstanding.

‘Sorry, what I mean is, you don’t have to do this for us. Cleaning and clearing up.’

‘Pfft!’ she snorted. ‘What is wrong with young people today? Always refusing help. Look at this place!’ Elpida waved the knife outwards, indicating the mess the kitchen was in.

Imogen hadn’t even opened all the cupboards and drawers yet and wasn’t keen on finding out what was inside. She had visions of blue cheese being far mouldier than it should be and out-of-date tinned items.

‘We work together to fix the kitchen,’ Elpida stated, placing heavy slabs of white crusty bread on a platter. ‘I call people to help with the restaurant area. Then tonight you and your Harry must come to dinner.’

‘Oh, really, we couldn’t and…’ Imogen’s stomach lurched at the invitation despite her immediate refusal. This woman was knocking together a divine-looking
tzatziki
right in front of her eyes. She could only imagine what Greek delights would be served up for a dinner party. Perhaps she could pick up some recipe tips.

‘Please,’ Elpida continued. ‘I have some friends coming and it will be a good chance for you to meet people from the town.’

‘Well, in that case…’ Imogen smiled, her skin straining beneath the lemon juice and the tautness of her bites.

Elpida dropped her fork into the bowl and clapped her hands in delight. ‘Good!’ Her smile dropped as she surveyed Imogen closely. ‘But I think we will need something else on that face or my guests might think you have disease.’

Now she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.