Escape to Greece with the perfect feel-good romantic comedy to read on the beach this summer
Abby Dolan is having a very bad day…
In twenty-four hours, she’s lost her job and her boyfriend. Single and with nothing left to lose, she’s headed for a Corfu escape to spend time with her family while she heals her broken heart.
Only her mum and sister’s estate agency ‘Desperately Seeking’ is just that, desperate! Instead of the relaxing, sunshine holiday she’d hoped for, Abby finds herself spending her break helping get the business back on its feet. Determined to attract new clients and give her family a second chance at success, she finds the perfect property to sell in Villa Pappas complete with gorgeous gardener, Theo.
Perhaps working this summer could be a welcome distraction after all. But Theo has his own secrets and Abby isn’t the only thing he wants to take off the market…
Mandy Baggot is an award-winning romance writer. She loves the Greek island of Corfu, white wine, country music and handbags. Also a singer, she has taken part in ITV1’s Who Dares Sings and The X-Factor
Mandy is a member of the Romantic Novelists’ Association and the Society of Authors and lives near Salisbury, Wiltshire, UK with her husband and two daughters.
Find out more about Mandy on her website www.mandybaggot.com, follow her on Facebook/MandyBaggotAuthor and on Twitter and Instagram @mandybaggot
Also by Mandy Baggot
Single for the Summer
One Christmas Kiss in Notting Hill
‘Diving into this book is like diving into the Aegean. Sunshine in story form – I absolutely love Mandy’s books’
Milly Johnson, Sunday Times bestselling author
‘A sizzling seasonal read from the Queen of Hot Heroes!’
Heidi Swain, Sunday Times bestselling author
‘Great characters and a sunny setting make this the perfect beach read’
Bella Osborne
‘A lush summery read, guaranteed to satisfy all the sense. Her exquisite descriptions of food won’t be the only thing you salivate over. Scrumptious sun-kissed romance at its best!’
Samantha Tonge
‘Sizzling, summery and totally delightful, this book is everything a holiday read should be! Mandy Baggot effortlessly transported me to the clear blue skies, sparkling azure sea and the perfect beaches of Corfu. A gorgeous hug-of-a-book and the ultimate summer romance’
Zara Stoneley
‘A perfect beach read, this one had me hooked. Mandy creates characters that are full of life and absolutely delightful. I thoroughly enjoyed this book!’
Jenny Hale
‘It made me want to pack my flip-flops and head straight to Corfu – laugh-out-loud funny, full of heart and melting with hot romance – what more could you need? This is fun, flirty and heartfelt romance at its very best’
Annie Lyons
To Mr Megalos, you are my rock, my soul-mate, my everything …
Abby Dolan sipped her frothy coffee. Cold again. Still, cold meant she had been totally focused on setting up her day with lists. Shaking back her long, brunette hair, she took comfort in the blissful contentment of having scheduled her day. She had focus. She had order. And her superb organisational skill-set was exactly why she had been successfully managing The Travellers’ Rest, Romsey for the past eighteen months. Well, she wasn’t officially the actual manager, that was Kathy. But Kathy was more an overseer rather than a do-er. And Abby was pretty sure Kathy had her sights set on the Birmingham Maypole branch. It was just a matter of time until Abby got promoted. And along with the new job title would come a bigger salary, perhaps even enough for her and Darrell to finally move out of the compact flat above M&Co. Maybe even into a house with a garden. Nothing worthy of needing help from Monty Don, but just big enough for some planters – lavender, jasmine, perhaps some herbs. She’d been secretly dying to try and infuse a little spice into Darrell’s eating repertoire for a while now. There were only so many Mug Shots you could eat in a week.
Her eyes went back to her list. If she tackled Stanley – not literally, that would be too close for comfort while he was eau-de-sewer – perhaps she could reward herself with calling the Orb. The rumour was Benedict Cumberbatch was going to play the lead in this six-week run. Who didn’t love a bit of the Cumberbatch?
‘Abby.’
Kathy’s voice at close quarters had Abby dropping her pen to the counter-top. She spun around, a smile on her lips and a mind like Facebook analytics good to go.
‘Morning, Kathy,’ Abby began. ‘Now I know you said we had to rein things in a little, but I was thinking, how about some lavender on a plinth, next to the leaflets about Stonehenge and Avebury?’
‘Lavender,’ Kathy breathed out.
Was it Abby’s imagination or did her manager look a little out of sorts? Those were very tired, stressed eyes staring back at her. Perhaps Birmingham Maypole had spurned her professional advances already …
‘Yes,’ Abby continued. ‘They’re cheap to buy, with a lovely colour and a sweet, clean fragrance. They also need hardly any water – you know how forgetful Stanley can be sometimes …’ she forged on. ‘Not that I’m having a dig at Stanley or anything …’ She pushed her to-do list under the morning’s newspaper. The raising-the-body-odour issue was her pet project.
‘Shall we go into my office?’ Kathy said.
Abby swallowed. Her boss’s tone was straight-to-the-point and, frankly, a little brusque. Brusque was usually reserved for the salesmen who always insisted they could save them a fortune on Post-it notes. Everyone knew that cheap Post-it notes were a false economy. A few pence saved could be the difference between actually sticking or falling into the gourmet cannon of lamb you had placed on the reception desk for one second while you multi-tasked.
‘Shall I get us some of Chef’s limeade?’ Abby suggested. ‘It’s going down so well now the weather’s turned more South of France than South Shields.’
‘No,’ Kathy replied. ‘Thank you.’ She paused. ‘This won’t take long and … well, let’s just … have a chat, shall we?’
Seven minutes. That’s what her eighteen months at The Travellers’ Rest had boiled down to: seven minutes. Tears were falling from Abby’s eyes as she staggered down the high street, not knowing where she was going or what she was doing. How could you possibly know what to do when you had just been told you no longer had a job! Just thinking the words made a little bile lurch into her mouth. Pretty Romsey with its cobbled market square, its shoppers’ arms laden with produce under multi-coloured summer bunting, budding hanging baskets swaying from pale-painted buildings and iron lampposts; the gorgeous scenery barely registered with Abby as she half walked, half stumbled towards her flat. It couldn’t be real. It had to be a mistake. That was what she had first uttered to Kathy when Kathy had said head office had ‘forced her hand’. Her boss had said that no one had worked harder for the company than Abby, but times were tight and they no longer had the budget for an assistant manager. Even now, when it shouldn’t matter to her anymore, Abby began to wonder who exactly would ever get up the nerve to tackle Stanley about his body odour issues. Not Kathy. Kathy had been side-stepping it for months. Perhaps Abby had jinxed her own luck by putting it on today’s to-do list! How could this be happening?! Who was going to make sure Mrs Gerald had her favourite table in the restaurant on Wednesdays? Who would coach the boy from the bakery in all things Home and Away, so he could woo the Australian girl at college? Who would remember to pay the window cleaner? She had never been reimbursed from the last time. She sniffed hard. She was not going to go back for the sake of twenty pounds. And head office didn’t want notice worked. They were going to pay her an extra month straight into her bank account because they wanted her gone. Now. Well, gone she would be. A little sob escaped as she thought about never standing behind the reception desk again. Never again would she be looking at the Constable painting of Salisbury Cathedral, or running a duster over the bust of Sir Terry Pratchett … and now her dreams of a house with a garden were dead in the water too. Her job! Her lovely, lovely job was gone! She needed a hug. She needed Darrell.
Abby guessed she had to look at it as an opportunity. She hadn’t really been happy, had she? Except she had. Predominately. Apart from the fact that a pay rise wouldn’t have gone amiss if her dreams of whole-house ownership were to be realised. Pastry. She needed pastry. Gazing into the bakery window her eyes fell on the extra-large flaky delights of the world famous in Romsey sausage roll. She loved everything about sausage rolls. From the slightly salty, hot seasoned pork in its centre, to the glistening, warm, melt-in-your-mouth outside … Darrell loved them too and despite trying to get him to be more fava beans than Heinz beans lately, treats were allowed. And God, did she need a treat right now.
Ping! A text message! Yes! This was going to be from Kathy. This was going to be the I’ve-made-an-awful-mistake-I-should-have-fired-useless-receptionist-Miranda-who-doesn’t-know-the-difference-between-a-paper-clip-and-a-staple-instead text. Eagerly unzipping the front pocket of her bag, Abby pulled out her phone. She looked at the screen. It wasn’t Kathy. It was Melody. Her slightly younger, bouncier, blonder sister.
There was no message, just a photograph. A perfectly calm, azure sea, a picture-postcard blue sky and … what was that? Abby had to squint at the screen to ascertain which male anatomy part was set just to the right of frame. Knowing her sister like she did, it could literally be anything. Bicep … she was going for bicep.
And then another message arrived.
Whoops! Soz! Sent pic too soon. Out on a boat today with Igor #GreekLife
Igor? That wasn’t a Greek name. Abby sighed. What did that matter? All that mattered was she had lost her precious job, the career independence she had wanted so much, and her sister was flaunting a sea scene that she had turned down eighteen months ago. Turned down for The Travellers’ Rest and Darrell. At least she still had Darrell … and fluffy, slightly flea-ridden Poldark, her cat … and a proper English sausage roll coming her way … She pushed open the bakery door.
That delicious waft of warming bread, grain and a sweet undertone of icing-topped buns hit Abby’s senses and suddenly she was plunged back to being eight years old, holding her mum’s hand tight, she and Melody being allowed to choose a sticky treat. Was it really a sausage roll she craved right now or something sweeter?
Before her eyes could meet the glass-fronted counter, a laugh permeated the bakery air. A laugh she recognised. Darrell’s secretary, Amber. Model-thin, glossy red-haired Amber surely wouldn’t hang out at a bakery? She was all David Lloyd Clubs and saving the snow leopards. Abby turned her head towards the section of chairs and tables where customers could sit down for a quick bite … and there Amber was … with Darrell.
In a microsecond, the time it took for Abby’s brain to engage, the scene went from perfectly-innocent-boss-having-lunch-with-his-assistant to why-was-Darrell-holding-Amber’s-hand, then quickly why-was-Darrell-brushing-a-crumb-from-Amber’s-mouth-with-his-little-finger, to finally why-was-Darrell-edging-forward-in-his-seat-over-a-plate-of-macaroons …
Abby wanted the world to stop. Just cease. Just long enough for her to walk over to the table, move the macaroons, move Darrell and deposit him down a wormhole, back to a time when Amber wasn’t his secretary, when his secretary was church-organ-playing, Mavis. Mavis may have fed him home-made scones which hadn’t helped his waistline, but she would never have allowed the corner of her mouth to be wiped with a pinkie …
Eyes brimming with tears for the second time that day, Abby watched as the inevitable happened right in front of her. Darrell and Amber, lips meeting, hands clasped together like they wanted to be entwined forever, a kiss that said this literal tête-à-tête was not just business.
Ping ping!
Abby was brought to by her phone again and the noise rose above the gentle hum of the coffee machines and slushy maker. Enough to make Darrell draw his eyes away from his date to her.
Through her tear-glazed vision she saw him mouth the word ‘shit’ and then immediately get to his feet. And that action, happening ultra-fast, her world spinning like the National Lottery big money balls, made Abby react. She didn’t want to hear a word that would spill from his mouth. Flashbacks of snippets of conversation fell like summer blossom through her mind. I’ve got to work late tonight on the Crosby account. It’s the bowling work event, no partners and … you’re not keen on the shoes anyway, are you?
Just how long had this been going on? Just how long had she been played for a fool?
‘Abby,’ Darrell called.
Well, no more. Not even for a second. With the once welcoming hug of a smell from the Eccles cakes now making her feel queasy, Abby about-faced, head high, blurry eyes focused on her escape route. A few hurried, desperate steps and she was out of there.
The text that had landed in the bakery some three hours and forty-eight minutes ago had been another one from Melody. This time a selfie, presumably with the owner of the bicep, Igor. There was her sister, long, tightly curled blonde hair mostly wrapped in a Greek blue-and-white headscarf, her deep-brown tanned body taut and slender, pearly white smile spelling out joy, perfect contentment, utter bliss …
Abby took a hefty swig of the copper-coloured liquid in the glass she was holding and gathered her knees up into her chest as she sunk into the sofa she and Darrell had chosen just a few months ago. They hadn’t been able to decide between upholstery or leather so had plumped for a mix of the two. It seemed a ridiculous dilemma now. Swallowing back the Greek Metaxa brandy, Abby looked back to her phone and the text accompanying Melody’s last message.
Not my Mr Right but my Mr Right Now. Rich, sexy and … did I mention rich? He has a brother …
There were emojis of a flamenco dancer, the Greek flag, two beers, a martini and a bottle of champagne. Abby’s thumb sat poised above the keypad. She hadn’t replied to Melody’s texts earlier in the week either. Those times it had been photos of their mum trying to do a bottle flip with a Bikos – the Greek equivalent of Buxton. But what to say? Not the truth, obviously. How could she possibly tell her sister she was sat drinking brandy on a Wednesday afternoon having lost her job and her boyfriend?
Her phone vibrated in her hand. She had switched it to silent as soon as she had got back to the flat. It had pinged and beeped and rang all the way down the high street and she hadn’t needed to look to know all the contact had come from Darrell. Her heart in her throat, beating like a frightened deer and an angry cat at the same time, she had rushed along, blinded to anything but her own grief. Only when she was inside her apartment, greeted by the calming sand-coloured walls and palm tree feature paper of the open-plan lounge-diner, did she take a breath, and then, finally, sob.
Abby it’s not what you think. Please call me. D x
God! Did he really think she was stupid? What excuse was he going to give for suckering up to Amber? Perhaps they had both joined the local amateur dramatic society and were rehearsing, or perhaps it was National Snog Your Secretary Day – in 2018 there did seem to be a national day for everything.
No, she was not going to reply. He didn’t deserve her attention. He hadn’t been there for her when she needed him, she had lost her job and he was lunching with Little Miss Just Giving. Perhaps that was her attraction. Abby had always been taught that charity began at home. She never really had the financial stability to set up direct debits for worthy causes. But could it really be a reason Darrell decided to opt for Amber? Was it not more likely his head had been turned by her gym-bunny body and tinkling laugh?
Come out here! You must be due a holiday! Mum would love to see you. I would love to see you! Pretty sure Igor’s brother would love to see you too …
Melody again. And her words hit hard. Corfu, Greece, visiting her sister and her mum or staying here, lonely, contemplating where she went wrong on the hotel ladder and with the man she’d seen a future with. They may not have discussed marriage, but they had rented the flat, bought the sofa and had planned on checking out the Sky Q options if she got her pay rise. Abby took another sip of the brandy then put the glass on the coffee table, sniffing sorrow and regret right up her Eustachian tubes. Thumb working over the icons she made her reply.
Won’t you be busy with the estate agency? I don’t want to be in the way.
It was a hesitant response. A test of the water. From the fortnightly or so phone calls with her mum, their business, Desperately Seeking, was full-on. There were always gorgeous bougainvillea-clad villas being described on their website, ruins in idyllic rural locations, compact beachfront apartments … and it was a whole world away to Abby. To her, when the move was suggested, heading to Greece had felt a spontaneous step too far.
Cum on Abs I’m never 2 busy 4 u. Cum out. It will b so much fun!!!!!!!
Melody had resorted to numbers where letters should be. That usually meant she was busy or drunk. Neither thought appealed. And it was crazy to even consider packing a bag and heading off to the airport, wasn’t it?
And then a shadow cast itself across her back window, momentarily blocking the shaft of sunlight that had been flooding the space. Abby blinked, narrowing her eyes against it. Getting up, she crept across the room, careful not to make a sound. What she saw behind the glass brought another lump to her throat. Behind the net, slowly tip-toeing across the window ledge like he was on a high-wire, was Poldark, tail up in the air, posture set to swagger. And, as the cat reached the next sill along, Abby saw a gnarled hand appear, beckoning with fingers full of corned beef. Mr Clements was just about to complete the triple whammy. No job. No boyfriend. And now, no cat. There was only one thing left to do …
To Theo, it felt like his skull had been cracked open and someone other than a neurosurgeon was having a go at operating on his brain … with a screwdriver. Were his eyes even capable of opening? And, if his eyes were truly closed right now, why was it so light in the bedroom? He opened and closed his mouth. Arid like the sand on the nearby beach. His black shoulder-length hair was all over his face and he was hot. What had happened to the air-conditioning?
Then, all of a sudden, he was choking. A sweet yet completely nauseating scent was growing thicker and fuller with every inhalation. He coughed and the screwdriver in his head stabbed harder.
‘Good,’ said a female voice. ‘You are still alive.’
There was a woman in his bedroom. Another one. And she sounded older. Just what had Leon got him drinking last night after the multitude of beers? His senses became more aware. He couldn’t feel the bed sheet. He was naked. He reached out a hand, but nothing seemed willing to move too rapidly.
‘You will get up now. Half the day is gone already,’ the woman continued.
Then the room got lighter still, and Theo’s sticky eyes began to ease themselves apart. The voice echoing around the bedroom sounded familiar. Had he revisited the first one-night stand of this break already? He knew the village was small but there should be enough holidaymakers to avoid making a repeat so soon. Maybe Leon needed to be a better wingman.
‘Theo!’ the voice barked. ‘I said it is the middle of the day!’
Now the tone had kicked up a notch he knew exactly who was in his bedroom and she was not a conquest from the night before. It was his aunt, Spyridoula. His nakedness needed immediate attention no matter how much his head hurt. Snapping his eyes open, retinas pierced by the blinding sun flooding through the bi-fold doors, he grabbed at the white sheet, dragging it up his body.
‘Spyri,’ he greeted, lips barely able to form the words, eyes back to squinting.
‘Ah!’ she exclaimed. ‘Not only does he live, but it appears his mental faculties are still in working order!’
Theo laid his temple against the headboard of the bed as his aunt’s figure span around his vision. This wasn’t good. He cleared his throat and attempted to look compos mentis. ‘Where is Leon?’
‘Working,’ Spyridoula snapped. ‘You remember? That thing most people do between the hours of eight until eight on this island.’
It didn’t matter what he said. He was not going to win this conversation when he was hungover, utterly vulnerable and without excuses. Had Leon let his aunt into the villa as well as got him blind drunk last night? He was going to kill him when he came back.
‘Up!’ Spyridoula ordered. She stalked towards the bed, high heels clacking on the marble floor, bracelets and necklaces of all colours and materials jingling together in a cacophony of noise that sounded like someone running a fork up and down glass. Theo clung onto the bed sheet as his aunt’s face came into focus. Long dark hair twisted up into a chignon, dark eyes outlined with thick kohl and vibrant red lipstick on her mouth. He had forgotten how formidable his aunt was and, he guessed, she was no doubt unimpressed he had been in San Stefanos for three nights now and not been to visit her.
‘Up!’ Spyridoula repeated. This time her hands grabbed for the sheet.
‘Please!’ he exclaimed, gripping tighter to the fabric like it was a tug of war. ‘I am wearing nothing.’
‘And I have seen it all before,’ she replied. ‘Do you want me to list the times?’
He really didn’t and went to open his mouth to protest until—
‘The very day you were born. It was legs first and more screaming than your mother … then there was the pool incident when you were three. You said the bathing suit was too restrictive. Next was when you were sixteen and the older boys stole your clothes for a joke—’
‘All right!’ Theo interrupted. ‘You have made your point. I am moving.’ Wrapping the sheet tightly around his body he eased himself off the bed a lot more quickly than was probably safe in his condition.
‘Good!’ Spyridoula clapped her hands together.
He didn’t feel well. He was doing his very best to stand still without swaying.
‘You will shower.’ Spyridoula threw two items she had plucked from somewhere onto the bed. ‘Then you will put on these clothes.’
Theo looked at them. It seemed to be a polo shirt and trousers.
‘I have clothes here,’ Theo stated. ‘I did bring some luggage.’
Spyridoula sniffed. ‘This is your uniform.’
Uniform? What did that mean? A shiver ran over him.
‘Your father called me last night.’
Immediately his hackles were up. He knew coming here was never going to be a permanent solution, but he thought he might just be able to buy himself some time. More than three nights before confrontation perhaps? It seemed not.
‘He is worried about you,’ Spyridoula continued when Theo failed to answer.
Already Theo was shaking his head. It was his natural reaction to most things these days … except alcohol. Alcohol he seemed only capable of nodding at.
‘He has asked me to keep an eye on you.’
Theo exhaled loudly, all his feelings expelling into the humid air. Why was the air humid? Perhaps his aunt had switched off the air-conditioning in a bid to use heat as a form of interrogation torture. That was exactly the sort of thing she would do.
‘I am surprised he cares,’ he answered. ‘And I do not need an eye kept on me.’
‘No?’ Her eyes went from his bare feet on the tiled floor and slowly upwards seeming to linger on every sheet-covered inch of him. He held onto the material and tried to match her gaze. It was difficult, his aunt had eyes like the hypnotising Kaa from The Jungle Book.
‘No,’ he replied.
‘Humph. That is not what your father thinks … and it is also not what Hera at The Blue Vine thinks either.’ Spyridoula sucked in a breath, the buttons of her pink silk blouse tightening over her bosom. ‘Ten bottles, Theo! Ten bottles of Mythos, then shots!’
Her voice had risen in volume and each one of those bottles of beer began to dance, Zorba the Greek-like, across his cerebellum. He shifted his neck in an attempt to ease the tension.
‘Right! Outside!’ Spyridoula gathered up the items of clothing on the bed.
‘What?’ he exclaimed.
‘Out onto the veranda! Right now! Come!’ She clapped her hands loudly and made steps toward him. He wasn’t having her stripping him bare, so he hurried toward the bi-fold doors. Folding them apart quickly, he stepped out onto the wide balcony, the heat from the sun more intense than any warmth inside the villa. It licked his exposed skin and he automatically closed his eyes, letting the light feeling seep into him.
‘What are you doing?’ Spyridoula’s presence at his shoulder, bracelets clinking, made his head hurt.
‘Nothing,’ he replied, eyelids gradually lifting up.
‘Exactly!’ she snapped. ‘And that is what your father thinks too.’
How was it he couldn’t manage to say anything without it containing a double meaning? He really needed to remember his auntie was just as cunning as his father, if slightly more well meaning.
‘I mean what is going on, Theo?’
He moved up to the brick façade, white marble pillars creating the boundary between air and ground. And there was San Stefanos in all its glory, laid out before him. The horseshoe-shaped bay of glistening blue water shimmered and sparkled like it always had, set in the midst of green hills. There were thickets of lush emerald-coloured bush, barer patches of dusty land leading down to waving eucalyptus trees. A small array of shops, tavernas and businesses sat at the sand-and-shingle waterfront where boats were tethered to various pontoons. Still, here it was all about the water.
‘Nothing,’ he answered softly.
‘You have spent the past few months roaming,’ Spyridoula stated.
He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say. It was true. Since leaving the mainland, his father, the business, he had been drifting and finding that, for the time being, drifting was suiting him just fine. When you drifted no one asked too much of you and he liked that ‘here today, maybe gone tomorrow’ vibe. It avoided him having to think too much. And drinking too much seemed to stop the nightmares invading his sleep …
‘You need a focus.’ His aunt pushed the clothes towards him. ‘Here!’
He took the items, being careful not to drop his hold on the sheet. What were these? He turned them over in his hand, hoping to come to some sort of realisation.
‘You start work tonight at The Blue Vine.’
‘What?!’ he exclaimed. ‘No.’
‘You say no to me?’ Spyridoula narrowed her eyes, looking more foreboding than ever. ‘After your display last night with the Mythos and the blazing sambucas or whatever it is you drink? You are lucky Hera even agreed to let you into the building again, let alone to give you a job.’
‘I do not need a job, Spyri.’
‘Humph! So, what do you plan to do? Because your father says you cannot stay here for free.’ She held out her hand as if displaying the merits of the Corfiot resort in front of them. ‘Do you know how much rent your father could get from this place for the summer?’
‘He never rents out the family villa,’ Theo pointed out. That was one of the reasons why he knew he could come here. He had a key and it had always been for the family to come whenever they needed to get away. Knowing his brother and sister were at home had sealed the deal. It had been time to move on from Lefkada anyway.
‘Your father is a businessman,’ Spyridoula reminded him. ‘For a long time, this property sits with no one in it. If you will not pay the rent he could get this summer, then he is thinking of selling it.’
His heart actually lurched. Whether it was fear at having to move on again when he had hoped he was set for a summer in Corfu or whether it was a lance into the memories of his childhood holidays here he wasn’t quite sure. All he knew was he didn’t want that to happen. But he also didn’t want to work. He was having time off. Working required thought and consideration and involving himself with people. He wasn’t ready to involve himself with people. Only those looking for a good time and not asking questions.
‘There is no choice, Theo,’ Spyridoula urged. ‘Be clear on that. No job, no staying at the villa.’
He didn’t know what to say. What could he say? He was backed into a corner.
‘Good,’ Spyridoula said, taking his silence as agreement. ‘Get showered, get dressed. There is bread and home-made tapenade in the fridge.’ She clip-clopped towards the door of the bedroom.
‘You made tapenade?’ he queried, still holding the uniform.
She turned back to face him then. ‘I said it was home-made. I did not say it was made in my home.’ She smiled then. ‘Your shift starts at six.’
‘Here we are! San Stefanos! The most beautiful place on the entire island of Corfu!’
Abby looked out of the taxi window towards the cerulean water and something stirred inside her. It was still just like it had been all those years ago when she had first visited. She had been twelve and it had been a holiday booked for their dad to recover from a heart operation. A whole long summer in the Corfu sunshine doing nothing more than swimming in the turquoise water, dipping nets to catch fish, eating hunks of fresh bread dipped in tirokafteri and licking ice creams of all different flavours. Their dad had recovered, but only for a while, just two years later he’d passed. Abby hadn’t thought about Corfu again until her mum’s announcement at that fateful Jamie At Home party. I’m moving to Corfu. I’ve bought an estate agency.
And now she was here again. The rent on the flat was paid up for the month, she’d felt the need to tell Mr Clements she was heading to Greece – Poldark was tush-licking on his sofa seemingly oblivious to it not being his actual home – and she hadn’t felt the need to tell Darrell anything. If he wanted his stuff he would have to ask for it. As it had been three weeks since the bakery break-up and she had ignored the first week of ‘wanting to talk’ texts, she could only assume he had bought a new razor and toothbrush and was leaving the white goods for her.
‘You would like me to drive you around the village? Show you all the best places?’
The taxi driver snapped her out of her reverie and she plucked her purse from her carry-on bag, taking out some euros. They had agreed a price at the airport. It was the new her. Determined not to be taken advantage of by anyone. Not men. Not hotel managers who really didn’t know how to manage …
‘No,’ Abby answered, sitting forward a little and passing over the cash. ‘I’ve actually been here before. Several times, actually.’
‘You have?’ the taxi driver inquired, turning a little in his seat and seeming to pay proper attention.
She nodded, passing over the money. He was in his twenties with dark hair spiked into a rather regimented position that didn’t look like it would move at all, even if a category 4 storm rolled into the bay. ‘It’s been a year or so.’
‘Oh, well, everything has changed,’ the driver told her. ‘There is a Nandos just around the corner and a roundabout at Avlaki.’
Just as the confusion and horror about both of those things near this sleepy resort took hold in Abby’s psyche, the driver let out a high-pitched squeal of a laugh.
‘I jest! I jest!’
Abby swallowed and wondered who had taught him the word ‘jest’. ‘Thank you for bringing me here.’
‘Wait,’ the taxi driver said, unfastening his seatbelt. ‘I will get your luggage.’
Abby opened the door before he could get out and do it for her. Who needed a man faking it at being someone you could count on? Newly purchased gladiator sandals touching the rough concrete she breathed in the wave of heat that greeted her, together with all those delicious summer scents she still recalled – clematis, a gentle brine coupled with sand and fresh coffee. Her eyes went from the gorgeous hoop of shimmering bay to an old stone building with a rather modern sign in Greek blue declaring The Blue Vine. She didn’t remember that bar from her last visit. There had been a more traditional-looking taverna with white tablecloths embroidered with Kalamata olives.
She continued to look along the row of properties. There was the small supermarket, set a little way back, two trees part-covering the exterior, budding white blooms and a well-clipped hedge either side of a paved ramp leading up to the entrance. But it was the property a little further along that took her breath away. It was the ugliest thing she had ever seen. Two large neon pink parasols were shading rattan tables and chairs and, flashing above the bright fuchsia-painted doorway, was a sign that would have looked more at home in Las Vegas. Desperately Seeking … Since when had her mother’s estate agency been pinker than the pinkest flamingo?
‘You have sunglasses?’ the taxi driver asked as he put Abby’s case down next to her.
‘Sorry?’
‘The colour of that shop! It is so bright, no?’
‘Yes,’ Abby answered. ‘Yes, it really is.’
‘I do not think it will stay this way for long,’ the driver continued.
‘No?’ Abby queried, looking at him.
He made a sucking noise through his teeth and shook his head. ‘The elders in the village do not like it at all.’
Great! Her mother was upsetting the locals. There had been a distinct lack of information about that in Melody’s texts.
‘Where do you stay?’ the driver asked her.
‘Oh,’ Abby began. ‘It’s not too far to walk from here, thank you.’ She was not about to divulge her location to the first man she had spoken to on the island. She was a no-go zone and ready to windpipe-chop anyone who meant her a disservice, thanks to a recap on self-defence at Romsey Sports Centre.
The driver stuck out his hand. ‘My name is Leon. If you need a taxi or to hire a bicycle or a moped or a quad bike, my family run Revolution.’ He pointed. ‘It is just behind, around one hundred metres.’
Abby took his hand and gave it a professional shake. ‘I’m Abby.’
‘It is nice to meet you.’
‘Well, thank you again,’ Abby said. ‘Efxharisto.’
‘Parakalo.’
As she watched Leon get back into his rather seen-better-days SEAT Ibiza, Abby felt her phone rumble in her bag. She took a deep breath. She knew it could only be one of two people. She was hopefully just about to see one and the other she had no further interest in.
The pink only got more vibrant the closer Abby got to the building. Comparing the colour to that of a particularly garish flamingo had been spot on as there were two of the plastic birds stuck in blossoming pots of bougainvillea outside the entrance. The gorgeous buds didn’t need any synthetic enhancements. What was her mother thinking? And why wasn’t Melody being the voice of reason about the look of the business? If there was one thing Melody excelled at it was appearance.
Abby stopped just outside, finally able to see past the salmon glow to the property listings in both the front windows. All those laminates were topped with a pink header too. It stood out, but not necessarily in a good way, and it was also distracting. Still, it must be working. She guessed that pink paraphernalia didn’t come cheap.
As she stepped up to the windows and paid closer attention to a two-bedroomed townhouse in Corfu Town she heard her mother’s voice coming from inside.
‘Well, I would have to agree to disagree. It does have a sea view … no, Mrs Morris, I don’t believe you have to stand on one leg in the kitchen cranking your neck a hundred and eighty degrees to see it because I visited that property personally and … yes, it does have a garden, it has a lovely garden … well, I’m sorry if you personally consider it no bigger than an A4 envelope with inadequate provision for a donkey but the measurements are all accurate I can assure you … yes, believe me, Mrs Morris, there is no one more aware that you have been on our books for some considerable time … no, Mrs Morris, of course I wasn’t being rude, your custom is highly regarded of course … yes, I do realise Aleko at Ionian Dreams is offering a free spa day when you sign up with him, you’re only the third person to mention that to me today … no, of course you’re not boring me, Mrs Morris …’
Abby couldn’t bear to hear any more. Pulling her wheelie case hard she stepped on to the thankfully cream tiles of Desperately Seeking and saw her mother for the first time in twelve months.
Jackie let out a loud gasp somewhere in the middle between shocked and excited. ‘Oh! Oh, Mrs Morris, I am going to have to love you and leave you. I will email you later this afternoon with something else I am certain you are going to adore.’
Abby smiled as her mum put down the phone and leapt to her feet, bustling around the desk in a frantic bid to get to her. She swallowed back emotion. Her mum’s usual dyed-black bob was speckled with grey at the roots and she had put on quite a bit of weight. She was wearing a shapeless ethnic-printed kaftan – pyramids and gazelle heads – and was without her trademark high-heels. She also had on large dark-rimmed glasses she hadn’t ever needed before. Worn bright green Havaianas hugged her feet, her toenails unpainted.
‘Don’t look at me!’ Jackie ordered straightaway as she hurried to the entrance. ‘But let me look at you! Look at you!’ She reached Abby and caught her up in a tight embrace. ‘You look lovely, Abby. So lovely.’
Lovely had always been one of her mum’s favourite words. She would be very surprised if it wasn’t in all the descriptions of properties on Desperately Seeking’s books. It was a piece of welcome familiarity and Abby had to do her best not to let emotion flood all her senses. This was a break. A holiday. Nothing more. She was holding everything together and her mum didn’t need to know the ins and outs. But she knew she really didn’t look lovely. Because there was only so much magic the No. 7 counter could work when you were the owner of a broken heart.
‘What time did you get in? I thought you were going to phone me when you arrived?’ Jackie asked, stepping back but holding onto Abby’s arms like she might disappear. ‘How was the flight? Did they run out of focaccia? They always run out of focaccia … and chicken Caesar come to that. Or did you have a two-for-one wine? I do think—’
‘Mum, slow down.’ She shook her head but smiled at the same time. ‘I thought one of the attractions of Greece was the easy pace of life.’
Jackie quietened down as if absorbing Abby’s comment. And then she nodded, uncertainly at first, but then with slightly more conviction. ‘Yes. Yes, it is. It’s all lovely here. You’ll see. Shall I put the kettle on? Or do you fancy an ouzo?’
Abby instinctively checked her watch. What was she doing? She was on holiday. She could have ouzo no matter what the time. Although she hadn’t had a cup of tea since Gatwick …
‘Or frappé,’ Jackie continued, moving back towards her paper-littered desk. ‘Yes, we’ll have frappés at Damianos. It will be nice. They’ll give us crisps and you can feed the fish like you did when you were little.’
Her mum’s enthusiasm was evident, and Abby didn’t have the heart to admit she had been up since the very early hours and was tired. She smiled. ‘Frappé sounds good.’
Jackie let out a long, loaded sigh of deep contentment and Abby relaxed into the cream-cushioned chairs set around tables at the water’s edge. Her legs and half of her body were in sunlight that was warming her every inch, the rest was in cooling shade. Here, looking out over the floating speedboats to people splashing about in the water, then beyond to the open sea where larger vessels were anchored, Abby was getting all the feels of her last holiday in San Stefanos.
‘We had Bruce Willis here last week,’ Jackie announced, sucking at her frappé. ‘And Jude Law actually ate next door, in Galini. Melody got a photo. She’ll probably show you later.’
Abby sat forward, reaching for her glass of mocha-coloured liquid frothing with cream. ‘She’s sent me three pictures of someone called Igor.’
‘Ah!’ Jackie said. ‘He’s lovely.’
‘Is he?’ Abby asked. ‘Because I’m sure you said that about Panos and Ricardo and … what was the other one called? The one with the beard jewellery?’
Jackie almost spat. ‘Oh, Zeke. He definitely wasn’t lovely. Although I do now know several different ways to cook mung beans. Not that we’re overrun with mung beans on Corfu, not that I’ve started cooking, but …’
‘Tell me about Igor,’ Abby urged. ‘I want to know that Melody isn’t going to fall hard for someone unsuitable and get hurt.’ There was no way she was going to let what had happened to her happen to her sister. Despite Melody’s happy-go-lucky-the-Kardashians-are-my-role-models exterior, Abby knew there was a fragile heart beneath. And, for the time she was in Greece, she was going to keep an eye on her younger sister. And her mum. And she was going to casually stalk The Travellers’ Rest Facebook page. It was a heartbreak to-do list to keep her mind off Darrell and Amber, who she was not going to stalk at all.
‘He’s Russian. The son of a property developer. And the gold bracelet he wears on his arm is heavier than any of my handbags. You can remember how heavy my handbags can be, can’t you?’
Abby shivered. She had wanted to know a little of his personality not whether he could rival Bill Gates in wealth. ‘Mum …’
‘His father, Valentin, is dripping with it … gold, that is, not handbags. Melody’s been trying to get me a date so I can get him interested in my high-end places but …’ Jackie sniffed. ‘He seems more interested in Diana.’
The name Diana had been uttered like a jalapeño had just burnt her mum’s tongue. It wasn’t a name that was familiar from their phone conversations.
‘You’re looking to date?’ Abby inquired.
‘Well, I … maybe … I mean, I have been … a little bit, I suppose.’ Jackie sucked at her frappé.
‘Oh,’ Abby replied. Her mum hadn’t said she’d started dating. Not that she shouldn’t. It was just, after so many years of being widowed, Abby had drawn the conclusion that Jackie was happy being single. ‘You didn’t say anything.’
‘I told you I went to the sardine festival in Benitses last year,’ Jackie answered. ‘Well, I went there with Derek.’
Last year! She had kept this dating lark quiet for almost a year! ‘Who’s Derek?’
‘He was quite lovely but he had a bunion. Meant he couldn’t walk too far and you’ve seen the hills around here, even I struggle.’
‘I’m guessing he wasn’t Russian,’ Abby commented.
‘No, he was from Grimsby. Like that Kevin from Strictly. Couldn’t dance, though, not even a very tame sirtaki with one of the dancers calling out the moves.’ She pulled in a breath, gaze going out to the ocean. ‘That was probably down to the bunion too, or the gout … he did like a brandy.’
Abby swallowed. There hadn’t been any of her brandy left when she’d departed the flat. Despite being on holiday, she didn’t want to start falling into a I’ve-been-dumped-I’m-going-to-drink-myself-into-a-tearful-coma-every-night position. She was strong, and her new mindfulness app was keeping her on an even keel.
‘Then there was Robert,’ Jackie continued her. ‘He was fun while he was here and we keep in touch on email.’ She sighed. ‘But he had a lot of hats.’
‘You have a lot of shoes,’ Abby reminded her. She couldn’t see how having a hat collection was a heinous crime. It wasn’t exactly up there with a collection of severed heads … although if you had that many hats … Abby shook her head. ‘But, if this … Igor’s dad … if he isn’t that interested then—’
‘He might be,’ Jackie said. ‘If Diana wasn’t sticking her collagen in the way every five minutes.’
‘Who is this Diana?’ Abby inquired.
Jackie gasped. ‘Don’t let her hear you say that!’
‘What? Is she famous or something?’ She was now racking her brain to think of every celebrity Diana she knew that wasn’t sadly deceased. She was struggling.
‘She’s a novelist,’ Jackie whispered. ‘Writes sweeping romances about billionaires.’ She sniffed. ‘Valentin is just research to her.’
‘And why is it you don’t like her?’ Abby inquired. Her mum did have a habit of being a little judgemental. ‘Because she’s had enhancements?’
‘Ssh!’ Jackie hissed, looking over both her shoulders in turn like she was a turncoat on the run from the Mob. ‘I don’t know she’s had enhancements, but Melody said if it wasn’t Botox keeping her worry lines non-existent she’d eat an octopus.’
Octopus. The memory of that delicious texture embellished with just a little salt, pepper and a squeeze of fresh lemon licked across Abby’s mind. Her sister, on the other hand, wasn’t a lover of seafood. All this Greek fresh-off-the-boat sea fare was definitely wasted on Melody.
Jackie continued. ‘She runs the English part of the village.’
‘What?’ Abby exclaimed. ‘The English part? Since when has there been an English part?’
‘They like their home comforts – English tea bags and sausages. And the latest thing is Avon products. Diana found a girl from Sidari who does it.’
Abby’s brain was officially hurting now, and as she sucked at her frappé she really wished it was a cocktail. It seemed a lot had happened on Corfu in the past year.
‘Anyway, we’re letting Diana dominate our catch-up like she dominates everything else,’ Jackie stated, sitting forward in her chair and adjusting her glasses. They’d turned dark in the sunshine. ‘I want to hear all about what’s been going on with you.’ Jackie smiled. ‘And how’s that gorgeous Darrell?’
Abby’s heart sunk and right then she wished a giant squid would land itself on the nearest pontoon, so she could stuff it into her mouth.