One Greek Summer Wedding

Chapter 1

‘Bruno! That’s it! That’s my H-spot!’

Cara Jones squeezed her eyes tight shut at her aunt, Margot’s comment. And then, Margot began to make the kind of noises you never wanted to hear from any relative, particularly when you were in such close proximity. There were only a few strategically placed, large-leafed – possibly fake – plants between their massage beds and no amount of foliage was going to aurally shield Cara from these sighs.

‘What is “H-spot”?’ Bruno asked. ‘This sound like a good thing I should tell other clients about.’

‘One step up the alphabet from my G-spot, Bruno. H stands for… heaven.’

As Margot sighed like she was auditioning for something on the adultiest adult channel Cara shot a hand to her left. Hopefully the face mask her masseuse, Jasmine, had offered – and she had declined – was still on the little table. She knew covering her eyes wasn’t going to help but perhaps, somehow, anyhow, she could mould it into something for her ears.

‘We leave you now,’ Bruno declared. ‘With hot stones’ healing power and the chance to unwind with your thoughts or create connections with each other.’

Cara felt that the extras Bruno was adding to the salutations were made-up bollocks but as she wasn’t paying for this extortionately priced afternoon she wasn’t about to make a comment to her aunt. She put the face mask back down.

‘Thank you, Bruno, darling.’

Cara focussed on not focussing on anything except the warmth of the hot rocks, now lined up down her back, permeating the light bamboo throws they had been draped in milliseconds before Bruno and Jasmine left the room. She let the gentle music, a cross between Gregorian monks chanting and something played by wind chimes, seep in too. Then the delicate fragrance of bergamot and lemon mixed with… smoke? Cara could definitely smell smoke. She moved her head up from the padded face cushion and opened her eyes. Margot was sitting up on her massage table now, bamboo sheet tied around her like a beach sarong, inhaling on a cigarette.

‘Margot! You can’t smoke in here!’ Cara exclaimed.

‘Ssh, Cara, raised voices are definitely not good for cosmic realignment,’ Margot purred softly, before taking another deep drag.

‘And your emissions aren’t good for anything. Put it out.’ She tried to move but very quickly realised that if she did, those stones on her back were going to go tumbling to the ground. How had her aunt got rid of hers so quickly and reached a packet of Pall Mall?

‘I actually think that’s what Bruno did to my clitoris,’ Margot answered with a throaty laugh. ‘But, now I have you trapped under those rocks, we need to talk.’

Cara swallowed. Margot sounded serious. Was it work? Had Cara messed up? OK, she knew she wasn’t the most passionate employee of Margot’s super-successful luggage business, Carried Away, but such was her gratitude for having the job at all, last month she had even tit-taped Margot’s bosom before an inspirational talk at a university. Did you bring someone on a spa day to relax them before you fired them?

‘God! You look terrified!’ Margot exclaimed, cigarette hanging from her lips as she adjusted her sheet. ‘And stop frowning because I haven’t booked in for Botox this time!’ She sucked on her cigarette before puffing a plume of smoke into the air. ‘You and I, darling, are taking a little trip.’

Oh no. Cara’s heart sank and, despite the hot stones, a cold chill invaded her pummelled muscles. The last time Margot had taken her on ‘a little trip’ it had been to Krakow and another suitcase magnate called Pawel had basically embalmed them with wódka. Cara was certain she had been able to hear her liver crying like it was being waterboarded. And then she had another thought…

‘It’s not… M-Moldova, is it?’

Cara hated that she had stuttered over the country’s name. It proved exactly how far she hadn’t come over these past few years. She pressed her lips together and waited for Margot’s reply.

The first response was a hiss, like her aunt had rapidly extinguished her cigarette in their honeydew and basil water. She hadn’t.

‘I would be more than happy to never frequent that country again. Well, apart from the excellent wine, but I’m sure I could get that delivered… or buy one of the vineyards. No, I’m talking about Greece. One of the islands. Corfu. Or, as the natives say it, Kerkyra.’

It wasn’t Moldova.

‘Did you hear what I said, Cara?’

Where had Margot said? Greece? An island?

‘Yes. I mean… most of it. Why are we going there?’ She still hadn’t 100 per cent grasped where ‘there’ was. ‘For work?’

Margot sighed. ‘You don’t say “for work”, you say “for business”. I’ve told you that before. “Work” does not give off the correct entrepreneurial energy. “Work” speaks of perspiration and aching muscles. “Business” says sophistication and the interaction of sharp minds.’

Margot did always speak like she might be describing the premise of a decadent black-and-white movie from her wide selection in the cinema room of her home. Margot, and Cara’s mother, Elizabeth, had been brought up around classic films as their father had worked as a projectionist at a picture house in the sixties. Margot, although only fifty-five, also rather modelled herself on Rita Hayworth – a star from the 1940s. In stark contrast, Elizabeth’s vibe had always been more latter-day Blue Peter presenter. Dungarees in every colour and usually elbow-deep in insects. Cara didn’t see herself as having inherited any of their traits. The only thing she shared with them both was their russet-coloured hair and pale blue eyes.

‘So,’ Cara said, squirming a little to get more comfortable on the bed. ‘Whose sharp mind will we be interacting with?’

‘No one’s. Well, Sofia would like to think she has a sharp mind but, honestly, the moment she got married and had kids, she got static, lost her edge, you know.’

No, Cara didn’t know. Because she didn’t know who Sofia was nor did she know where this conversation was going. ‘So, this isn’t a business trip?’

Margot shook her head, cigarette back in her mouth. ‘No, darling, it’s pure pleasure. We’re going to see my old friend from college and watch her show off all the things she thinks are important.’ She blew out a ring of smoke. ‘All the things I despise. Like, overrated “home-cooking”. Husbands. And children.’ She shuddered. ‘Why don’t they do allergy pills for those things?’

Cara was starting to wonder why Margot was going at all if she felt that way about the prospect of the trip.

‘That’s why, after this massage, we’re going to nip to Liberty and get ourselves some summer essentials.’

Whenexactly was this trip and for how long?

‘Then it’s BA from Heathrow. Business class obviously. We leave in the morning.’

‘Tomorrow!’ Cara exclaimed. As much as she loved her aunt and admired her for many things, she didn’t love or admire the way she lived her life on the spur of the moment.

‘Well, we can’t leave any later,’ Margot said, finally stubbing her cigarette out in the ylang-ylang potpourri. ‘Otherwise the hen party and the wedding will be happening without us.’

It was a wedding. And that was the reason Margot had dropped this travel bomb down at the last minute. As a multiverse of emotions rode through Cara, the last thing she heard before she vomited was the hot stones dropping to the floor.