The Greek Villa: A beautiful and utterly addictive summer holiday rom com

Two

I take the woman’s coat and stare; she looks vaguely familiar. It can’t be, can it? She looks so slim and, well, sexy. Janet Dobson and sexy would never have been said in the same sentence. I’m flabbergasted.

Alice-band wearer and all-round overachiever Janet Dobson, who we dubbed ‘the Persil girl’ (as her PE kit was still mysteriously whiter than white even when we had run across muddy fields in cross country), tried to join our circle at school but we wouldn’t let her. It was the Grease movie all over, Janet being Patty Simcox – always being on the periphery of the circle looking in, and I’m ashamed to say that we used her mercilessly. Her uncle had a newsagent’s shop near school and we used to get her to steal the odd packet of cigarettes and chocolate bars in exchange for the privilege of hanging round with us.

Our final encounter was on the Leeds and Liverpool Canal, where I was instrumental in knocking her off her bike and sending her sprawling into the murky depths of the canal. (Accidentally, obviously. Long story.) Even then I swear her red shorts and white polo shirt combo were still sparkling when we dredged her out.

Had she not spoken just now, I would never in a million years have recognised her, but it was the voice. She never did have the easily identifiable Liverpool accent the rest of us had, but it was the tone of her voice that gave her away. It was a sort of cross between a newsreader and a singer.

‘Janet?’ I splutter, as the penny finally drops.

‘Hello, Mandy,’ she sings, revealing a set of expensive, cosmetically enhanced teeth.

‘How are you?’ I manage to say while handing her a red leather menu.

‘Ve-ry well,’ she says, drawing out the words with great emphasis. ‘Ve-ry well indeed. So, this is where you work then?’ she says, raising an eyebrow and casting her perfectly made-up eyes around the place. ‘Not bad. I mean if bar work is all you can get, it might as well be a nice pub.’

Her little group give tight smiles before burying their heads in the menus.

‘I’m bar manager here,’ I retort, trying to keep the irritation out of my voice. Then I’m irritated with myself for letting her get to me. I shouldn’t be trying to impress Janet bloody Dobson. I would be proud to be the cleaner in a place like this, as Joyce our cleaner is. We’re one big happy family.

‘Well done,’ Janet says in such a patronising tone that I want to shove her menu where the sun doesn’t shine. But I’m a professional.

‘Drinks?’ I beam. ‘Then I’ll be back shortly to take your food order.’

I note down what Janet requests before taking the order to the bar.

When the drinks (bottled water and two bottles of Sauvignon Blanc) have been despatched and the food order sent to the kitchen, I take my place back behind the bar, pretending to be busy at the till, and scrutinise Janet’s table from afar. There is a young bohemian-style girl wearing a colourful maxi skirt and a denim jacket. She has a tie-dye scarf looped across her hair bandana style and several silver earrings in each ear. She appears to be scribbling notes. Seated next to her is a thirty-something attractive woman with red hair, wearing office-type uniform of black pencil skirt and crisp white blouse. Finally, there is Janet, in an elegant black shift dress with a pink cashmere cardigan. I wonder what kind of business they are in and why they haven’t been in the pub before to conduct one of their meetings.

‘Table Four!’ comes the shout from the kitchen, shaking me from my thoughts. It is the food for Janet’s table.

A young waitress called Lucy abandons filling the fridge with mixers and steps into the kitchen to take the plates, but I intercept her.

‘I’ll take this one, Lucy.’ She shrugs and goes back to her bottled soft drinks, which make a very rainbow-like display as every flavour from orange to blackberry stand side by side in the tall black and silver fridge.

‘There you go,’ I say brightly, depositing two pork cider casseroles and a blackboard special of sea bass onto the chunky wooden table. ‘Enjoy your meals; can I get you any sauces?’

I’m dying to find out what line of business Janet is in, but I don’t want to ask. I’m slowly placing the tartar sauce onto the table with the speed of a sedated snail, but their conversation appears to have dried up as they sip their drinks.

‘I must say,’ Janet says, finally, in between mouthfuls of fragrant sea bass. ‘This really is very good. I can’t think why we haven’t been here before.’

‘Where do you normally go?’ I enquire casually.

‘Oh, all over really. Up and down the country and often out of the country as well. It’s easy to forget just how good some of our English country pubs are.’

Janet smiles a genuine smile and the rest of the party nod in unison as they tuck in to their food. I’m about to ask them what takes them all over the country, when I hear an almighty bang from the kitchen, followed by a piercing scream.

I dash to the kitchen and discover that a microwave has blown up. We only ever use them to reheat things, but it seems that Sally, one of the new kitchen assistants, decided to heat a pudding in a foil tray and, after a colourful display of Northern Lights proportions, the door flew open and deposited sticky toffee pudding all over the facing white wall. Sally is crying her eyes out, Darren is standing there open-mouthed and Lyndsey is laughing hysterically.

Lyndsey always laughs when something terrible happens. It’s a nervous reaction but try explaining that to the wife of the gentleman who was choking to death in one of the alcoves last week, while Lyndsey laughed like a drain. One Heimlich manoeuvre later, and a ride home in an ambulance, and everything was OK… Apart from the wife vowing never to return to a pub where they employ ‘a lunatic bitch’.

Lyndsey is such a fantastic waitress that her inappropriate laughter is forgiven. She is speedy and efficient and so striking – with her slender, olive-skinned figure and pretty face – that she generates amazing tips, which she is happy to put into the shared tip jar.

Janet’s group finish their meals and leave a generous tip, before gathering their coats to leave. Well, Janet, I think to myself, you’ve had your moment of glory, and if I’m honest I hope you enjoyed it – I was a complete cow to you at school.

‘Bye, Mandy,’ Janet says, smiling. I’m finding it hard to decide whether her smile is genuine. ‘Here’s my business card,’ she says, handing me a black card with gold lettering, ‘should you ever wish to partake of my services.’

As the party disappeared into the car park I thought that would be the last I’d ever see of Janet Dobson.

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