Chapter 6
When I eventually creep downstairs, it’s exactly seven and the kitchen is a hive of activity.
Mum, Auntie Toulla and Pen are slicing carrots, peppers and halloumi and arranging them on a platter around a central dollop of houmous while Uncle Tasos sits in the corner, newspaper resting on his pot belly, reading the sports section.
In terms of gender equality, the Greek Cypriots of London are roughly on a par with the Taliban.
Toulla spots me first. ‘Hello, stranger. Back from your travels at last.’ Toulla gets all her info about me from Mum, who hates that I moved into Rich’s flat in south London instead of staying west with the rest of the Praxitelis clan.
Being eight miles away in Clapham was the equivalent of being across the Atlantic.
I scoot over to air-kiss her, but I’m not quick enough and her thumb and index finger clamp on to my chin in a ‘Let’s have a good look at you’ way.
Thirty-one years old, but I’ll be forever eight to this woman.
‘Gorgeous girl,’ she says, giving my cheek a light slap for funsies. This is how affection is shown in this family: mild bodily harm. ‘You’re the spit of my Stelio. Especially around the eyes.’
We both have round eyes that are slightly too big for our faces which means we both suffer from Resting Surprised Face. ‘Slightly too big’ is how I’d describe them now. As a kid, I thought they were freakishly large and I cried for hours when some rando on the bus called me Goggle Eyes.
My wide-eyed cousin now strolls in with a quick ‘Alright, Nells?’ and even quicker sleight of hand that magically transports three mini sausage rolls into his mouth. I want to remind him that his dad was stick-thin till he was 50 when the Buddha belly appeared overnight, but I’m not that petty.
‘I’m here to help with drinks,’ he announces, taking a bottle of wine out of the fridge.
He pours me a glass and gives my shoulder a squeeze. This time his ‘Alright, Nells?’ is heavy with concern.
‘You’re worth ten of him.’
I nod mutely. Mum has been telling people that Rich and I have split up, but how many of the humiliating details has she shared?
‘He’ll soon realise this new girl isn’t half as good as my Nella,’ says Mum. Well, that answers one question.
‘I never thought that Rich fellow was right in the head,’ says Toulla, circling her finger near her temple.
‘He’s a bastard,’ says Mum and I almost drop my glass in shock.
Mum does not use language like that, although her insult is defanged by the fact that, like most Greeks, she tends to end words with a vowel, and she pronounces ‘b’ like ‘p’.
Her ‘bastard’ comes out as ‘pasta’.
Stelio leans in to whisper, ‘He’s a right fucking fusilli.’
In spite of everything, I smile.
Dad once rang to ask me where he could get a replacement battery for his ‘prawn shaver’, and I was stumped for a full five minutes before I realised what he meant.
They think they’re being supportive, but I’d rather Rich wasn’t the main topic of conversation tonight. I leave them to it and brace myself before entering the living room.
I needn’t have worried. My presence isn’t remarkable enough to distract Tig, who’s holding court in front of cousins Anna, Anna-Maria and Maria.
(If you’re Greek and born in August, the chances of being named Maria or Mario are basically 100 per cent.
August the fifteenth is a public holiday that has something to do with the Virgin Mary, but really, it’s just an excuse to party.)
I hang back, but Stelio works his way round the room, offering top-ups, cracking jokes with Uncle Takis, and complimenting Auntie Eleni on her new glasses. But when he reaches his brother Stav, the jokes pause and they exchange words.
The serious conversation is over as soon as it’s started and a smiling Stelio is off again, the next compliment already tripping off his tongue. He tells Granny Maria (born 16 August; she won’t tell anyone the year) how lovely her hair is.
Theo is sitting next to her, a move she no doubt orchestrated. She’s always had strong opinions about our boyfriends – she was lukewarm about Rich, which should have been a warning sign – but for once I’m glad she’s grilling a prospective partner. Theo looks terrified, as well he should.
She’s a formidable woman who was widowed when Dad was still a teenager.
Steely-eyed and sharp-tongued, she doesn’t put up with anyone’s bullshit.
I’ve only ever seen her smile at the cat, and only when she thinks no one else is looking.
If anyone can get Tig to drop this engagement nonsense, it will be Yiayia Maria.
I’m curious to see how well Theo is handling her interrogation, but before I can move closer to find out, Stav corners me.
‘So, I heard about Rich giving you grief …’ He looks embarrassed, like he’s been instructed to have this conversation.
A thought-terminating cliché is the quickest way to put him out of his misery. ‘Yeah, well, it is what it is.’
He takes a step closer and drops his voice. ‘If it’s any help, the goalie in our Sunday league side spent time inside. If you know what I mean.’
What’s he getting at? Is he trying to set me up with a friend? Leading with the fact he’s been in prison is hardly going to set my heart aflutter.
‘Right.’
Stav swallows. ‘He can make problems go away.’
‘Go away?’
‘He’s got access to an industrial concrete mixer.’
For a moment, I’m not sure I heard right. ‘You’re asking if I want Rich bumped off?’
Surely he’s joking? I’ve heard about their jailbird goalie. He went to prison for VAT fraud. He’s hardly Don Corleone.
‘Nah, just a quick roughing up. Nothing permanent. Unless—’
I grab his arm to stop him. ‘Rich did a shitty thing, but I can handle it. I don’t need him fitted for concrete shoes.’
He grins reassuringly; he’s been pulling my leg.
‘Just thought I’d mention it.’
‘I appreciate the sentiment.’
‘He’s a shite goalie, but we can’t kick him off the team.’ He looks serious again. ‘For obvious reasons.’
I look around for Yan so I can ask him to discreetly check if Stav was joking, but he’s not here. Has the cheeky bugger bailed early? Pen appears with a tray of crudités, and I ask if she knows.
‘Oh, the agency rang. He was needed to cover a chef at the last minute.’
Yan works undeniably hard, pulling evening shifts as a chef while his days are spent renovating an old pub to turn it into a bistro, but I suspect his early departure is less about making ends meet and more about getting ends away.
If I have to stand around eating mini pittas with low-fat houmous while concerned family members cast me pitying looks, the least he could have done was keep me company.
Instead, I have to fend for myself, a fake smile plastered to my face so no one assumes I want my boyfriend murdered by Ealing’s cut-price Godfather.
My aching face muscles are saved by Tig doing what Tig does best: demanding attention.
Looking her usual glamorous self in a black sequinned jumpsuit and strappy gold heels, she taps her wine glass and clears her throat.
It’s like a bat-signal that brings Mum and Auntie Toulla rushing from the kitchen.
‘Hey, guys,’ Tig begins. ‘Theo and I wanted to thank you for coming at such short notice and helping us celebrate our very special news. It’s been a whirlwind six and a half months since Theo walked into my office to complain about a mistake on his tax return.’
‘I was very polite about it,’ Theo interjects.
She smiles at him. ‘Of course you were, babe. I was supposed to be working from home that day, plus he wasn’t one of my clients, but something told me I needed to help him.’
‘Imagine if you hadn’t,’ he says, gazing at her.
‘You would have overpaid HMRC five hundred pounds.’ This raises a laugh. ‘But obviously, the main benefit was meeting me.’
He leans down and kisses her on the cheek.
‘Okay, that’s not the reason I wanted to say a few words.’ She glances at Mum, who nods in encouragement. ‘As some of you know, Theo’s Dad recently suffered a massive heart attack, and when stuff like that happens, it really puts things in perspective.’
She’s rosy-cheeked from Prosecco as she gives Theo a shy smile. ‘So, for that reason, we’ve already set a date for the wedding – the thirtieth of July.’
She’s talking about next year, right? She can’t mean in three weeks’ time.
Granny Maria has the same question.
And when Tig confirms it’s this year, she shakes her head, and tells her she’ll never get the church at short notice. Not if Father Michalis is on annual leave in Greece.
I hold my breath, waiting for Tig to announce they’re not doing a church wedding. Oh, it’s going to be carnage …
‘Don’t worry, Yiayia,’ says Tig patiently. ‘Theo has spoken to Father Michalis. The church is already booked. We even have a possible venue for the reception.’
Gran nods once, like she’s giving her royal assent.
That’s it? A church and her favourite priest, and Gran’s all in?
This is madness. Why isn’t anyone else objecting?
Mum certainly isn’t. ‘To Tig and Theo,’ she says, raising her glass and cutting off her mother-in-law from asking further questions. ‘Na zisete. Congratulations.’
Everyone rushes over to hug them, but I stay put, not quite believing what’s just happened.
It’s bad enough that they got engaged so fast, but I’d assumed they’d have a long engagement to make sure they weren’t rushing into things.
But they’re getting married in three weeks? How the hell do they think they can pull it off? It took Tig a month to buy an air fryer. She dragged me to John Lewis three times before deciding.
This can’t end well.
My plan is to sneak back to my room while everyone’s crowded around the happy couple, but I’m foiled by a tap on the shoulder before I’ve made it to the door.
It’s Tig, smiling sheepishly. ‘I’m sorry if tonight has been tough for you. My timing couldn’t have been worse, what with the Rich situation.’
Her apology surprises me – empathy is not Tig’s natural state.
She managed to make my twenty-first birthday about her by having a huge row with our folks about whether she was allowed to drink, seeing as she was the grand old age of seventeen.
They said no. She ignored them. She threw up all over the bathroom floor at 2 a.m. and then roped me into cleaning it up.
Hopefully, she can hold her alcohol better these days.
But if not, it’ll be Theo’s job to do the vom-mopping.
‘I’m fine,’ I assure her, even though I’m not sure I am. ‘It’s just …’ I search to find the right words. ‘You barely know each other. Marriage is a big step.’
‘I know. But Theo’s the one. I feel it in my bones.’
‘I thought that way about Rich.’ My throat tightens, and I can’t say more.
‘I really need you on board with this. You’re my big sister.’ She squeezes my hand. ‘If you knew Theo better, you’d see why I feel so sure. Come round for dinner?’ she suddenly asks. ‘Tomorrow night?’
Tig suggesting a dinner date? That’s a first. Our usual hang-out activity is sale shopping. She’s a ninja at a Selfridges event.
She looks so hopeful, I can’t refuse. ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘But only if you promise you’re not the one cooking. You’re a hazard in the kitchen.’
‘I had one chip-pan fire.’
‘And a blender that exploded.’
‘Relax,’ she says, grinning. ‘I’ve got Theo to do all that now.’