Chapter 6
‘This takes me right back,’ Margot said, inhaling on her cigarette as she and Cara sat at a café/bar in a beautiful arched arcade. This was café culture at its finest. From the other patrons at tables around them sipping espressos or freddo cappuccinos to groups across the marble esplanade under large canopies next to a wide expanse of grass resemblant of a cricket green. It was relaxed yet it had a vibe.
‘You’ve been here before?’ Cara said. ‘You didn’t say.’
‘I spent a long weekend here once. Years ago now. With Sofia. It was a hoot.’
‘And remind me, Sofia is your college friend and the mother of the groom, whose name is?’
‘I have no idea. It will be written on the wedding invitation.’
The wedding invitation that Margot still hadn’t produced. For someone usually so on the ball, Margot was being very lackadaisical about things here. Although apparently her aunt knew they were meeting other people invited to the hen night at 8p.m.
‘So, when was the last time you saw Sofia?’
‘Heavens, I can’t remember the exact date of that weekend. I do remember a spirit called tsipouro though.’
‘You haven’t seen her since “years ago” and now she’s invited you and me to her son’s wedding?’ It sounded a bit odd. And they were both going to the hen party too.
‘Why is that shocking to you, Cara? I went to a college where all the students were from notable families around the globe. Granted, there were a few of those scholarship children but mostly they were heirs of shipping tycoons or gold miners. This is how they do things.’
Cara had never really understood how or why Margot had ended up in an illustrious finishing school in Switzerland when her mother had gone to the local college and studied geology and fashion. She had asked her mum once and Elizabeth had been surprisingly tight-lipped for someone who always loved being offered the opportunity to have a dig.
‘It’s not shocking,’ Cara said. ‘But, you know, the weddings I’ve been to, or known about, usually have a tight, close-friends guest list, not people the mother of the groom hasn’t seen or had contact with for years.’ That was certainly the case when she and Seb had argued over price per head for the wedding breakfast…
Margot waved her cigarette as if she was conducting away the comment into the upper echelons of this ancient walkway. ‘Why do you worry about things like that, Cara? Instead of wasting time thinking about why you’re worthy of this opportunity, why not simply embrace it?’
The answer was because every time she embraced an opportunity she ended up being the laughing stock, broken-hearted or both. She asked questions now. All the time. Triple-checked her decision-making. This Americano she had opted for was now making her hot and the humidity was stifling. She got to her feet.
‘I’m just… going for a walk.’
‘I wouldn’t recommend it in those shoes,’ Margot said. ‘Those marble slabs are ever so slick and…’
Cara didn’t hear the rest; she couldn’t stay long enough to hear whatever came next. Finding solitude was her only path now or she was in danger of falling back into those negative thinking patterns.
Shop fronts spilled with baskets of tourist fodder – tea-towels with olive motifs, tiny wrapped soaps, red-painted pots – it was bustling and lively and right now that was the opposite of what Cara needed. Before she thought too much about it she was veering away from the crowds and going up a set of steps towards an arched doorway.
The irony of this. Here Akis was, sitting in the front row of wooden chairs, dressed head to toe in the black of a Greek priest. Except this ensemble wasn’t quite traditional, this was his costume for the show later, complete with a Phantom of the Opera-style face mask to make his character ‘The Deacon’ even more mysterious. But, right now, he wasn’t moving like he would be later, he was keeping as still as he possibly could in the hope that the tiny black kitten he had seen belly-crawling into the church looking as weak as, well, a kitten, would come out from its hiding place and let him help it. Strays were everywhere in Corfu but he had never been able to ignore something or someone needing help in his very path. Like his brother…
The door banged closed from the back of the church and Akis looked round as someone entered. It was a woman. Half-rushing, then slowing down, stopping, turning, eyes darting around her surroundings like she didn’t quite know how she had got there. Now Akis was more concerned about her than he was about the kitten.
He turned back to the front, as if he was seeking guidance from the altar and the golden icons, like his mother grabbing up her gurus earlier.
‘Do you take confession?’
It was the woman’s voice and Akis wondered if the papás of this church had appeared. But, very swiftly, he realised the woman had drawn closer, was standing alongside him and had definitely addressed her question to him. She had hair the colour of the leaves in autumn, it wasn’t long or short but it fell onto her shoulders like wide ribbons of shining colour…
‘Sorry, you probably don’t speak English. I apologise,’ the woman continued.
‘No,’ Akis answered. ‘There is… nothing to apologise for… my child.’ What the hell was he saying?! He cleared his throat. ‘I speak English.’
Before he could say anything more, she had settled herself on the chair next to him, held both her hands together, wringing one with the other like they were damp cloths. Instinctively, he wanted to know what had happened to her.
‘I don’t know if I can do this any more,’ the woman whispered, eyes to the floor.
‘You decide you do not want to confess?’ he asked.
‘No… I mean, this is the beginning of my confession.’
Here was the proof that he would be a terrible priest. He didn’t even have a clue what he should do.
He should let her choose her pace.
‘I’m a follower now. And I was never a follower before,’ she carried on.
‘Christ can come to you at any time,’ Akis answered.
‘What?’ the woman asked, raising her head and looking at him.
‘Jesus. There is no time limit with him. Or his father and the spirit. It does not matter if you are following from the very beginning or if you join the path later.’
‘I didn’t mean a follower of the church. I meant in my life,’ the woman said sighing. ‘I don’t make my own decisions. I’m scared to make my own decisions. But I don’t know how to be any other way any more.’
Her predicament pulled at him. He had this problem in reverse. But what had made her too scared to make choices? He looked at her again, took in smaller details this time. Her eyes were blue, bright blue, almost the colour of the Ionian Sea and they looked just as deep. He swallowed, suddenly feeling whatever he said next was going to be hugely important.
‘What scares you about making decisions?’ he asked.
‘Everything,’ she said, her voice wavering.
‘Why?’
He felt a shift in her energy then, the air between them changing in velocity, stilling.
‘I don’t think this is how confession is meant to work,’ she said, straightening up in her seat. ‘I thought I could just tell you how I feel and then you’d offer me advice at the end.’
‘Well, have you ever had confession in Greece before? Because it is known around the world that Greeks do things differently to most other nations.’
Why was he still pretending he was a real priest? And why did he feel it was essential that he provided her with something positive to take away from this? He should be calling up the real pappás and getting out of here.
‘Is that why you’re also wearing a mask?’ she asked.
Shit. The mask.
‘Ah,’ Akis began. ‘I apologise. That is because of the kitten.’
‘What?’
He stood then and gestured that she should too. Gently he edged forward towards the altar. ‘I was… collecting my thoughts and I saw this scared kitten run through the church. It was, I guess, looking for sanctuary.’ He looked sideways to her. ‘A little like you.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘You look for sanctuary too. Away from your problems with decisions.’
‘I meant I still don’t understand why you’re wearing a mask.’
‘Oh.’ He regrouped. ‘Well, the cats in Corfu, they are very fierce. And they will always go for the eyes.’
He’d tried to sound convincing, but it was all very weak. Thankfully he was saved from commenting further when he parted the altar cloth and there was the kitten looking very sorry for itself, one paw held up like it was unable to walk.
‘What do we do now?’ the woman asked him.
‘We pick it up and we get it some water.’
‘But you’ve made it sound like it’s vicious.’
‘But, remember, I have a mask.’
The woman shook her head. ‘I have no idea what’s going on. But perhaps I should have found a bar instead of a church.’
She turned to go and Akis found himself not wanting that.
‘Wait,’ he said, stepping away from the cat.
She stopped and turned back to face him. What was he going to say now?
‘The way you feel, about your decision-making…’ He took a breath. ‘Imagine that the decision is a tiny seed planted inside your mind. You can see the seed, but it is small, and it is always small, until you decide to let it grow bigger. You decide if or when. Other people, they have their own seeds to think about. Your seeds, they are yours alone. Others might be able to see them but only you own them.’
He swallowed, watching for her reaction. Seconds ticked by until finally she gave him a small smile.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘Parakalo. You’re welcome.’
And, with that said, he watched her turn around again and head to the door.