Chapter Nine
The Office Manager StarMyStay: The Ionian Escape, Kefalonia ***** What a wonderful sanctuary this hotel is– we just enjoyed a week of sheer bliss staying here. The pool, the fitness studio, the room, the breakfast– everything was perfect. Lovely staff too– special thanks to the reception team who organised a couple of day trips for us (a visit to the Melissani Cave is a must!) And we all fell in love with Konstantinos’ cocktails at the bar– amazing! Jude and Brandon, Ohio, USA
StarMyStay: The Ionian Escape, Kefalonia ** Hotel was nice but we couldn’t get over how many stray cats there were hanging around the streets nearby, begging at all the local restaurants. There was even a mangy dog going from table to table at one taverna. Why can’t anyone do something for these poor animals? Mrs M. Naylor, Essex, UK
It’s Monday morning, and the office manager has started her week with the usual batch of online reviews to read through and, if necessary, follow up, although she has no idea how she will respond to the low-star review about the local cat population of all things. First, though, is the more pressing task of messaging her mum, Barb, back home in Melbourne, along with the photo she sneakily took, rather unprofessionally, of Frank Neale having breakfast with his wife in the hotel garden.
Look who’s dropped in to stay this week! she writes, along with a string of heart-eye emojis. How soon can you get over here?! Barb is a big fan of Frank Neale, and even took time off work to see him when he last did a book tour in Australia seven or eight years ago. (‘Iam relieved to report that your mother did not, Irepeat, did not, throw her knickers at him on stage, contrary to expectations,’ the office manager’s father, Jerry, had said drily afterwards. ‘Nor did she manage to persuade him to replace me as her husband, so there’s that too.’)
It’s early evening in Melbourne right now and she pictures her mum standing barefoot in the kitchen, bringing out a tray of fragrant lamb kleftiko from the oven, and yelling to Jerry and whichever other family members are there that grub’s up, and could somebody lift a finger to knock up a salad, or does she have to do everything herself around here?
The office manager closes her eyes briefly as she is hit by a sudden wrench of homesickness. She’s hoping to go back for Christmas this year and can’t wait, although her joy at seeing her family and friends is always tempered by the dread that she might accidentally bump into Marcus, her awful ex-husband. Her fingers fly automatically to her throat, seeking out the small gold evil eye charm she always wears, only to realise that her neck is bare. The charm was a gift from her friend Duska a few years ago, to ‘protect you from bad luck, bad people,’ as she’d said. ‘Especially bad men.’ This was after a night when they had proceeded to get very drunk together, when secrets had been shared. Since then, the office manager has worn it every single day, and the knowledge of it strung between her collarbones, shining like armour, has always made her feel a tiny bit stronger, as if her friend is with her throughout. But today, in her rush to get to work, she must have forgotten to put it on.
It’s only a necklace, a pretty object that has no real power, she reminds herself, trying to quell the spiral of panic now blooming, stupidly, inside her. She mustn’t get superstitious about a piece of jewellery that cannot protect her from anything, least of all her ex-husband. Nonetheless, it’s as if her armour is down, her guard lowered. Because what if. . . ?
Don’t think about him, she orders her imagination. Do not go there. The next second her phone pings and it’s her mum, predictably, with an OMG!!!!! plus a flurry of colourful heart emojis. Then a further message pops up: He doesn’t look very happy, does he? What have you done to my future second husband??
Smiling to herself, the office manager looks again at the photo, agreeing with her mum that actually, Frank Neale doesn’t look exactly enraptured. Neither does his wife, whose gaze is faraway and strained. Trouble in paradise? she wonders. They have lots of rich and successful people coming to stay at the hotel and, of course, they are only human beings at the end of the day, but nonetheless it still takes her by surprise when the lives of these people are not wholly gilded and gleaming. They’d had a famous American singer staying the other week who’d suffered dreadfully with mosquito bites, bless her. A Danish TV presenter whose sunburn was so severe he’d ended up in the local hospital. Then there was that British film star, young and gorgeous, who had wet the bed three nights running, according to housekeeping.
What, she wonders, is the deal with Frank Neale? She’s sure they’ll all know by the end of his stay. You can’t keep anything a secret from hotel staff.
She turns her attention to the new bookings that have come in, one of which is from a family who were only here two weeks ago, now reserving rooms for the following summer. She makes a mental note to tell Dimitris, her boss, who always loves to hear about returning guests. ‘Rock and roll, Claudia!’ he says, pretending to play a power chord on an imaginary guitar.
It’s funny how things work out. Her mother’s family, the Gatakis, originally came from Kefalonia, but almost all of them emigrated to Australia following the terrible earthquake of 1953. They’ve kept close ties with the island in the years since though, and stocky, bald-headed Dimitris, as well as managing The Ionian Escape, also happens to be the son of her uncle Kostas’ best schoolfriend, Spiro. ‘Dimitris is as decent and solid as. . . well, a hand-made oak wardrobe,’ Claudia had described him to Barb soon after starting work at the hotel. ‘But better-looking, obviously. And funnier. And. . . okay, a wardrobe wasn’t the best simile, thinking about it, but he’s a good person anyway. I’m glad I’m here.’
‘Me too, darl,’ Barb had told her. ‘And hey, show me a woman who doesn’t love a great wardrobe! We all need one of those in our lives.’
Say what you like about her big, loud, interfering family, but they hadn’t half excelled at pulling together in a crisis. As soon as they had got it out of her, three and a half years ago, that her marriage was utterly toxic, they’d stepped up immediately, en masse; her squad. Her parents, having brought her home, treated her like an invalid, reinstalling her in her old bedroom and waiting on her hand and foot. Her sisters screened her calls and let her cry on them for hours at a time. Her beefiest cousins went to the house and boxed up all her belongings, casually giving Marcus a bloody nose in the process (‘He fell,’ said the oldest cousin with a shrug). Come the Sunday, her devout grandma even had the local church congregation praying for her future wellbeing.
Then her Uncle Kostas got in on the act with a practical suggestion: for her to get right away from Australia and the ruins of her relationship, with a three-month break at the hotel. ‘You’ll have to earn your keep, mind; Dimitris is a businessman, not a charity,’ he’d told her. ‘But it’s a great place– and if you ask me, just the escape you need, my darling.’ The rest of the family agreed, unanimously, that Kostas had hit upon the perfect solution. With no better ideas of her own, Claudia was dazedly packing a suitcase and checking in to her flight before she knew it. Little could any of them have predicted that Covid-19 was about to sweep around the world, and that the Australian borders would soon be closed for almost two years.
The phone rings and she answers it in Greek, remembering how scared she had been to take any calls during her first few weeks at the hotel, terrified that Marcus might have discovered where she had run to. It was almost a relief when lockdowns were announced, aeroplanes were grounded and she could let out her breath, knowing that he was stuck in place for the time being, and she was safe. The hotel had to shut, but Dimitris permitted her, and a couple of other staff members, to stay on the premises for the duration. She still has a fondness for room seventeen, which was her bedroom in that period; a small, high-end bolthole while the rest of the world fell apart. She and the other members of staff became a family for each other, painting and decorating the hotel from top to bottom to keep themselves busy, taking it in turns to cook and eat dinner in the restaurant. Over the weeks, her Greek rapidly improved, her confidence crept up once more, and Marcus began to feel like a bad dream from which she had now awoken. These days, Kefalonia is home; she has forged a proper life for herself here. She has her own apartment in the nearby town, complete with the stray ginger cat that has adopted her; she has bought houseplants, a bike, saucepans. She is on chatting terms with all her local shopkeepers, and has friends among the staff, not least Duska, whose adorable baby Anna she is the godmother of.
‘When are you coming back, Claudie?’ Barb is always asking, though. ‘Not just for Christmas, for good?’ These are difficult questions to answer. Working here, living here, has been to exist behind a protective shield, preserving her from having to make decisions about the rest of her life. And it’s pretty great behind that shield! For one thing, she’s never had a job where the feedback is almost unanimously positive. She is astonished how many people get in touch after a holiday to thank the hotel staff for a wonderful stay. Can’t wait to come back again, they say. Best holiday of my life . One British woman actually emailed last week saying that she’d had such a fantastic time holidaying with her girlfriends, it had made her re-evaluate her entire life. I’ve left my moaning husband and I’m renting a flat in my old hometown, nearer friends and family, she’d written, or words to that effect. Thank you for opening my eyes to what really matters! Another woman, this one Canadian, had recently sent a photo of a bonny baby girl, with a note saying Thought you might like to see our new arrival. . . who was conceived at The Ionian Escape! We’ve called her Iona, and can’t wait to bring her to Kefalonia when she’s older.
The office manager firmly believes that hotels can change people’s lives for the better– this one certainly changed hers. Job satisfaction? Tick.
‘Idon’t know,’ she tells her mum, because there’s also the fact that, the minute she leaves the island for a permanent return to Australia, she’ll be starting from scratch again– staying with her parents or one of her sisters until she can find a flat she can afford, applying for new jobs. And what will she even do? Before she came here, she’d worked for a small office supplies company in Melbourne, doing their marketing, but it’s not as if she’s really missed churning out press releases about their new range of gel pens or Post-it notes. Sure, her experience here means that she could walk into a hospitality job back home no problem, but it wouldn’t be the same as being here in Kefalonia, with—
She stops herself before she can finish her own sentence. No. Been there, done that, fled the bastard, she reminds herself. She is not about to lose her head or her heart again.
Now then– while the phone is quiet once more, she should tackle some of the emails that have come in over the weekend, she decides, opening the hotel inbox. Let’s see. . .
She barely gets through the opening line of the first email though before she gulps in a breath, her brain freezing in sudden panic. Her mouth opens but no sound comes out. It’s as if she can see the little world she has built for herself being smashed in slow motion. A brick shattering her bedroom window. Her sweet stray ginger cat fleeing in fright as the door is kicked in. Her fingers reach for the comfort of her necklace but it’s not there, it’s not there. Her heart thunders as she reads the email again. He’s found her. Somehow or other, he’s found her. So what the hell does she do now?