Chapter 11
CARRIE
Carrie yawned and squinted as she hoicked the big rucksack farther up her back.
She strolled out of the arrivals lounge of the small, white, functional building.
Sunrays hit her cheeks as she went outside.
Face tilted to the bluebell sky, she stood for a moment, the remnants of England draining away as cicadas buzzed and a breeze lifted her fringe.
A seabird with a yellowish smudge on its neck swooped past and landed on the airport’s roof, looking down at the taxis waiting, one with its doors open, instrumental Greek music wafting out.
Carrie had balked at taking the extra two thousand pounds from Eliza but Nessa had told Carrie not to be silly.
Yes, it was ridiculously generous, but if she couldn’t get a job, the money would run out quickly.
But she wouldn’t think about adult things like that right now. Here she was! On a Greek island in the middle of nowhere – literally; away from the embarrassment of being found out and the pity of her friends; away from a life that lacked purpose.
Carrie opened her rucksack and took out a notebook with a pen through the wire ring binding.
She’d jotted down a few useful phrases that she’d found on the internet.
Travel expert Ariana had a huge interest in foreign languages.
The year before Mum had died, the three friends had scraped enough money together for a week in Spain.
It had been brilliant watching Ariana’s confidence grow, the more she spoke with what she’d learnt in college.
Flicking through the notebook’s pages, Carrie came to ‘Excuse me’ and ‘Where is the bus stop?’ Reading, she walked in the direction of one of the taxi drivers and straight into another passenger who was pulling a rolling suitcase.
Long legs in white linen trousers and leather sandals.
Good chance he was a local. She raised her head.
He had dark curly hair poking out from underneath a navy cap pulled down at the front, and he wore black sunglasses that…
oh, couldn’t hide a frown, accompanied by a blatantly unapologetic posture.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I mean… sygnomi. Um, milate anglika?’ She’d memorised the important phrases. She lifted her notebook and he spotted the pen.
‘No. I’m in a rush,’ he said stiffly, towering over her like a building that owned the skyline, as if it were better than everything else. She had to jump out of the way as he barged past, heading for someone waving from a small open-top jeep.
‘I only wanted to…’
He turned around and with a grand gesture, took off his glasses.
Briefly, she lost herself in what could only be called a death glare.
He looked vaguely familiar… but then maybe not.
She’d have a clear memory of someone with a presence that hostile.
‘Not today, okay,’ he said in a curt voice, the English betrayed by a husky Greek accent.
‘I have a life. You should get one too.’ He spun around and strode off.
Carrie stepped back, mouth agape. Talk about rude! To top it all, after he hugged the older man waiting and got into the jeep, the man glanced back briefly, stared her way, slowly put his sunglasses firmly back on and pulled his cap farther down, as if to say you couldn’t interest me any less.
What the hell! He should visit Manchester and learn about having a friendly manner and sense of humour.
But then the owner of the Airbnb seemed friendly enough on the emails they’d exchanged.
He was called Dimitrios and owned several properties and a local bar.
His review rating was excellent for the one-bedroom villa she’d rented, for one month, in the village of Tolmiros.
Paros airport was in the southwest of the island.
Tolmiros was a little farther up the western coast, not far from the capital Parikia.
The whole island was only thirteen miles long and ten wide, only double the size of Manchester.
Renewing her faith in the Greeks, a taxi driver kindly directed her to the bus.
One reason she’d chosen the villa in Tolmiros was because it was near a bus stop and Paros boasted an excellent public transport service, with white, air-conditioned coach-like vehicles that ran from around seven in the morning till midnight.
She was almost asleep when her short road journey ended.
Carrie yawned and dragged her rucksack off.
The bus left her standing in the middle of Tolmiros.
Wow, talk about Instagrammable! It looked exactly as it had on the Internet, with a hillside behind the busy centre, small white houses with blue shutters dotted across it, and behind her, downhill in the distance, the beach was visible.
Next to the bus stop was a glossy-leaved tree that she recognised from the photos she’d scrolled through online as one that grew pomegranates.
She stood in front of it, put on her best smile, and took a selfie.
Then Carrie strolled down the main street, taking photos on her phone, marvelling at the quaint architecture and a chapel with a blue dome and bell on top. A skinny grey cat trotted past.
Carrie bit her fingernail. Mustn’t worry about Boo.
She crossed the road and headed towards the sound of voices in the distance, past a pottery shop and small chemist. As the voices got louder, Carrie turned a corner and walked into the middle of a market with stallholders shouting to stop passers-by and barter.
One woman manning a handbag stall beckoned to Carrie and waved a black and white handwoven one, with a gold fringe around the top.
It wouldn’t harm to browse. Carrie wasn’t a handbag person, but this was a fresh start. She took out her notebook. ‘Um… Poso?’ she asked.
The woman answered very quickly, pointing to the pockets inside, pulling at the strap.
Carrie shrugged, so the woman wrote down the price.
Not bad! Carrie put down her rucksack and handed over some of the currency she’d got in the Athens airport.
Flicking farther through her notebook, she walked on until she came to a stall selling olives, in front of a coffee shop.
Oh, yes please, caffeine. That would give her the energy to walk up the hillside to the villa that Google Maps said wasn’t too far on foot, so she wouldn’t bother waiting for another bus.
She studied her scribbles for how to ask for a latte.
Inside, elderly men played backgammon and cards, and drank small cups of the strongest, thickest coffee.
Ahead of her in the queue was a policeman, in a black shirt and cap.
Ahead of him a tall man, with curly dark hair, picked up his freshly made drink and turned around to catch sight of Carrie with her notebook.
‘You again?’ he snapped. ‘Are you following me now?’ He rolled his eyes that held a darkness he clearly wanted no one to penetrate. ‘I. Am Not. Interested. Never will be.’
‘Following you?’ Carrie said. ‘Wow, that’s some ego. And interested in what?’
With a look of disdain, slowly his eyes swept over her, up and down.
Carrie’s cheeks burned. ‘You think I want to…?’
‘Don’t bother denying it.’
How dare he! Maybe the sun had gone to his head, but then he appeared confident and in control, the sunglasses perched on his head now, the white shirt open to the navel of his tanned torso.
This wasn’t a man who’d be short of female attention.
Because of that, he must have super high standards.
She almost laughed out loud at the expression she could imagine on Rae’s face if she were here with this total idiot.
He gave off strong, stand-offish Mr Darcy vibes.
Darcy. That awful night in The Niterie. God, Carrie missed her besties.
The policeman who had thick black eyebrows and a moustache that looked like a third one, with arms that betrayed hours at the gym, said something in Greek to the man who waved a hand in the air.
‘No, it is okay, my friend. Thank you, Ajax, I’ll handle this.’ Another death glare at Carrie. ‘But if I see you again, I’ll have no option but to call the police.’ He pushed past her and stopped at a table outside.
He didn’t get to have the last word! Yes, she was following him now, but that was to put him right.
She touched his arm and he turned around, staring at her fingers on his elbow.
She jerked them away, heat rising up her body as they stood inches apart, as if the sun were shining up from the ground.
His nostrils flared, and that tanned chest heaved.
Under any other circumstances, he could have been a Regency hero, and she had to fight the pull to stand closer and breathe in his citrus and oregano scent.
But true heroes didn’t have an ego the size of that chapel’s dome and an arrogance strong enough to knock an aeroplane off course.
His face almost broke into something softer at her touch, but recovered itself quickly. Carrie must have imagined it. ‘I’m not who you think I am,’ he barked, with a heavier Greek accent.
‘Nor am I!’ she said and threw her hands in the air.
It was at that point she realised, with horror, that she’d left her rucksack in the middle of the marketplace.
Carrie let out a squeal, this pompous idiot forgotten.
She charged back to the handbag stall, accidentally knocking his drink out of his hands as she left, which resulted in a very loud Greek expletive.