Chapter 19
CARRIE
Carrie tried so hard to go to bed and get a few hours’ sleep and did drop off briefly, at one point, dreaming about yachts sailing on an oh-so-blue sea, their big triangular sails exactly like giant Doritos, the password Dimitrios had given her to get into his party.
Eventually she got up, made coffee and went outside onto the balcony to think, like she used to back in Reddish, sitting in her backyard stroking Boo.
Not possible. Dimitrios could not be that overinflated, ego-driven pop star.
She googled on her phone. No, Doritos was not a common nickname – not a nickname at all – in Greece or anywhere else.
Anyone with half a brain knew there was no such thing as coincidences.
It had to be the same person. But how could he be so different via text?
Was the friendliness, the charm, the humour, a false face to keep the money coming in?
Why would a globally successful singer need to earn extra money renting out a property? Owning a bar did make more sense.
So many questions. What was the truth about him?
Carrie had intended to a take a photo from the balcony, for her new account, which would reflect her super glamorous life now… but these thoughts about false faces… It wasn’t as if she had a Ferrari or bulging bank account to back up the image she’d projected online.
She felt nothing but distrust now for Dimitrios, or Giannis or Doritos, whoever he was. That was how Ariana and Rae must have felt when they’d discovered Carrie had been posting on Insta under a different name.
She gulped down more caffeine as an email notification came on her phone. She put her drink on the ornate metal coffee table, its top patterned with a mosaic of tiles, and tapped on the text.
Hello Carrie,
Keep me posted about your Greek Adonis!
As for Jez – well, George Michael was a Greek Cypriot. But my Adonis? My Bad Boy or my Young Gun? Do I wish I’d met him Last Christmas? Am I up for Fastlove?
No!
I’m more suited to my Freedom.
Take care,
Eliza x
Carrie laughed. Eliza really was pretty cool. But then why should that be a surprise? Jane Fonda was even older, in her eighties, and ace in that Netflix series, and still an activist; then there was Cher, who was almost as old and just as amazing.
Not being afraid of taking on a challenge.
Perhaps that was the secret to having that zest for life at any age.
In that spirit, Carrie came to a decision.
She would go to Dimitrios’s party, find out his true identity and put an end, once and for all, to the ridiculous notion that she was some stalker.
She went to the wardrobe and pulled out a dress she’d bought one very hot summer in Manchester, white and green with a palm floral print, short, and low at the back with a round neck.
She paired it with sandals and a small white handbag, one of the last presents Mum had given her.
Mum used to tease Carrie about only ever using a rucksack.
The great thing about Tolmiros was that she was able to walk everywhere – to the beach, to the town, to shop, to have coffee.
A swim was next on her list, then she’d go farther afield; she was keen to visit Parikia, the capital and main port of Paros.
Originally she’d assumed it would be easy to pick up work there.
But she wouldn’t worry about her finances, not today.
Live for the moment had been the motto for her, Ariana and Rae.
She missed her friends’ advice and as a poor second, simply tried to imagine what they’d suggest for dealing with Dimitrios – or whoever he was.
Rae would suggest to kick him where it hurt for lying and demand an answer.
Ariana would go down the practical route and ask if Dimitrios was a false identity so that he could rent out a property without paying tax.
Tell him to get Ajax and the police off your back, otherwise you’ll flag him up to the tax authorities, she’d suggest.
Carrie had set up her fake name because something was missing, a vacuum she’d reckoned likes and follows would fill. Was there a more emotional reason than tax as to why this man had several identities?
Or maybe he was just a jerk.
Her stomach turned. Maybe Carrie Fletcher had been a jerk as well, pretending to be Carrie Away and now Carrie Crusoe.
Squinting in the sun as she neared the bottom of the hillside, the sky overhead as blue as the butterflies fluttering nearby, Carrie cursed herself for forgetting to bring her sunglasses.
She stopped as a stray cat approached, skinny as the others she’d seen and limping.
It was as black as night and stood out against the sandy earth.
What she hadn’t forgotten was to bring a handful of chunks of cheese.
Despite her smart dress, she sat down on a nearby dirt path and made clucking voices.
She held out her hand. The cat raised its nose in the air and came closer.
She’d intended to take a photograph, a humble brag online about what a good person she was. Instead she simply spoke to it gently.
‘Hello, you. How about a little snack? My mum used to love cheese. Had it on everything – toast, pasta, baked beans, even roast potatoes on Christmas Day.’ Mum had got Boo from a rescue centre. She didn’t believe in buying cats from humans who’d bred them, only from those who found them abandoned.
The cat waited politely for her to stop talking.
Carrie was surprised how friendly and calm the strays were, given the tough life they led.
Yet she knew that even her beloved Boo, like humans, could get irritable and swipe out.
Stray cats could carry diseases and parasites.
She sat very still trying to judge the cat’s temperament.
It walked right up to her hand, sniffed her fingers and watched as she dropped the cheese, squidgy now with the heat, onto a clump of grass.
Hungrily, it chomped it down and looked expectantly at her.
Carrie grinned. She gazed at its paw as the cat lay down, writhing as if to scratch its back in the dirt.
A female cat. There wasn’t any blood. Nor a thorn she could pull out.
Perhaps the animal had jumped and sprained it by falling badly.
Tentatively, Carrie gave the cat a stroke whilst seagulls squawked overhead, as if knowing there was cheese to be had.
Mum always said that the most important thing to a cat was its dignity.
Treat it like an object or an idiot and face the consequences.
Carrie left a couple of chunks of cheese on the ground and then continued her journey after rubbing her hands with the anti-bacterial hand gel in her bag that she took everywhere with her – a leftover habit from the pandemic.
She walked through the bustling town and onto the dusty road that led to the beach.
It was a quarter past midday and piano notes wafted out from The Bar, against the background lilt of gentle turquoise waves lapping on sand.
A security guard, in black shorts and a black T-shirt, with a lanyard around his neck, stood at the gate, the only opening in the low hedge that surrounded the outside tables on the decking.
Carrie walked up to him and the man raised his eyebrows and folded his arms, perspiration glistening on his brow.
‘No tourists today,’ he said with a thick Greek accent.
Carrie’s pale skin and blonde hair gave her away.
‘Doritos,’ she said, feeling stupid. How her friends would have howled with laughter.
She missed them so much. Had to win them back. Later on today she’d reach out.
The man’s face cleared. ‘Apologies,’ he said and stood back.
Giannis… Dimitrios… wasn’t outside so she took a deep breath and went inside, greeted by the aroma of spices and herbs, and the pretty garden interior with foliage and fairy lights.
A woman played the piano in the corner, surrounded by a crowd who were singing along and clapping whilst a tall man danced.
Lithe. Rhythmic. Chestnut hair bouncing to every beat.
A tanned face crinkled with amusement. Carrie stood transfixed.
The song ended and several grey-haired women hugged him, men clapped his back, and he swung a small child in the air.
He turned around, pure joy on his face, until he noticed Carrie.
He made his excuses to the crowd and headed over.
Carrie snapped out of staring and pursed her lips. ‘So it’s true,’ she said as they stood away from the bar. ‘You have two identities. Which is for real?’ She remembered his scent; citrus, oregano. It must have been an aftershave made in Greece.
‘No idea how you got in,’ he muttered and rubbed his head. ‘I’m sorry you’ve had a tough time back in England, but what’s it going to take for you to understand that—’
She held up her hand. Time to take control. ‘Who are you? Giannis? Or Dimitrios?’
‘I don’t owe you any explanation,’ he said in a firm tone. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve given you enough chances. Ajax will take you to the station.’ He took out his phone.
‘Dimitrios, let me introduce myself – I’m your tenant. Carrie.’
He looked up.
‘Ta-ra, chuck,’ she said.
Dimitrios stood back. ‘Carrie? From Manchester? You booked a few weeks ago saying you wanted to stay for a few months? All very efficient and—’
‘And completely sane? Yes. That’s me. The woman at the airport who simply wanted directions to the bus stop, who then bumped into you accidentally…
Sorry about your shirt and the coffee – I’d left my rucksack in the market.
So who am I talking to? The astoundingly big-headed pop star or the friendly, helpful landlord? ’
He sat down and put his head in his hands. Carrie sat opposite him. Good. He felt like a fool. Bad. She felt an urge to run her fingers through those thick curls.
‘You must think me a complete loser,’ he muttered.