Chapter 8
A door slams, a few minutes of silence follows before the buzz from Dad’s electric shaver starts. I guess no one’s a fan of a lie-in?
The cat clearly isn’t because he’s scratching my door, waiting to be let in.
Zorba apparently likes to sleep in my room, specifically on top of my wardrobe, a habit I wish Mum had mentioned last night.
Instead, I’d found out at three in the morning when he’d jumped down with an almighty thud and given me the fright of my life.
Cats are supposed to be light-footed, but Zorbs obviously didn’t get the memo.
He’s a hefty beast – black and white, with angelic green eyes, but Jesus, he’s grumpy.
I’d got up to let him out, but it had taken me ages to fall asleep again.
And now he’s outside again, scratching to be let in as if I’ve outstayed my welcome in our weird human/feline bedroom timeshare.
He lets out a long meow that ends up like a growl. No one keeps Zorba waiting.
Well, he can bloody wait now.
I turn over and try to coax myself back to sleep. Except, I really need to pee, and the click of the lock means Dad’s finished with the bathroom.
Zorba howls from outside the door in a way that suggests he’s being murdered; that someone is callously committing a cat-o-cide on the landing carpet.
I pull my pillow over my head so I don’t have to listen to him and squeeze my legs together to appease my bladder.
I can’t believe I’m risking a UTI by playing chicken with a cat.
I last exactly twelve seconds before I get up with a huff and open the door.
He sits there, feigning nonchalance, his tail a perfect C around his feet.
I haven’t lived with a cat for years, but I know that if I start closing the door, he’ll immediately dart in.
And, true to form, he does exactly that.
The lure of the forbidden wins every time – there’s a lesson there but not one I want to think about right now.
I used to relish having Sunday mornings to myself.
Rich had started marathon training, and I was left to potter around the flat feeling cosy, basking in his second-hand exercise.
Was this new fitness regime a red flag? Renewed interest in grooming is common when a partner is having an affair or tempted by one.
Or did he genuinely want to improve his fitness?
He’d been saying he wanted to do a marathon for a while, especially after he turned 36 – the realisation that he was closer to 40 than 30 hit him unexpectedly hard.
A man who worries his youth is slipping away – another red flag.
Pen has gone to see Tig and my parents are about to go to church. Being by myself doesn’t appeal, so when Mum asks half-heartedly if I’d like to go to Mass with them, I shock everyone – including myself – by not refusing.
‘Will I know anyone there?’
I’ve got a few friends from Greek school who occasionally go to church, but I suspect it’s less about spiritual devotion and more to do with getting their kids into the local C of E primary.
‘Androulla might be there,’ says Mum. ‘It’s the anniversary of her grandmother’s death.’
It amazes me that Mum can not only remember everyone’s birthday but also the memorial dates for the deaths of friends and family.
She probably hasn’t spoken to Androulla for ten years, but she somehow retains the knowledge that Androulla’s grandmother, Vasiliki, died twenty-odd years ago this week.
Ask her to recall her Ocado password without writing it on a receipt sellotaped to the fridge, and she’ll act like you asked her to memorise the phonebook.
A Greek mother’s memory is a funny thing.
‘You know, thinking about it you should definitely come,’ she adds. Her face has ulterior motive written all over it.
‘What are you concocting, Mum?’
‘I’m not co-cocting anything.’ She looks affronted. ‘But I just remembered that Androulla’s older brother Sotiris is single now. His divorce came through last month.’
‘Why would I want to talk to Sotiris?’
She makes a ‘duh’ face. ‘I told you, he’s single now.’
She continues to look at me innocently. ‘Really, Mum? It hasn’t been forty-eight hours yet.’
‘I’m not asking you to marry him, just talk to him.’
‘He’s knocking on fifty, isn’t he?’
‘No, he’s forty-two. He looks older because he’s bald. And he has a slight stoop. Back in the village, they would have called him The Hairless Hunchback.’ She smiles as if this is a term of endearment.
Do not make the mistake of acquiring a nickname bestowed on you by a Cypriot.
I have an uncle who everyone calls Costas the Shit-Eater because back in the village when he was a toddler, he once tried to eat a tiny piece of chicken dropping.
It’s not right that he should be regretting that decision fifty years later.
Sometimes I think about offering the poor man counselling.
‘Leave her, Sophia,’ says Dad, coming to my rescue.
He jangles his keys and looks at his watch.
‘Come on, or the only seats left will be at the front, and if we’re too close to the priest, Bambos won’t be able to tell me about his hernia operation, before I have mine.
I’ve been looking forward to it all week. ’