Chapter 34
THIRTY-FOUR
In the taxi, on my way in to see Harriet, I hear Ping!
Frank.
He has finally replied to the text I sent him this morning. The Are you angry with me? text.
He writes: No.
Harriet is looking brighter now, perhaps because she knows she’s getting out of here in an hour. We talk about her dad’s visit, and she says she hasn’t got the energy right now to go on being angry with him.
‘I think we maybe have to talk about going home,’ I say, as I perch on the end of her bed. I have to start looking into booking flights and getting airline credits for our US ones.
‘Oh,’ she says, flatly, and stares off across the room.
‘I know it’s not what you want to hear,’ I tell her, ‘but the doctor said it could take up to six weeks for you to fully recover. We can’t risk you going back to America and having some sort of relapse and needing health care, and us learning that the insurance sees it as a pre-existing condition and denies it.’
I try not to see her face fold. ‘It’s all so practical. Insurance, pre-existing this and that. Gah… It leaves so much out.’
‘I know,’ I tell her. ‘It doesn’t mean forever. But for now, we’d be best to run home to the safety of the NHS in case we need it.’
‘But what am I going to do about all my stuff? I have to pack up my dorm. Everything’s still over there. Yours too.’
‘I know.’ I tell her I can probably extend my Airbnb lease for a bit until we work it all out. ‘We can find a way for one of us to get back there to pack up once we get home and get you fully better.’
‘So you’re going back to Dad?’
I can’t quite read her tone. She doesn’t exactly sound aghast or disparaging, which makes me wonder if it was what she wanted deep down. If Aiden was right. ‘Harriet, right now, I’m going back to England because it’s my home. Yours, too. For now we just have to crack on with it for practical reasons, and do the best we can.’
She doesn’t add anything, just stares off across the room again. I know she’s grappling with the fact that this has big consequences for her and Aiden.
‘I’ve made a mess of everything, haven’t I?’ she says.
I frown. ‘Mess? No.’
‘I have. You’re just too kind to let me have it.’
I want to stay in the moment, but I find myself staring an inch past her head, picturing Frank and me treading that water. When he went under then popped back up – unlike the lost city of Atlantis – his eyes holding on to mine. His eyes forcing me to confront all the things that neither of us could say.
‘Mum?’
‘Sorry.’ I try a smile.
She smiles too now. ‘I just want to say thank you for always being there for me. For being you.’
I struggle not to choke up. ‘Don’t be silly.’ I give her a cuddle. ‘I’ll be there for you until my dying day, and even longer if I can swing it. That’s what mothers are for.’ I tell her I’m going to text her dad and Aiden and they can come in, and then we can get her out of here.
‘You won’t miss California?’ she asks as I pull out my phone.
It sounds so final. I suddenly see my beautiful loft, the palm trees, my beach walks, my sunset bike rides. My favourite place for coffee and cake. All the things I’ve started to love without knowing I was loving them. All the things that weren’t mine to want in the first place. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Of course. But I don’t belong in America.’
And I see Frank. How can I not see Frank blazing in my mind’s eye? I think of the easy way we can talk. His libidinous way of looking at me. His kindness when he said that thing about getting Harriet a second opinion, even though he was angry with me; how he took charge like he cared – not like he felt he had to. How we connected sexually, like I’ve never known before. How he lives a million miles away. In a country where I have no status beyond that of a tourist.
Not mine to want in the first place.
We manage to act like civilised human beings as we escort Harriet out of the hospital and into a people-carrier taxi. The only person missing is Frank, who doesn’t respond to my text asking if he wants to come with us. Perhaps it was thoughtless of me to suggest it.
When we arrive back at my hotel, Harriet decides she’d like to go on with Aiden, to theirs. They go on in the taxi, and Rupert gets out with me.
‘Here we are again,’ he says. The unspoken lyrics to a song beat there, only we’re not happy as can be, nor are we good pals enjoying jolly good company.
‘’K, then,’ I say, and I turn to head down the hotel steps.
‘What? Where are you going?’ He sounds slightly exasperated. ‘Can’t we go for dinner, given we didn’t exactly eat any lunch? You’re surely not just going to go off and leave me to my own devices?’ He’s practically whimpering like an abandoned puppy. I tell him, look, sorry but I’m insanely tired, that this has felt like a month in one day, that I’m going to take a nap and then maybe we can turn out later for a bite. As soon as I suggest maybe getting together later, I regret it. But I tell him I’ll text him.
I stand and watch him as he walks up the road to his hotel. There is something remotely metaphorical about seeing him go on his way. Something vaguely astonishing to me to think that this moment could be marking out the point where our lives go off in separate directions, even if I do have to return to England. I watch him until he disappears through a door. And then I disappear through mine.
I text Frank when I get back to the hotel, telling him we all disbanded and I’ve gone back to my room. I’m lying on my bed, asking myself would a guy really get the woman he’d had sex with to go on camera and deny having had sex with him? Surely they’d both have to be certifiably mad? So maybe he didn’t screw her.
Then Frank replies.
Do you want to go get some raki?
I type back: The liver is willing but the flesh is weak.
The dots come instantly.
Meet your liver downstairs in ten?
I smile, wishing I could feel something other than utterly joyless.
We wander downhill again, towards Fira. The commercial centre is bustling but lacks charm; we search around for a bit trying to find some. I tell him I’m going to have to change the return portion of my ticket and go back to England with Harriet. I explain my insurance fears if Harriet goes back to the US before she’s fully better. About how my first consideration has to be her. I wait for him to comment but he stays silent.
‘It’s a big consideration for us,’ I say, when I can’t handle his lack of response any longer. ‘Maybe it wouldn’t be to you, but a denied insurance claim could bankrupt us.’
‘Sure,’ he says, noncommittally.
I decide to let it drop because I don’t want us to end up in an argument.
I am more desperate than ever for a drink now, though. In answer to my prayers, I spot what looks like a tiny bar down a sliver of a cobbled side street. A big black cat sits on the corner like he’ll usher us into a speakeasy if we just give him the right nod.
The door is actually locked when we get up to it. ‘Oh,’ we groan together. I throw up my hands. ‘Fate is telling me I should maybe just head back to my room,’ I say. I am feeling churlish.
He frowns. ‘Don’t believe in it. There’s what you make happen and what you don’t.’ He grabs my hand a little roughly, draws me back down the alley to the main drag. We pass a buzzy commercial strip – three or four shops selling all manner of gold jewellery, a tacky souvenir shop hawking casts of Greek gods, a vendor smoking outside. Between them, a kiosk emits the scent of rosemary and charred meat.
The smell is so tantalising, I am suddenly ravenous. We order two lamb gyros – tender, fragrant shavings on a bed of cold tzatziki, sweet tomatoes and onions, wrapped in a soft pitta with a few chips fresh from the fryer sticking up like flags, and we devour them standing against a wall.
‘Tomorrow is Saturday,’ I find myself saying, when we start walking again. ‘The wedding day that wasn’t.’
He huffs, mirthlessly. ‘All that scheming. Putting our worst selves forward.’
‘You didn’t really have to rejig your entire security system so Aiden wouldn’t ever be able to prove it was you who nicked his passport, did you?’
‘Would I lie to you?’
I settle for shaking my head. But then whatever little bit of humour I have managed to muster quickly drains out of me.
‘Stop worrying,’ he tells me. When I frown, he says, ‘She’s going to be fine. Aiden will take good care of her. You can pretty much bet he’s going to be the world’s best boyfriend now.’
‘How did you know I was thinking about Harriet?’
‘Because I know you.’
I contemplate this. The idea of being known by him. How much pause those four little words can give a person.
‘I wish we were off this damned cold island,’ I say.
‘Well, we will be soon enough.’
We meet eyes, for a long time, drawing out the unsaid.
‘I feel a complicated conversation coming,’ I say. ‘Can we not talk about deep stuff right now? We always talk about deep stuff.’
‘What other stuff is there to talk about?’
‘There must be something.’
‘Maybe for some people. But that’s not how we’re wired.’
We.
‘We could talk about our favourite colours, or our recurring dreams,’ I say.
‘Do you have recurring dreams?’
‘Just the one where I’m on safari. I’m sleeping in this tiny tent and this massive lion decides he’s going to maul me, and I have to keep dodging this enormous paw coming down.’ I do my best lion pawing someone to death impersonation. ‘And I’m caught between feeling like I’m outmanoeuvring him, and knowing it’s a challenge I won’t win.’
He shakes his head at me.
‘Silence, then,’ I say. ‘Silence is golden, remember.’ We resume walking. My hand close to his hand, like a conversation in itself.
He looks at me, wistfully. ‘Any silence shared with you is pretty good, Moira Fitzgerald.’
It’s the blast of loud music off in the distance that we hear first. Voices and laughter. Rambunctious. Fun.
Frank hears it at the exact same time. ‘Hmm. What’s going on? Shall we go see?’ Somewhere in the last little while he has taken hold of my hand. We follow the pied piper, a winding trail through unpopulated alleyways, around wind-blasted corners. Past cats, and then an elderly man and his son fixing the ripped blue and white awning above his doorstep, the son trying to snag a hold of it as it billows like a sail. It looks like it’s really all just houses, sugar cube after white sugar cube, but the music and the voices are growing louder. It would be defeatist to turn back now.
Then, suddenly, around a bend… here we are. Into a square that has a single restaurant jammed between two enormous cypress trees strung with fairy lights. A throng of people, maybe a hundred of them. Guys in suits. Gorgeous girls in glamorous dresses and stilettos. Older couples seated at tables, smoking.
‘A wedding!’ I chirp when I spot the bride and groom.
‘Jesus,’ Frank says. ‘Someone needs to warn them not to do it.’
‘By the looks of things, it might be too late.’ We hang back by the tree, trying to be inconspicuous.
The groom and his three groomsmen are performing their version of the Zorba the Greek dance. Arms outstretched and hands on shoulders, they step slowly at first in six-point formation to the assertive strum of the bouzouki; well-timed kicks and dips, they jump and turn while the crowd claps to the thrum of their steps. The pace picks up; the steps become more complicated. The groom throws himself into the dance for all he’s worth. It all builds to a frenetic climax along with the clapping and cheering.
Someone spots us. A Greek lady in a purple taffeta dress. Her face bursts into the biggest smile and she boogies over to us with arms wide open. She tells us she’s Sophia, the groom’s mother. Stavros is his name, and his bride is Athena. She asks us ours, then asks if we’re married. I say, ‘No,’ right as Frank says, ‘Very much so.’ He sends me the saucy side-eye.
‘Join us!’ Sophia gestures to the floor. She takes hold of Frank’s hand and starts tugging him. He looks back at me and fakes a cry for help. Sophia parts a sea of outstretched arms, hands gripping shoulders, and deposits him bang in the middle.
Frank throws his hands up at me, shrugs.
Sophia starts teaching him the nine key steps of the Greek dance, counting them out – one, two, three, four. The crowd makes way for them, not seeming to mind the American interloper who has pretty much zero sense of rhythm. Sophia takes great pains to see that he does them properly, until he can take them from the top and perform them seamlessly on his own. Some of the older folk at a nearby table wave me over but I laugh them off, and hope that’s the end of it.
But then I am spotted by the man himself. The groom is bounding towards me, his charm and enthusiasm as overwhelming as his frame.
‘Welcome, English tourist!’ he says. He’s handsome. His smile is genuine, and he smells of strong cologne. He drops a big arm around my shoulder and says, ‘I think your husband is missing you!’
Before I can muster up an objection, I too am led to the dance floor. But instead of giving me a lesson, he hands me off into Frank’s arms. ‘Do you like Greek music?’ he asks, dunking a big hand on Frank’s shoulder now. Then he leans in and says, pretend-privately, ‘At Greek wedding we have to play Greek music for all these old dears, but English music is my favourite!’ His face is bright and shiny from sweat. His English is excellent. ‘Wait!’ he says. ‘I have a song for you… I’m going to play a song for you, okay.’ He takes off, looking very purposeful.
I grit my teeth and say to Frank, ‘If it’s Lionel Ritchie I’m going to lose the will to live.’
He beams. ‘My money’s on Michael Bolton.’ Then he croons, ‘How am I supposed to live without you…’
‘Please God, no!’
Stavros has bounded over to an enormous sound system. One of his drunk groomsmen tries to clamber onto his back. A moment or two later, and Stavros has shut down the Greek music, and everyone who is dancing, stops. Practically kissing the microphone, he says, in his best I fancy myself as a radio broadcaster voice: ‘I want to take this moment to play favourite English song.’ He turns and addresses us. ‘For very special, very beautiful English couple…’
I plant my face in Frank’s armpit. The song starts up. A long musical intro with a hard, pulsing beat that gathers frenetic speed. I don’t recognise it. And by the knit of his brows neither does Frank. We wait a bit longer.
But then…
Oh. My God.
It is no longer unfamiliar. Not unfamiliar at all.
It’s horribly… Horrifyingly…
‘I Touch Myself?’ I shriek. ‘By the bloody Divinyls?’
Ground, swallow me up!
Frank throws his head back and laughs. ‘Oh boy! What were the chances? I haven’t heard this song in thirty years!’ I have never seen him find anything so amusing. He snatches hold of my hand. ‘Okay. Let’s do this, baby.’ He spins me so I go flying to the end of his reach, then he draws me back hard against his chest, twirls me lavishly under his arm. The crowd erupts in cheers. It’s definitely a catchy song – if you don’t know what the damned lyrics are. The groom is really digging the dirty chorus, shaking his imaginary maracas above his head, throwing his pelvis at it for all he’s worth.
I try to dance and pretend it really isn’t a song about a woman having to play with herself every time she thinks about her fella. But it takes some serious delusion.
‘I think she wrote it just for you,’ Frank says and launches a big smile. ‘She did, didn’t she? Admit it. You’re practically singing all the words.’
‘This is the most mortifying moment of my entire life,’ I say, with gritted teeth, when I land back against his chest.
He laughs. ‘How did you get to be such a prude?’ His hand grips my hot one, and he twirls me again.
‘Do you suppose they were a one-hit wonder?’ I ask. ‘Please tell me yes.’
Once Frank has exhausted his two-trick-pony moves, we eventually give up trying to stay in step, and Frank just holds me and rocks me in his arms.
‘If you tell me it’s got two more verses I will end my life,’ I say.
Frank flicks his head at the groom who is still having a great time getting it on with himself. ‘Stavros isn’t going to run out of juice any time soon.’
We chuckle.
Dance of shame done. We say goodbye to our new friends, then meander our way back through the tight maze of tiny streets, the music and laughter fading behind us, replaced with the high-pitched buzzing of cicadas. ‘You do know I’ll never be able to hear that shitty song again without thinking of you, right?’ he says.
‘Good job it doesn’t come on the radio very often, then!’ I say, my cheeks still flaming with embarrassment. Then I add, ‘Do you know I’ve never actually seen Zorba the Greek ?’
He squeezes my hand. ‘Nice deflection!’
I try not to smile.
But then he stops. ‘Are you serious about not having seen Zorba the Greek ?’
I pretend to frown. ‘I am.’
‘Well, then, we must remedy that.’ He pulls out his phone. ‘You need a little cultural enrichment,’ he says. ‘Especially after that dose of public humiliation.’
We seem to have meandered back to the main square. Frank stands still, engrossed in his search. I watch his big, tanned hands, the neat half-moons of his nails, the expression of concentration on his face. ‘’K. Found it.’ Instead of passing the phone to me, he draws me close, so I have to tuck into him. He presses play.
The scene begins with Alan Bates standing on a beach and saying to Anthony Quinn, ‘Teach me to dance.’ And Anthony Quinn says, ‘Dance? Did you say dance?’ And he rips off his suit jacket, rolls his sleeves up, and says, ‘Come on, my boy!’
And the rest is history. Or it is to everyone who has seen the movie.
We watch the short clip of them frolicking to their own made-up steps on the sand. Then Frank clicks off.
‘It’s priceless!’ I trill.
His gaze combs over my face. ‘The movie’s about finding joy in even the most trying times, Moira.’ Then he smiles. ‘Just to put you in the picture. Because you haven’t seen the whole thing.’
His hand drops away from my shoulders and finds my waist. A negligible distance travelled, but it feels like an earthquake affecting several continents.
‘I like that,’ I say.
‘I like it too,’ he replies. And I have no idea what it is we’re agreeing on.
‘It’s been a very weird day,’ I say.
We have arrived back at the hotel. Something about the peaceful view from the pool deck, literally nothing moving except for the reflection of the moon on the water, makes us pause there before going inside. Something is building, brewing between us. I can sense it. But I can’t shake it free.
And then he looks at me and says, ‘Moira…’
‘Frank.’ I get in there first because I can’t stand the gravity in his tone, in his expression. ‘I thought we were only doing light conversation. I feel this is not going to be light conversation.’
‘I thought we decided we have zero capacity to do light conversation.’
I stare out at the cliffside, at the pink, blue and white fondant hotels and houses that are as surreal to me as this situation, almost. All these crucial threads just seem to end in such complicated knots. The fact that I am here in Santorini, and Rupert is here in Santorini. But I am not with Rupert. I am with Frank. But I am not really with Frank. And God knows what I am with Rupert. I can hardly process it all.
‘Go on,’ I say.
This time, I know we are not back in Athens outside that hotel room door. Frank does not have analysis paralysis any more.
Nor are we back in that hot tub where he’s trying to work around saying the thing that’s bugging him.
Whatever he’s about to say is not going to be difficult for him.