Chapter 6
THE PENTHOUSE SUITE, HOTEL MARGARITáRI, AVLAKI
It wasn’t the most impressive place Kostas had ever stayed, but he had to admit the suite was nice.
The décor was neutral coloured, the walls were bright white and it was spotlessly clean.
But there were other elements he didn’t much care for.
Cushions on the bed – the bohemian style that was trying to be modern yet also a nostalgic throwback – and a macrame wall-hanging that was screaming cosy chic.
He had taken that off the wall, gathered the cushions and put them inside the spacious wardrobe so he didn’t have to look at them.
He never found so-called home comforts comforting.
He liked simple. Still, once he got his ambitious plan for the area underway there would be no décor to think about apart from one he had employed someone to create from his vision.
It would take time but that was good. It was as much about taking time as it was about the end game.
The career he’d strived for had been cut short and he was still suffering from that, physically and mentally.
This plan was the counterweight to that.
He needed this project, to make things right, to get justice for his father, and he needed to make a bold statement with it.
He slammed his hand down on the table he was sitting at on the terrace, ending a mosquito.
There was a view of the sea, dark skies now, stars twinkling, a few spots of light from the tavernas on the beach.
Corfu. Kerkyra. He was going to make the island he despised dance to his tune…
The doorbell rang and he jumped, thoughts scattering in his brain.
Ah, the fruit basket. He checked his watch.
It was late. Leaving the terrace, he moved through the suite to the door and opened it.
There was no one there. Then his eyes dropped to the tiled floor.
A basket, but there was no fruit. He picked it up, parcels wrapped in paper. They smelled like meat. Gyros?
He hurried along the walkway towards the steps. There was a retreating figure in the shadows. ‘Hey! Wait!’
The figure stopped and then turned around. A woman. A mountain of curly dark hair on her head. Not Mrs Lawson.
‘You are not Christoforos Papakaliatis,’ the woman stated.
‘You are not Mrs Lawson.’
‘No, I am Katerina.’ Suddenly the woman’s eyes widened and Kostas knew what was coming. ‘And you… you are Konstantinos Petsas!’
He held up the basket. ‘And this is not the fruit I asked for.’
‘Oh my God!’ Katerina continued, a hand at each side of her face now. ‘You are our basketball legend! The hero of Corfu! My brother, he had a jersey with your name across the back, it is too small for him now but—’
The hero of Corfu. Yes, he knew that’s what these people thought he was, claiming him like some god-like warrior for their island because he was born here, lived the first years of his life here. He despised it – shrank from it.
He pushed the basket back to Katerina. ‘Take this back to Mrs Lawson and tell her I want the fruit basket she promised me.’
Katerina frowned. ‘You do not like gyros? I am sure you were in an advertisement for them once. You bounced it around like a ball and the basket was an animation of a big Greek mouth.’
‘Did you hear what I said?’ He was angry and it was spilling out of him. He needed to keep that in check. It was better to pretend to be everybody’s friend rather than make enemies at this critical first stage.
‘Yes,’ Katerina answered. ‘But, Faye, she has gone to bed and—’
Faye. That was Mrs Lawson’s first name.
‘Endaksi. OK. So, I will take this back and you will tell me where I can find her so I can make my complaint.’
‘Well… I don’t know if—’
‘And if you bring me your brother’s too-small jersey I will sign it for him.’
He knew Katerina’s demeanour would change instantly at that offer, and it did.
‘OK,’ she answered. ‘I suppose you are our very important guest and—’
‘Kala. Good.’
* * *
It was humid tonight and the rotating pedestal fan was noisily pushing around the air in a bid to cool down Faye’s apartment.
She’d finished no more than thirty minutes ago – a whole host of online reporting she’d had to do and an awkward phone call with the manager of one of the taxi companies.
But now she was here in the peace, cooler, skin enriched with olive oil and pistachio moisturiser, lounged out in nothing more than a thin cotton vest top that skirted her upper thighs – blissful release from the smart attire of hotel manager.
And then there was a knock on the door. She jolted out of her five minutes of calm and sat up thinking maybe she had imagined the interruption. And then there was a second thump.
Barefooted, she made her way across the tiles to the door. ‘Nai?’
‘Ypiresía domatíou.’
Room service? Who was bringing her room service? She cautiously opened the door. The first thing she saw was a basket she recognised.
‘Kalispéra, Mrs Lawson,’ Kostas greeted, the basket swinging from one of his large hands. ‘Now, I am Greek, I know how much gyros is an important dietary supplement, but the last time I checked, nothing about it constituted fruit.’
What was he doing at her front door? How did he even know where her front door was? It had to be down to Katerina. So eager to help when Faye had suggested how surprised she would be to see who the VIP was and alluding to Maestro in Blue.
‘My apologies, Mr Petsas. At the late hour of your request there was nowhere to achieve a package of fine fruits and, thinking on my feet, assuming that hunger management was the ultimate aim, I opted for this option.’
He didn’t immediately reply and she watched his gaze drift from her eyes down her body to where the vest top stopped and beyond.
What was he doing looking at her like that?
No doubt wondering how inappropriate the clothing was for a hotel manager.
But she was a hotel manager off duty and in her own home…
He cleared his throat. ‘Have you eaten today?’
The question threw her. ‘I… had half a packet of Lays at lunchtime.’ Why had she confessed to that?
‘Then the answer is no. éla. We will share these.’ He turned away and made like he was going to retreat down the path. Was she meant to follow him?
‘Really, there’s no need to—’ Her protest was cut off.
‘Mrs Lawson, today you have threatened me with a waste bin containing a snake that you made disappear and now you have failed to provide me with a request for fruit. I can only assume that this is all down to your own lack of energy and that needs to be remedied. And I am a VIP guest so you have to do what I ask. éla.’ This time he beckoned with his free hand.
She looked to her bare feet. Was she really going to go with him? To where?
But for some reason, she was already grabbing her phone and moving towards her flip-flops.