Chapter 38
CARRIE
Carrie opened her eyes, yawned and reached for her phone.
The baking paper heart lay on her bedside table.
Silly really, that she’d wanted it there, but it had been a long time since she’d been shown such a unique romantic gesture.
Since Mum had died, she’d not had the headspace to contemplate a relationship, and previous to that, she was usually given chocolates or flowers – and she wasn’t ungrateful.
But this heart, cut out of paper… how personal.
It hit her, straight in the chest, and the pain made her flinch. Today’s date. She’d been trying to forget, even though it had been at the back of her mind all week, all summer, all year.
Carrie rolled over and buried her face in the pillow.
A quiet day, that was what she needed. No drama. No histrionics. There was no point. Wailing didn’t change anything.
And breathe.
She sat up. On with the day. Eliza hadn’t replied to her last email. Perhaps she was caught up with Jez. Carrie picked up her phone and typed, forcing herself to sound jovial.
Hi Eliza,
How’s it going with your boss? I hope you are keeping things purely professional, ha! Although I’m not one to talk. Strictly speaking I work for Dimitrios now, and the two of us might have crossed a line!
Look at us two, we’ve both started a new life, moved location, are making new friends, and have stumbled across potential romance.
I’m really glad you came into my life.
It’s not only because I’ve lost Ariana and Rae – and I’m working on mending that – it’s just so easy to talk about… about the stuff that matters, with you. Hope you feel the same.
Give Boo a scratch behind the ears from me.
Carrie x
She pressed send, had a shower, got dressed and forced down fruit and yogurt on the balcony.
Despite the date… despite missing Mum oh so very much… all was pretty good in her world.
It had been a long time since she’d thought those words.
Yes, she was gutted about her best friends, but her determination to win them back gave her purpose.
That was the worst thing when you were down…
not having a plan or passion. Like this time last year; for a while, Carrie drifted from day to day, like an untethered boat with no crew, no cargo, no compass, letting the waves and currents of life simply wash her in whichever direction they pleased.
Right now, she had a lot to be grateful for.
Carrie glanced at the guitar leaning against the mosaic-patterned table.
She’d got home from The Bar in the early hours and had carried on playing, under the moonlight, on a high after the applause she’d received.
Dimitrios had encouraged her to entertain the customers again towards the end of her shift.
The muscle memory was coming back, the confidence to ignore a wrong note if it meant getting the rhythm right, and she’d forgotten how she used to hunch over whilst playing.
That had always been a bad habit, with Mum warning her about neck and backache.
She picked up the instrument and strummed one of Mum’s favourites, ‘Never Going Back Again’ by Fleetwood Mac, her heart beating in time with the rhythm.
Mum never did go back to her parents. Perhaps that’s why the song resonated.
Carrie went on to strum an eclectic list of her old favourites – songs by Pink Floyd, The Beatles, Queen, The Rolling Stones and Oasis.
She found a sheet music website and refreshed her memory, amazed at how many tunes came back into her head, by George Ezra, Ed Sheeran, Adele, and Carly Rae Jepsen.
Lunchtime passed, mid-afternoon too. Her shoulders and fingers ached but she kept on playing, playing for herself, playing for Mum, totally lost in the world that used to be such an escape.
It reminded her of how, some nights, Mum had to physically remove the guitar from her room to stop her, as if it were the most addictive video game.
This dopamine hit had been missing, a natural high that made life’s problems that little bit less painful.
When she finally stopped, exhausted but sated, remembering how she used to have calluses on her hands from so much playing, Carrie held the guitar in her arms, thinking about her house back in Reddish and her very own guitar hanging in the bedroom that for so many years had hung unplayed, its beautiful voice muted.
Carrie took a long shower, trying to wash away the sadness that hung over today.
She had coffee with a slice of baklava. Her thoughts drifted to the fake Instagram accounts.
It had taken her the huge fallout with her friends, it had taken selling her old life, to realise that the only opinion that mattered was her own, and certainly not those of complete strangers.
Right at this minute, Carrie liked Carrie more than she had in a while, a woman who was brave, trying to make amends, volunteering and embracing change.
Noticing the time on her phone made her jump and she grabbed her bag and cycled into town, enjoying the cool sensation as she flew down a road as the humidity of the evening settled in.
Linden trees were blooming and as she passed, Carrie breathed in the honey fragrance of their lime blossoms. She’d agreed to meet Drago for dinner.
They had a lot to plan for this fundraising idea and he couldn’t meet during the day due to work.
He’d suggested a taverna in one of the small streets off the village centre that specialised in fish dishes.
It was a small building with wooden tables outside, ivy crawling up the white walls.
She parked up her bike and Drago arrived in his Gucci glasses and Lacoste shirt.
They sat down at one of the outside tables and before she could protest at his presumption, he’d ordered fish, a whole baked grouper with leeks for each of them – it sounded disgusting.
‘Nana… Ariana knows you are organising this with me,’ she started, making it clear that she wasn’t some ideas person who’d then step back and let someone else take over. ‘She’s fine as it’s for a good cause. After tonight I will fill her in with the details.’
He took off his glasses, raising his eyebrows. ‘Okay. So, dates—’
‘Nana has two that will work – that she has pinned her dad down to be there and judge. It’s not much notice but the weekend after next, Sunday nineteenth July.
Many of the locals go to church on a Sunday morning and finish there eleven to twelve.
We could put on the poster to make savoury bakes as well.
People could buy lunch from the stalls and eat them on the tables and chairs provided by Boosalis.
Sunday is a family day; Nana thinks many would happily come to a children’s bake fair after church. ’
Drago shrugged. ‘Good point. And the other date?’
‘One in August. That would aim for a different market, namely the tourists, as by then the island will be so much busier with foreigners. Saturday fifteenth. Gives us much more time to plan but means the rescue centre will have to wait longer for any money.’
He rubbed his hands across his chin. A bottle of wine arrived, ordered by Drago. She hadn’t objected and took a sip, and the refreshing white was actually nice.
‘The August date gives us more time to prepare,’ he said. ‘The target market will be more productive than the one for July – tourists with their wallets, and parents, by then—’
‘Will be climbing the walls and desperate for any new activity? That’s exactly what Nana said.
We could go all out in August, try to attract as much custom as possible.
I’m only “working” sporadically, so could be the one making and putting up posters.
You’d print them out, perhaps. I’ll start on the design this week.
Nana will tell her customers. I’ll ask local shopkeepers and market stallholders to display a bunch of flyers and…
we could hold a raffle as well, to win bigger bakes!
Would Dafni agree to giving a tour of the rescue centre as a prize, so that the winners could meet the cats? Tourists would love that.’
‘That’s a great idea, English,’ he said, and they smiled at each other.
Both of them made notes until their food arrived. Drago caught sight of her face after the waiter left and began laughing.
‘The fish has still got its head on! Eugh, those eyes,’ she said, horrified.
‘But what an appealing yellow sauce, bed of green leeks and carefully placed carrots.’ His mouth twitched.
‘All I see is that little fishy face.’
‘Goodness, food is so sanitised these days,’ he teased. He pulled her plate over, cut off the fish’s head and put it on his plate. ‘There you go. Problem solved.’
‘Oh… thank you.’
‘This meal is on me, no arguments. I know one of the waitresses at The Bar and she explained how you hadn’t known you wouldn’t be able to work for the first three months.’
‘No, I couldn’t possibly—’
‘Dearie me, aren’t you so English?’
She paused. ‘Thank you so much for paying, it’s very kind. Normally I’m more organised but… my head wasn’t completely straight when I planned this trip.’
Drago sipped his wine again. ‘We are all probably guilty of doing impulsive things. Try being kinder to yourself – although I know that’s not easy, believe me.’
A wave of guilt swept over her as she found herself enjoying Drago’s company. Dimitrios hated this man. But perhaps he wasn’t a complete villain. Drago sounded as if he had regrets, as if he were aware of his faults.
The fish was delicious, no denying that, and afterwards they shared a large slice of Greek olive oil chocolate cake.
Carrie gave a contented sigh as she stared down the little avenue where they were eating, the sun having set now.
The orange glow of street lamps lit up the charming small, crooked buildings, with their brightly coloured doors and hanging baskets.
‘Everywhere I look in Paros is like a postcard. The view from my villa’s balcony is stunning.’
‘We are especially lucky here in Tolmiros,’ he said and took out his phone.
‘This is the view from mine.’ He held up the phone to show a big window with turquoise print curtains either side, beyond which were fig and lemon trees, and the bluest sea in the distance.
She was about to look away when something caught her eye, on the windowsill, coming from behind the right-hand curtain…
A long cat’s tail, walnut-coloured with a white tip and exactly like Dimitrios had described Poseidon’s.