Lizzie Allen - PS Olive You

Turban Girl was a regular feature at the corner of the bar too, her jewellery kit spread out in front of her, her face screwed in concentration as she plaited her delicate strips of leather. She usually chatted to Christos as she worked.

‘Ze Germans want to come here and run your country, Christos.’

‘Germanies? Here?’

‘Zat’s true, ja! Zey want to take over. Like World War Two again.’

He’d shake his head and cackle loudly. ‘Germanies here on Iraklia?’

‘Not Iraklia. Athens’.

At that point Christos would usually tsk loudly with his tongue and disappear into the cellar still laughing.

‘You don’t believe me? Read ze papers!’ Turban Girl would shout after him.

I was envious of the imperial way she commandeered the end of the bar as if it were her own private domain. She’d skulk in at random times, set out her jewellery-making kit and work in quiet concentration for hours. If another punter was sitting on her stool she’d squash in to next to him until he finally gave way and moved somewhere else. Evangelos and Sofia didn’t seem to mind her using their restaurant as a workshop and glowering at their customers. She repaid them with jewellery and gifts for the restaurant – a dreamcatcher above the till, leather and silk bunting across the bar. If I were to engage her attention by admiring her jewellery, she’d just brush me off with monosyllabic grunts. There wasn’t much to say by way of conversation:

Pee on the beach today?

Do you use the restaurant toilets, or do you just pee in the car park?

Every so often, a battered pickup pulled up outside and the dogs would go ballistic. That signalled the arrival of Zosimo, the swarthy shepherd who delivered goat and lamb carcasses to the back door and then came round the front for a complementary raki while the dogs circled and growled.

One day I caught Zosimo and Evangelos looking at me and nodding my way. When he’d gone, Sofia approached me saying he had a property in the Chora that he was trying to sell. I went down there with her that afternoon and was pleased with what I saw. It was a pleasant if run-down little terrace that backed onto the church square. I was immediately taken with its sense of antiquity and the delightful little tiled courtyard to the side, so I began rehearsing my sales pitch for Andrew’s return that Friday.

When I collected him off the ferry he looked even more dishevelled than usual, his pulsating jaw accompanied by nervously overactive fingers that thrummed on the dashboard and picked at his cuffs. I looked at him closely. Dark rings circled his eyes and his skin looked pallid and stretched.

‘Bad week?’

‘Stinker.’

We drove back to the house in silence and I made a show of doing the ironing while he changed into his running kit. He was gone longer than usual this time, at least an hour, and stalked straight passed me and into the shower upon his return. I followed him into the bedroom, picking up his sweaty togs on the way.

‘I wondered if we could eat out tonight?’ I asked through the din of the shower.

‘What?’ he said through the noise.

I went into the kitchen and poured us both a large gin and tonic. When I got back he was still in the bathroom, flossing his teeth with manic intensity.

I handed him the drink and braved my request a second time.

‘I wondered if we could go out to eat tonight?’

The floss snapped out from between two teeth and sent bits of plaque splattering against the mirror. Lovely.

‘I’ve had nothing but restaurant food for a fortnight,’ he said, smearing the plaque across the glass. ‘Could do with some home-cooked food really.’

I swallowed a quarter of my gin and picked out the lemon with my fingers.

‘The truth is I’ve not really had time to shop.’

He stopped and stared at me through the mirror incredulously.

‘At the risk of sounding repetitive, what have you been doing all week?’

‘House-hunting, like you said.’

‘Right,’ he said sarcastically. He turned back to his flossing and spoke between sawing motions. ‘Find anything?’

‘Well yes actually. There’s a lovely little two-bed terrace come up in the Chora.’

‘But we agreed the Chora was too noisy. We were going to find something slightly out of town.’

My hackles were starting to rise. There had been no ‘we’ in our decision to buy out of town, just Andrew’s incessant me, me, me. I bit my tongue and stared out the window while I counted to ten. The man was so bloody intractable, he could be a pig-headed nightmare if his position became entrenched. It was easier to bring him round gently whilst massaging his ego into believing the change of plan was his decision all along.

Back home in Chelsea I had a whole host of techniques I could deploy at any given moment to achieve this end. The most successful was frying him kipper with onions and capers. Eeuw. I couldn’t stand the smell, the texture, the colour. But it was his favourite dish and I was not above using it to curry favour. I’d paint my lips with Estee Lauder Neon Azalea pink, (his ‘preferred ‘colour), flatter him with empty compliments (easily done) and then fry up his blasted kipper whilst mentally wording and rewording the request I hoped he’d cooperate with.

Darling, would you mind awfully if I did such-and-such.

Sweetheart, the neighbours have bought a such-and-such and we could so do with one.

My love, would you mind awfully if we didn’t do such-and-such.

In Greece I’d sooner batter him over the head with a piece of kipper than serve it to him on a bed of capers and onions. I breathed deeply to calm myself down before speaking.

‘This place is so charming, Andrew, it would be a shame not to consider it.’

‘Did you see the place up on the neck?’

I chewed the lemon and took another swig of my gin.

‘Yes, it’s OK. Bit isolated.’

He gave me a long look and went into the bedroom to change.

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