Lizzie Allen - PS Olive You

Five minutes later we were back on the move. We skidded into Urian’s place as if we were competing in a dirt road derby and screeched to a halt at the front door. Fortunately there were no other cars and no sign of Urian’s motorbike.

As the dust settled I could already see the house occupied a spectacular position in relation to the rest of the island. It looked out towards Schoinoussa in the east and Paros in the west. The sun hovered over the horizon, suspended in the sky like a giant lantern ready to splash the world with colour before it dipped below the water.

The house itself was a single-storey dwelling consisting of no more than a series of interlinking white boxes, each with its own wooden veranda attached. Below, the land rolled away in gentle undulations to a small beach, and to the rear of the house the strong masculine shape of Papas Mountain could be seen rising in the distance.

But it was the inside of the place that transfixed me. I was used to the bland sameishness of English interiors that replicated each other within a degree of colour.

Artwork: elegant, non-descript.

Furniture: ditto.

Light Fittings: John Lewis.

Bathrooms: Fired Earth.

Kitchen: Smallbone of Devizes.

Such was the manner in which we regulated our army of clones. We made a huge pretence of shunning catalogues and designing our own ‘colour stories’ – but each time Farrow & Ball added a new tone to its range, a veritable stampede ensued in the race to become fully homogenised.

The same applied to clothing. I was once frogmarched out of a coffee shop in Putney because I was wearing last year’s boot-cut trousers. My friends were so anxious not to be seen with me looking yesterday that that they took it upon themselves to dragoon me into purchasing trousers from the boutique next door that were more of-the-moment. Despite my agitation I went along with it like the spineless amoeba I was.

Urian’s house could not have been more different from the flavourless middle-class world I had become accustomed to. It was filled with amazing artefacts from all over the world, presumably collected on globe-trotting expeditions and adventures.

An ornate camel saddle with rows of plaited tassels.

A bronze cooking pot, precariously balancing on three legs.

The ancient skull of some horned animal.

No house was more revealing of its occupant. Stacks of ragged VHS tapes next to an aging VCR machine showed an eclectic taste in film, Westerns to Woody Allen, Lars Von Trier to Lasse Hallström.

I was surprised to see he had a sense of humour after all. An ebony carved black woman stared out through aviator goggles and a furry football mascot sported pink Asteras Tripoli underpants.

Some of it looked expensive, like the luxurious duck egg silk carpet that ran the length of the sitting room, but the majority of the stuff seemed to have been salvaged from the island. Bits of bleached driftwood, shells and feathers. On the veranda a quaint mobile of glass and copper tubing tinkled in the breeze and a neat row of potted herbs gave off a minty green smell.

There were more delights outside. What looked like a rickety old shed turned out to be a fully equipped potter’s studio complete with wheel and kiln.

Urian a potter. Who would have thought? I could picture us together in this room, his Patrick Swayze to my Demi Moore, our thighs straddling the wheel, our intertwined hands rising and falling gently across the expanding ball of clay. The Righteous Brothers would be playing softly in the background and he’d spin me off my feet, clenching rhythmically at my buttocks and nuzzling gently into my neck.

‘Ah ha, ahem hem.’ Theodora cleared her throat from the doorway.

‘You must really like pottering?’ she asked, suspiciously peering at the sweat beading on my top lip.

I quickly withdrew my hand from the wheel where I’d been caressing its silky surface.

‘Erm, yes, yes, I absolutely adore pottery, in all its forms, and all the…creative arts.’

My voice trailed off as I examined the rows of finished work lining the walls. Bowls, cups, vases. His style was extraordinary. Everything was glazed white, except the edges, which were serrated and ragged. The result was that all the vessels lining the shelves looked like the delicate shards of prehistoric hatched eggs. It was exquisitely worked, paper-thin to the touch.

The studio walls were lined with a collage of photos. Family members and friends smiled out at Urian as he worked.

One girl appeared more frequently than the others. A mischievous brown-eyed imp whose life story from flat-chested tomboy to arcane temptress was played out in a pictorial narrative across the walls, more telling than any verbal account could be. Disturbingly, the girl also featured in a strange little shrine on the windowsill – a statue of the Virgin Mary surrounded by red candles. The statue’s open hands fell to her sides in supplication and seemed to point to photos of the girl, aged about eighteen, framed by rosary beads.

It all seemed so intensely personal that I suddenly became aware of how I must look in Theodora’s eyes, snooping through all Urian’s things with voyeuristic fascination, indulging myself in that peculiar freedom to intrude that the act of house-hunting affords potential buyers. I’d looked in his fridge, poked through his bathroom cupboard, smelled his aftershave and even lain on his bed.

The earlier transgressions I committed while Theodora was on the phone, but now that she was in the room watching me I felt like a right grubby old stalker. The only saving grace was that Urian wasn’t home to witness my shameful intrusion into his privacy.

No sooner had I thought this when I heard the distinctive buzz of his motorbike coming over the hill in the distance.

‘Right, thank you Theodora, I think I’ve seen enough,’ I said, hastily pushing past her to the sunshine outside.

‘But you haf see the bitch,’ she said authoritatively.

‘Bitch?’

‘Beeeeeeeeech.’

‘No, that’s quite all right, thanks, although I’m sure it’s lovely.’

I hurried through the glass doors leading into the sitting room where I’d left my bag. The distant buzz had already turned into a throaty roar and soon I could hear the bike idling to a standstill outside.

‘Fuck,’ I muttered as the contents of my bag clattered across the floor.

Seconds later Urian stooped through the front door and stood over me. Without looking up I hurriedly crawled about the floor picking up eyeliner, hair clips and a stray tampon.

‘Yaso’ came his gravelly voice.

‘Yasus,’ I mumbled in return.

Where the hell was Theodora? Alone in his house, I looked like some kind of deranged stalker. Not that crawling around through the dust balls on all fours was helping. It couldn’t get any worse!

A pair of large feet in dusty mules appeared in my peripheral vision. Long and sinewy like the rest of him. Toes not too hairy. How could feet be so sexy? I wrenched my eyes away and made a hopeless pretence of peering under a dresser for a lost lipstick. The feet came closer until I was virtually bowing to them in supplication. This was getting embarrassing. Slowly I rose to full height until we were eye to eye. Well, eye to collarbone really – he was so bloody tall. A breathless sigh escaped my lips.

We were standing about a foot apart. I could smell him. Musky sweat and pheromones with a hint of fabric conditioner. Up close he was even more gorgeous than I realised. His burning charcoal eyes were softer than I thought, more chocolate than volcanic rock. My friend Kate back home would have said they were too close (never trust a man with close eyes), but his full black eyebrows drew them upwards and outwards and gave him a permanently quizzical look, which I found charming.