‘Before I talk to him, I need to talk with you.’ Eleni pulled an orange piece of paper from her apron pocket and slapped it down onto the table next to Elias’s plate of breakfast.
‘What is this?’ Elias asked, picking up the flyer and starting to read.
‘Dark Dating. At the cafeneon. You will come. It is tonight. I will find you someone who is not like Hestia. Someone who likes men would be a good start.’
‘Mama,’ Elias began to protest. He now wanted to only immerse himself in the fried breakfast. Except, he had heard about this ‘Dark Dating’ before. But what he hadn’t realised was his mother was the host.
‘You will see,’ Eleni continued. ‘There are some good women in Liakada. And this way… it is fun!’
It appeared there was nothing more to be said. Elias speared a sausage with his fork and bit off its end.
Forty-Four
Liakada Village
‘I had no idea what to wear to Dark Dating, did you?’
Becky looked up from her phone as she and Petra ambled along the road towards the village of Liakada. She was worried. She had texted Shelley and Hazel earlier and they had both responded with a very short message and no real reply to any of her questions. Hazel’s text had said ‘Nothing to worry about here, dear’ and Shelley’s had said ‘All good. Enjoy’ with emojis of wineglasses. It was unusual. For two people so animated about her trip it seemed odd they weren’t more forthcoming. Becky really hoped nothing was wrong.
‘I mean,’ Petra continued, ‘if no one can see you it shouldn’t matter what you’re wearing. Ah! I’ve just realised. This is like The Masked Singer. It isn’t just that you can’t see anything and it’s kind of creepy and kind of funny, it’s so you don’t judge people on how they look or who they are. Maybe that Greek mama isn’t quite as simple as she appears.’
‘Petra! That isn’t judgemental at all, is it?’
And it wasn’t really like The Masked Singer. Because you apparently weren’t allowed to use your vocal cords either and no one had been told to dress up like a unicorn or a queen bee. Becky wondered just how much information you were supposed to get from potential dates if there was zero interaction. Sense of smell? Touch? Taste? Bleurgh!
‘I see you went for something a little brighter than usual,’ Petra remarked, pulling lightly at Becky’s pink sundress with a tiny little forget-me-not flower-print all across it.
‘Well,’ Becky said. ‘If it’s dark, there may be a chance I won’t get walked into with this outfit on.’
‘I wonder if Atlantis and Troy will be there.’
Becky really hoped not. Atlantis had spent the whole time glaring at Elias when they had had coffee together after the boating at Avlaki. Becky hadn’t been able to help herself, getting the word ‘white’ into as many conversations as she could. White coffee for me, please. The white caps on the waves were so extreme, weren’t they?
‘You didn’t really like Troy, did you?’ Becky asked her.
Petra shrugged. ‘He was less than fifty and not quite as old as Elias.’
‘Petra, don’t you want to meet someone that means something to you?’
Becky slipped her phone back into her handbag and focused on the beauty of the walk. Gardens with allotments, giant squashes poking out from underneath fat green leaves, orange lilies, their trumpets trailing down over fences, cats licking themselves clean at the side of the road… What did she know about people meaning something? She thought she had meant something to Dean.
‘No, I don’t,’ Petra replied brusquely. ‘Well, that’s a little white lie. They need to be compelling. Just for one night… or maybe two at a push.’
‘Is that all?’
‘There are a lot of people to get to know in the world,’ Petra remarked, kicking a stray olive, still green and unripe, fallen too early from the tree. ‘If you spend too long with some of them then you’ll never get time to meet the rest.’
Becky looked at her friend, brushing the soles of her high shoes against the rough road. Looking younger and more vulnerable than ever.
‘Besides,’ Petra continued. ‘The deeper you care about people, the worse the hurt is when they leave you.’
That comment dug crampons into Becky’s heart and she thought not of Dean, but of her dad. Even after the stroke, when he was so completely changed, she still had him with her. It had simply been a case of getting as comfortable as they both could be with the practicalities of how life was now. She had to be the one in charge, guiding, supporting, like he had her whole life until that fateful day. Had she taken over? Had she shut Megan out at that time? She hadn’t meant to. She’d only thought she was better placed to navigate everything with her organisational skills that was all. Maybe this argument they had had over Becky leaving to come to Greece had been about so much more. But neither of them had yet admitted to that…
‘It doesn’t mention anything like that in that shitty book of yours, does it?’ Petra said.
‘What?’
‘How to Find the Love of Your Life or Die Trying. If that’s not a crappy title then I don’t know what is!’
‘Petra, have you been in my bedroom?’
‘Keep your tits on. It isn’t your bedroom. It’s the master suite for the Great Pandora Bracelet Thief or whatever she’s got in those cupboards we can’t get into.’
Becky could already feel her cheeks blushing and it wasn’t because of the humidity or the insect repellent. She hated Petra knowing she was reading a self-help book for relationships.
‘Anyway, I’m surprised you have time to read. Shouldn’t you be finishing writing “roll out the barrel” and “spam” a hundred times on that quote for the old people’s party.’
‘The quote is done,’ Becky answered, flapping a rather large and noisy hornet away from her face.
‘How much is it for a load of sandwiches and ration cake then?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘But isn’t that what a quote is?’ Petra wanted to know. ‘Telling people what you’re going to do for them and how much it’s all going to cost?’
Yes, it was. That’s exactly what it was. And Becky had the costings all worked out and totted up and the whole afternoon planned. Individual Lord Woolton pies – a recipe of swede, potatoes, turnips and carrots, with rolled oats to thicken the filling and hide the absence of meat (to remind them of rationing days) – served with a dripping coulis and mash. Corned beef hash inside Winston-Churchill-style pastry hats with Spam and onion fries. Next, the delicacies brought over by the Americans – including those tinned peaches everyone raved about – and ending in eggless ration mini-fruitcakes with Union Jacks iced on top. She had decided to go for comfort food most of the residents would be familiar with, but served in what she hoped would be a stand-out way. A way that would do It’s A Wrap proud. Except she was too scared to email the proposed menu and price. Had she missed something vital? Would she end up costing the company money if she had? Should she add it all up for the millionth time? Or just bin the entire idea altogether?