Page 1 of Take a Chance on Greece
Chapter One
If I’m being completely honest, I think I was still a little drunk when we got on the airport shuttle bus, which could have been something to do with the ouzo Kat had persuaded us to down as we rushed to get packed. She’d claimed it was pretty much the same as mouthwash and would help freshen our morning-after-the-night-before breath. I’m not sure the shot delivered on Kat’s promise, but the aniseed-tasting liquid had certainly cleared my sinuses as it burned its way down my throat, leaving my lips feeling weirdly numb.
‘Hurry up, Lydia, you’re keeping everyone waiting,’ Amira called across the bus as I stumbled my way down the aisle, feeling strangely queasy and floaty at the same time. Was this what a hangover was like? If so, why did people subject themselves to it on a regular basis? It had been a big mistake to go beyond my usual personal limit of a glass of wine with a meal, but the girls had accused me of letting the side down – especially as I was the reason we’d flown out to Kefalonia for this trip in the first place – and I’d allowed myself to be peer-pressured into becoming the life and soul of the party. At least, I think that’s what happened, but my memory of last night was more than a little patchy. I read in the newspaper once that even after only a few drinks, the brain can stop forming new memories, so perhaps here I was demonstrating that scientific study in practice. I didn’t feel great about it. I remembered getting ready at the hotel, the three of us playfully squabbling over mirror space in our cramped room and posing for pictures on the balcony before we set off. I remembered enjoying our meal in the coastal town of Sami, especially the delicious honey-oozing pastries which the waiter presented us with when we’d paid the bill. And I also remembered Amira leading us along a seemingly endless street between tavernas, promising that there was an amazing bar at the end of it, while Kat and I tried to keep each other upright as our heels wobbled on the uneven surface. But after that, mostly nothing, until I was woken this morning by Kat chucking a glass of water on the back of my head as I lay face down on the bed, still clothed in last night’s outfit. We’d been in too much of a packing rush to compare notes on the evening, but hopefully when it wasn’t ridiculous o’clock in the morning, my brain would crank into gear and I’d be able to fill in the blanks.
The slight unease about not being able to account for every minute was adding to the booze-induced churning in my stomach and I was worried it might tip me over the edge. Despite letting their hair down just as much as I had, this morning Kat and Amira looked healthy and put together, whereas I felt like acid was swirling around my insides while tiny creatures held band practice in my skull. But then again, as the girls kept reminding me when they were nagging me about this holiday, they’re far better at letting loose than I am, so maybe they’d built up a hangover immunity.
Even thinking about the word ‘hangover’ made me feel sick. A bubble of bile threatened to make its way up my oesophagus and I paused to take a few deep breaths, clutching the back of a complete stranger’s seat so I didn’t end up slumping onto their lap instead. This was mortifying. Why had I allowed myself to be talked into coming on this trip when I could have had a nice, quiet few days at home instead, ticking things off my to-do list while bingeing episodes ofBake Offand secretly imagining what it would be like to be one of the contestants? Actually, thinking aboutBake Offand all the creamy, sugary concoctions they create was a seriously bad idea. I gulped.
‘Uh-oh, she’s turning green,’ Kat announced to the entire bus as she thrust a sunhat under my chin. ‘If you’re going to vom, aim for that. We’ll miss our flight if we get chucked off this thing.’
I forced myself to swallow as my cheeks glowed with embarrassment. I’m not sure what was worse, the effects of the hangover, or the humiliation of my fellow travellers judging me for my terrible state. We’d had to hustle hard to make the transfer bus, and I’d not even had time to change or check my appearance in the mirror before leaving, which was probably a good thing, because I had a horrible feeling that the remnants of last night’s mascara had gone full panda eyes on me. It was also horribly obvious that I was still dressed in last night’s going-out clothes, and while the girls would probably argue that my version of going-out garb was still pretty understated compared to their fabulous efforts, my attire of sparkly top, which was now rather crumpled, and too-tight-to-be-comfortable denim shorts, made me feel like I was doing the walk of shame down the bus aisle. The one thing I had managed to achieve before setting off was dowsing myself in perfume, but such was my delicate state at the moment, the flowery scent was making my eyes water.
I wanted to assure the other passengers that, despite appearances, normally I was a perfectly respectable human being who held down a sensible job and everything, but I wasn’t sure I was capable of stringing the words together in the right order.
‘All good,’ I said, shakily, ‘I’m definitely not going to throw up.’ I hoped that saying the words out loud would make them come true.
Kat shoved the hat back on her head. ‘Excellent. If you’d ruined my favourite hat, it would have sorely tested our friendship. Besides, I’m not sure it would have made a very good bucket, being made of straw and all. Smile for the camera.’
Before I could process her words, she’d whipped out her phone and snapped a shot, which I knew was far too close up to be flattering.
‘Jim is going to love this, his beautiful bride-to-be in all her hen-do glory.’
‘Give me that.’ I tried to grab the phone, hoping to delete the horrible picture, but also thinking that there might be some images on it which could fill in my memory blanks, but my dexterity and reaction speeds were not up to their usual standards. Yet another reason why I shouldn’t have had those extra drinks last night. Kat slipped the phone out of my reach and winked at me. I silently prayed she wouldn’t immediately upload the photo to Instagram as was her usual habit. Jim didn’t really bother posting to social media, but he always seemed to be amazingly across what was on there, and that picture would definitely not fit into the guidelines of acceptable professional behaviour at the firm which he ran and I worked for. He was so diligent about not being seen to give preferential treatment to me, that he would be bound to make a point of speaking to me about it, regardless of what his boyfriend perspective on the picture might be. Actually, his boyfriend perspective would probably be similarly unimpressed. He wasn’t keen on either of us making a spectacle of ourselves in any context.
‘And I’m not a bride-to-be,’ I added, for what felt like the hundredth time. I was beginning to think Kat was doing it deliberately to make a point. ‘I don’t know why you keep insisting on calling this my hen-do. Jim and I are just moving in together, we’re not getting married.’
Kat pulled a face. ‘Oh yeah, I forgot. He’s decided not to propose until he’s done a full analysis to decide whether the costs of a wedding are offset by the tax benefits of marriage.’ Her tone made it very clear that she did not agree with his logic.
‘It makes sense. There’s no point in being saddled with tons of debt for the rest of our lives.’ I automatically defended Jim, even though I secretly still felt rather affronted by his pragmatic approach to our relationship. If there was one area to throw caution to the wind and go with the heart rather than the head, it was this. And then I felt disloyal for thinking that way. Jim had always been steady and dependable, I knew exactly where I was with him, and that was why he was so good for me, as he always reminded me.
‘Careful consideration of decisions leads to no unexpected surprises.’ I recited our mantra.
‘Typical accountants,’ muttered Amira. She was one to talk. As a doctor who spent most of her life picking up the pieces from other people’s mistakes, she was nearly as risk-averse as Jim and I, but perhaps the holiday spirit had got to her too.
The bus lurched forwards as the driver decided he’d had enough of waiting for me to sit down and turned the engine on. Hot, petrol-scented fumes started pumping from the air-conditioning vents and the speakers crackled into life, blasting out a Greek pop song at full, painful, volume. It was a ridiculously cheesy tune, the kind of ditty which insinuates itself into your brain and remains playing on repeat for hours, even if you have no idea what the lyrics mean. It was definitely not hangover-appropriate. I fumbled in my handbag, trying to find my earplugs, but then the music changed key and the briefest flash of a memory sparked in my head as the singer crooned a high note. For a moment, the disgusting sensation of ickiness disappeared, to be replaced with something else altogether. It was more a recollection of a feeling of happiness and joy, rather than an image of an actual event, but that impression of utter contentment helped make my insides settle down a bit. I knew it was silly to rely on intuition rather than cold, hard facts, but I suddenly had a strong sense that last night’s blank spaces had been filled with good experiences rather than bad.
That was enough to give me the strength to stagger the last few steps, reach up and stow my hand luggage in the overhead shelf. The girls had both bagged themselves window seats, so I was left with a choice of who to sit next to.
‘Finally,’ Kat said, moving her handbag so there was room for me. ‘I thought you were going to spend the whole journey walking down the aisle. I suppose you’ve got to make the most of it for now until Jim pulls his finger out and puts a ring on it.’
I refused to rise to the bait, knowing there was nothing Kat enjoyed more than teasing people. I turned my back on her, plonking myself down next to Amira instead. In fact, I must have plonked a bit too heavily because I got a sharp pain in the small of my back when I landed on the chair.
‘Ouch,’ I winced, pulling the seat belt slack so I could turn around to see if there was something sticking out of the seat. I ran my hand over the worn fabric, but couldn’t feel anything sharp enough to have hurt me. Deciding I must have imagined it, I leaned back, but the pain started again.
I reached around and placed my hand against my back. Yes, it was definitely feeling tender and tight, as if I’d grazed it against something. I untucked my top and tried to feel my skin, but my fingers met with a layer of plastic which appeared to be stuck over the sore patch with some kind of tape.
‘What the heck?’ I muttered, trying to pick at the tape. I’d felt pretty grotty leaving the hotel without washing – ‘No time for showers,’ Kat had said – but now I felt even more grim, knowing that I’d managed to come out with some kind of makeshift plaster stuck to my lower back. This was not like me at all. The bus went over a pothole on a hairpin bend, making my nails slip and land in the centre of the painful bit. I winced and decided to stop pulling at the plastic and instead try to find out how I managed to get an injury. I closed my eyes and concentrated hard, trying to visualise the town we’d spent the evening in, focusing on different senses in case any of them ignited a memory. I could feel the rough stone of the buildings I’d brushed my fingers along as we’d made our way down the road between the pools of light from the streetlamps. I could hear the tinny sound of pop music mixed with the hubbub of different languages, voices raised over each other in a bid to be heard. And I could smell the scent of the sea in the air, and something else, something vaguely spicy, warm and comforting, closely followed by the tang of antiseptic. But try as I might to sharpen these flashes of sensation into something more tangible, the memories remained frustratingly elusive.
‘My back’s stinging. Did I scrape myself last night or fall over or something?’ I asked Amira, lowering my voice in the hopes that Kat wouldn’t overhear my question. I’d never live it down if she realised that the previous evening was pretty much a blackout for me. It was mortifying enough to have to ask in the first place.
Thankfully Amira looked concerned rather than amused.
‘Not when you were with us. Are you OK, babe?’
I turned to face her square on. ‘What do you mean, not when I was with you? Wasn’t I with you all night?’
It was as if my stomach had fallen out of my body, leaving a horrible sense of dread behind in its place. I knew that statistically Kefalonia had a very low crime rate – it was one of the reasons I’d agreed to it as a destination – and I’d never felt anything but safe during our brief holiday here, but anything could have happened in my drunken state. I did another quick body scan, but thankfully the soreness on my back was the only niggle. I checked my purse, but my cash and cards were still safely in place. I reminded myself of the memory of a flash of happiness. Surely if anything terrible had happened, it would have overridden that?
