Gran smirks. ‘Look at you go, Evie! All Greek men are terrified of disappointing their mothers.’ Gran picks up Pee Wee. ‘And our smallest security guard has earned a treat, have you not?’
The other dogs trail after Gran and I pick up the fallen books, checking them for damage.
Once I’ve sanitised them I leave them to air behind the counter. I take some deep breaths, willing my heart rate to slow. Golly, being a bookseller requires a range of skills I’ve never even contemplated. It’s quiet so I find my laptop to check my job prospects. There’s a reply from Val. Adrenaline is still coursing through my veins as I open it.
Hey Evie,
I appreciate the hustle in you. Not sure if it will help but we’re looking for a PA with movie biz experience who’ll work on location with our producer. Might be a nice change for you? Let me know in a week or so as we’re about to advertise the role.
Val
Oomph. I consider it. It’s a great opportunity and could lead to other roles in the industry. Working on location is a dream most people would kill for. But, I remind myself, I’m not most people. It would include a lot of peopling in far-flung places. Am I being too fussy if I turn down this great offer? I decide to mull it over for a few days.
Chapter 18
By Tuesday my nerves ratchet up a notch because there’s still so much to be done for what Roxy is calling Santorini’s bookworm party of the century. Lucy Strike arrives on Saturday and we have the launch of Epeolatry on Sunday evening.
I’m in Bibliotherapy making bookmarks with bloody Lucy Strike’s glamour-puss author photo on it. She’s wearing a rather low-cut dress, with her bosoms on display. It’s her brand: sex-bomb scribe, I guess. Does Georgios like this kind of look? It’s not how I’d market myself, but if you’ve got it, flaunt it and all that jazz.
Could this be jealously on my part? I can’t imagine wearing such a number but does that mean it’s wrong for her? No. Even though I subscribe to the policy live and let live, I have limits. It’s probably her energy I’m not vibing with. She’s most likely a horrible person, with airs and graces. A diva. A diva who I’ll have to run around after, making sure her every whim is catered for. You’d be surprised just how bratty celebrity authors can be. They expect the red-carpet treatment and treat us minions as if we’re a slightly distasteful but necessary evil in their superstar world. That kind of thing is rife in Hollywood, so I steel myself for it.
Anything for Gran, right? With relish I cut a hole in the top to thread a ribbon through and because I’m a perfectionist, the dead centre of the bookmark just so happens to be her face. Symmetry matters and we can’t have the hole off centre.
Shy Lily pitter-patters over, sensing my edginess. It must be the heat, the heaviness of the humidity making me overthink things. Lucy Strike might be a gregarious sweet woman who I’ll instantly bond with. It’s not like I have a real claim to Georgios, seeing as though it’s fake on my part.
‘Hello, princess.’ I lift Lily into my arms and give her ears a scratch. She replies in kind with a quick lick on my hand. Progress. A few weeks ago Lily wouldn’t leave the safety of the underside of the sun lounger and now she will allow cuddles from women and children. Men she’s still dubious of. Probably sensible.
Look at the man mess I’m in. Enjoying time with Georgios far too much, living this wild and wanton existence that is so out of character for me. Perhaps that’s why I’m so confused: this Santorini me isn’t the real me. It’s the holiday version. Georgios is probably feeling the same way, without work to tie him down, without the pressures of our real lives, we’ve transformed into these happy-go-lucky beachgoers. I can lose hours watching him read when we loll on the shore. Before I know it, I’m lost in a daydream picturing us book shopping together or reading manuscripts in search of the next big thing – him for publishing, me for adaptation.
When Georgios is enraptured with a story, his face softens and he does this crooked smile as if he can’t quite believe he’s been whisked away by words again. The same words he reads every day, but in an order so magical they almost make time stop. That’s how I translate the expression anyway and it’s downright addictive. I too, am constantly surprised by beautiful prose, and characters with open hearts and huge flaws who draw me in and don’t let go.
My phone beeps, so I shuffle Lily to one arm and swipe open the message.
Mom’s on the warpath. She’s got some kind of proof that husband #9 is not on an oil rig. Gran’s not answering her calls. Get Gran to call her, otherwise there’s a good chance you’ll have another guest at the villa. Posy xoxo
This is not good. Not good at all. What is Gran playing at ignoring Mom’s calls? If he’s not on the oil rig then where the heck is he?
And where is Gran? I note the time. She should have been here hours ago to take over. I ease Lily on to the peacock chair and give her a chew toy to play with before I walk over to Gran’s villa. She’s lying down on the sofa with a flannel on her forehead, protector Zeus standing guard at her feet.
‘Gran, are you OK?’ She’s always so vital, so energetic, seeing her horizontal like this is alarming.
‘Yes, darling, I’m fine. You’d think after eighty-three years on the planet I’d learn my lesson. Alas, I have not.’
‘What does that mean?’ Do I tell her about Posy’s text message that Mom’s suspicious Konstantine is not on the oil rig? Will that push Gran off the edge, as she’s so obviously in a fragile state right now?
While I’m pondering where Konstantine could be and whether Gran knows, a seagull flies past the window and lands on the edge of a bird bath. A bird bath that Gran had incorporated into an aggregate cement path poured just a few days ago. At the time I’d been surprised that she deemed a concrete path crucial when she can’t afford her rent, but I’d been busy and let the thought slide.
The more I look at the new path, the more it seems unnecessary being laid smack bang in the middle of the garden. Could it be the final resting … No. The heat and the fake-dating dilemma are getting to me. But what lesson is Gran talking about – remorse? Guilt? Regret?
She heaves a sigh. ‘Alcohol.It’s the work of the devil, that’s what.’
I shake my head as relief floods me. What was Ithinking?! Having dark doubts about my own darling Gran for crying out loud! Look at her sitting there, flannel atop her head; she’s the very picture of innocence. I mentally slap my own forehead for having such traitorous thoughts.
‘Seriously, you’ve got ahangover? Didn’t you go to bed after dinner last night?’ It certainly appeared that way as we gathered our plates from the terrace and tidied the kitchen and went our separate ways, discussing briefly what book we were both heading in to read. Sure, she’d had a few cocktails but she wasn’t inebriated.
That same shifty look returns and she dips her head. ‘I did go to bed and snuggled with my book but then I got a call from a friend inviting me for a quick digestif, a small tipple ofmastiha. I should know by now that you can never have just the one. It goes down too well, too fast. And innocent victims like me are then numbed to the dangers of consuming too much. Dastardly drink!’
I can no longer fight the urge to face-palm. ‘Gran! We’ve got a hundred problems and you’re drinking until the small hours? Who is this so-called friend who’s leading you into temptation like this?’
