Those Summer Nights (Corfu, Greek Island Romance) (7 page)

T
he man
who gave Imogen directions to the high street was called Spiros. As was the man who sold her a doughnut as she came off the beach.
And
the man who ran the first shop she came to on the main road. It had taken her fifteen minutes to stomp from the beachfront to the town centre, navigating potholes, a loose goat and a van full of fish. She thought they were all having some Greek joke with her about the name, until Spiros the shopkeeper told her it was tradition to call your firstborn son after the island’s saint, Spyridon. Spiros the shopkeeper had a dog she’d patted and had given her grocery essentials for free, despite her insistence otherwise, and a plaster for her hand.

There were shops all along the main street of Acharavi selling a multitude of touristy items – coloured friendship bracelets and slap bands stating
I Love Corfu
as well as beaded keyrings, baseball hats and postcards. A boutique claiming to stock the latest fashions was next to a jewellery shop and there were numerous bars and eateries both sides of what looked like a roundabout in the middle of the road.

Now, provisions dropped off and Harry avoided, she was changed into her swimsuit, the sun relentless in its role to scorch her like the top of a crème brûlée. She sucked in a breath of humid air and removed her t-shirt, dropping it to the beach. Then she ran, racing through the sand, puffs spiralling up around her as she headed for the surf. Her soles went from dry powder to wet paste and once she was thigh-high in the warm sea she stopped, digging her toes into the moistness and relishing the relief. Looking up, she took in the ocean she was standing in, water sparkling like a beach scene from
Hawaii Five-0,
two small boats just visible on the horizon and the breathtaking rise and fall of the craggy mountains of Albania.

A piece of pure bliss amongst all the chaos, she launched herself forward, running into the waves then diving head-first until she was completely submerged. Cooling, body-quenching water flashed over her skin and the sea-salt and sunshine smell wrapped around her senses. She swam out a little further, hands gliding through the turquoise water, heat on her shoulders. This was better. This was more than the guidebook had offered up. This was a sensory experience like no other.

Imogen laid back in the water, letting the gentle waves support her as she tipped her head skywards. She shouldn’t have snapped at Harry. He had bought the restaurant after all, without help, without any hitches that she knew about. She kicked her legs, letting the water soak into her hair, her stomach flat against the surface of the sea. She would apologise, just as soon as the Ionian water had finished soothing the journey out of her.

C
oming
out of the water and back onto the sand, Imogen picked up her t-shirt, towelling herself down with it and slipping her sandals back on.

She stepped back onto the road, heading for the restaurant. A few metres away she stopped. There, right next to Harry’s property, was a square parcel of land she hadn’t noticed earlier. It looked odd simply because the grass was lush and green and cut short, like it had been tended, not left to grow Triffids like the restaurant. And it was flat. She was discovering not a great deal of Corfu was flat.

Then she caught sight of a man at the edge of the beach, his business shoes imbedded in the white stones. It was him. The Greek from the taverna. What puzzled her more was the fact he wasn’t gazing out at the view, he was staring at the restaurant.
Harry’s
restaurant.

Her sandals crunched on the stones on the road and the man’s gaze fell on her. That jet-black hair, followed by broad shoulders hinting at a muscular torso and, the skin that was visible, a warm teak. As he looked at her, the deep, dark eyes connecting with hers, she shivered, becoming acutely aware she was wearing very little. And he seemed to be taking in that fact. She gripped onto her t-shirt, pressing it to her damp skin.

‘Hello,’ she said, deciding to hurriedly put her t-shirt on.

‘
Kalispera
,’ Panos replied. ‘Your hand… It is OK?’ He took his hands from his pockets and moved towards her.

She stopped walking. ‘Yes, it’s fine,’ Imogen said. ‘But picking up broken glass probably wasn’t the wisest move I’ve ever made.’

‘I agree,’ he stated, halting beside her. ‘So, you have been for a swim.’

She swallowed. His eyes were definitely appraising her and the t-shirt was clinging to every curve she possessed. ‘Yes, it was lovely. It’s been so hot today.’

He nodded, his dark eyes still heavy on her.

‘In August it is hotter,’ he replied. ‘So you are going to re-open the restaurant soon, yes?’

‘That seems to be the plan,’ Imogen responded. She wasn’t about to tell him her reservations. Harry had apparently walked into the situation with open eyes. Besides, he and his grandmother were probably, quite rightly, rubbing their hands together at being a hundred thousand Euro better off without the dead weight of something that looked like a war zone.

‘You are not sure?’

Had he noted her earlier shock at Harry’s suggestion of opening in a week? She didn’t want him and his grandmother to know neither of them knew anything about running an eatery or that the idea was making her feel a little bit sick – and not in the
Urban Dictionary
way.

‘Oh, no, I’m sure… very sure.’ She swallowed. ‘Harry’s very keen.’

‘And you are “keen” too?’

‘Yes of course.’ What was this? Twenty questions? His dark eyes were observing her closely. She dipped her head out of the sunlight and put a hand on her forehead to shield her eyes.

He nodded then. ‘Good.’ He pulled in a breath. ‘Good for you.’

‘This was your only restaurant?’ she found herself asking.

He smiled. ‘This was not
my
restaurant.’ He paused a beat before continuing. ‘This belonged to my grandmother. But she… decided it was no longer for her.’

‘I see.’ She took her hand away from her forehead and pushed a stray damp stand of hair back behind her ear. ‘So you don’t have a whole chain of restaurants all over Corfu?’

He shook his head. ‘No, well, that is…’ He wet his lips. ‘I’m in a slightly different line of work. You could still call it the hospitality industry. I currently live in Crete.’

‘Currently. Wow. That makes it sound like you travel the world.’ Her mind drifted to her father and the far-flung places he visited in the name of Egyptian cotton.

‘Europe, for the most part.’ He smiled. ‘But here you are,
currently
living in Corfu.’

‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘Apparently I am.’

‘So, did you choose here for the Metaxa brandy or the plate smashing?’

She laughed. ‘I’m hoping to try both of those.’

‘Do not forget to tell your first diners that plates should not be smashed on every night,’ he said, smiling at her.

‘I’ll remember that.’

Imogen watched him scuff the sole of his shoe against the concrete. It should have made her feel uneasy, here, alone, in a foreign country with a man she didn’t know, but her stomach was telling her his presence was exciting her a little. Maybe it was both.

‘Looking at the place, you might need a little help, yes?’ Panos said.

‘Help?’

‘You would like to open this soon?’

She nodded her head automatically.

‘Then you are going to need more than two pairs of hands,’ he stated.

‘Well… yes, maybe but…’

She stopped talking, not knowing what to say next. Her heart was hammering on her insides ordering her to tell this man she wasn’t quite sure about the plan, but her pride and loyalty to her brother was telling her something completely different.

‘There is something wrong?’

‘It’s just all very new,’ she answered, stumbling a little over the sentence.

‘You have not worked in a restaurant before?’ he quizzed.

She shook her head. ‘No, that is, I have… just not quite like this.’ A heavy sigh escaped her lips.

S
omething inside Panos shifted
. He could see her doubt in this project. It was written over every inch of her. Although, for some reason, his body seemed more interested in looking at her in that swimsuit, barely covered by her t-shirt. Not much was hidden by the cotton. Her breasts, her hour-glass figure...

‘It used to be
the
place to come,’ he spoke, his eyes moving back to the restaurant frontage.

‘Did it?’ Imogen turned around, moving beside him to look too.

‘A long time ago. When my grandmother and grandfather both worked here. The restaurant was their life. My grandfather would fish for the catch of the day and my grandmother would always tell him nothing was big enough or small enough or right for the recipe she had in mind.’ He smiled. ‘I can still remember them “debating”. And my grandmother, she would chase him onto the beach with the biggest pot in the kitchen swinging from her hand.’ He shook his head. ‘All of this while our customers’ danced
sirtaki
and ate
meze
to the sound of the
bouzouki.
’
He drew a breath, and cleared his throat. He needed to remember what his remit was here. ‘After my grandfather died… well, it hasn’t been the same for many years. People, they find new places to go and look for more than just eating. Entertainment, music, free wi-fi…’ His eyes appraised her expression. ‘I am sorry. What am I saying? I do not mean this cannot be popular again, of course! I am sure—’

‘It’s OK. You don’t have to soft-soap things for me. I know the country has fallen on hard times and it’s going to take a lot of work.’

‘Your husband fell in love with Corfu like he fell in love with you, huh?’ He nudged her elbow and smiled. ‘It was a romantic decision, not a business one?’

She stiffened and stared back at him. ‘My husband?’

Her expression made him feel like he had said something insulting. Was it because he had made contact with her? Instinctively he pushed his hands back into the pockets of his trousers. Then, all at once, her demeanour changed again and she let out a laugh.

‘Oh, I’m sorry, you thought Harry was my husband.’ She shook her head. ‘No, Harry… He’s my brother.’

‘Your husband is not here?’ Now it was he who was confused.

‘I don’t have one of those anymore.’

He’d been thrown for a moment but now he could see his way in. She was single.
He
was single. If he could stop spilling ancient history to her and keep his eyes from wandering, this was going to be child’s play. The trick was to
seem
attracted to her, not to actually
be
attracted to her. In a few days, after he had charmed her, after she had realised what an impossible challenge this place was going to be, she would be begging him to take it from her.

‘If I’m truly honest, Mr Dimitriou, right now, if someone came along and offered me half the money Harry paid for the damn restaurant I’d bite their hand off.’

He rocked back a little on his shoes.

‘How about exactly
what
he paid for it?’ The words were out of his mouth before he had a chance to stop them.

‘What?’ She looked completely bewildered.

He wet his lips. ‘The restaurant. How about I pay your brother exactly what he paid?’ His heart was racing as his eyes searched hers for a tell.

She wasn’t saying anything. That was a start. She hadn’t rejected it straightaway. He kept as still as his frenzied insides would let him, studying her expression, waiting for her to make a reply.

He watched her take a breath.

‘Unfortunately, it isn’t mine to sell.’ She lifted the bag in her hand a little. ‘It’s my brother’s enterprise and he’s very keen to make a proper go of it.’

‘But it is a lot of work, no? All these weeds and the broken windows and… I can only imagine what the inside is like.’

‘Just imagine a news report about bombings in Syria.’ She straightened her expression. ‘And, if you don’t think the restaurant can be popular again, why would you want it?’

He swallowed. She was smart… and he didn’t have an answer ready that he was willing to share.

‘My offer still stands despite its condition.’ He wet his lips, his eyes holding hers.

‘It’s very generous, Mr Dimitriou… for something that cannot be a success. Is there a Greek fortune hidden under the foundations?’

He smiled. ‘Not that I know of, but if you come across any doubloons I’d be very interested.’

She took a step back, trying to dry her thighs with the bottom of her t-shirt. ‘I will let my brother know of your interest but once he sets his heart on something…’

‘Likewise,’ he replied. He held out his hand. ‘It’s Panos,’ he stated. ‘You must call me Panos.’

She took his hand. ‘Imogen.’

‘I remember,’ he responded, enjoying the softness of her skin on his. He broke the connection. ‘So tomorrow, I send my cousin to work here with you. His name is Risto.’

‘What? No… we haven’t worked through staffing budgets yet…’ She stopped talking briefly to sweep the hair off her face. Her cheeks were reddening. ‘I’m not sure we can afford to pay anyone at the moment.’

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Risto needs something. He is between jobs. He will work for bread and
tzatziki
and something to drink.
Non
-alcoholic.’ He smiled. ‘And later, if you decide to sell the restaurant to me, it will be in a much better state of repair.’

‘Mr Dimitriou… Panos… I can’t…’

‘Please, it is my gift to you,’ he stated. ‘To welcome you to Corfu and… well, really, very honestly, you will be doing me a service no matter how things turn out.’

‘I—’

‘Risto is a hard worker. I am sure he can do anything you want him to do. He will be here at eight.’ He gave her one last smile before turning left and walking back up the road. The next phase of his plan would start in the morning.

I
mogen couldn’t quite believe
what was happening. Had she really just been given someone to work for free? And why did Panos Dimitriou want to buy the restaurant when his grandmother had only just sold it? She stopped in the doorway of the upstairs apartment and looked down at a floor scattered in pieces of A4 paper. Each one was covered in frenzied writing.
Harry’s
frenzied writing. And there he was, curled up on one side of the room between a broken chair and an empty cardboard box. He looked like someone bedding down in a squat.

She stopped just in front of him. He was sound asleep, his eyes tight shut, sandy hair tousled, a sleeping bag half over his body. Her eyes moved to the writing on some pages stuck to the wall. There were several pages, Sellotaped into place on the ancient floral wallpaper. She stepped towards them, trying to read what was noted down.

There were reams and reams of questions and hardly any answers. While she had been throwing her toys out of the pram looking for the very English stress relief of tea and milk then swimming, Harry had been throwing the contents of his mind down in ink.

Her brother was exhausted from the trip but in the morning she knew he was going to wake up ready to throw himself into this restaurant and give it everything he had. A feeling of pride rolled over her like one of the waves in the sea. He had worked hard to get this place, kept it to himself, wanted to be capable. It was a shambles now but Harry saw the potential and she should be seeing
his
potential and having a little faith. She moved to the side of the room facing out over the sea and tugged open a pair of windows.

Looking out onto a darkening scene she watched the setting sun, a giant glowing orb slowly disappearing from sight, the sky around it turning shades of pink and orange. Imogen leaned on the windowsill, stretching to the right and observing the lights of the town. Strings of bulbs – gold, green and blue – to her far right on neighbouring tavernas, the faint noise of Greek music and joviality on the breeze. It felt like a whole world away from this dusty, barren room. She tried to imagine the little Greek lady, Panos’ grandmother, running around the restaurant after her husband with a saucepan while full tables of diners ate fresh fish of the day and Greek delicacies. Harry would probably make her crazy enough to do the saucepan chasing at some point.

She leant back in, slapping at a mosquito on her arm, and checked her watch. It would be just after seven in the evening in the UK. She needed to update her mum and Janie.

With tea made using an old-fashioned steel kettle on the electric hob and a half-empty bottle of
ouzo
she’d found in a cupboard, Imogen sat on an unbroken chair and waited for her call to the UK to connect.

‘Tristan Charlton, who is speaking please?’

Imogen couldn’t help smiling. ‘Well, hello, Tristan Charlton, this is your Auntie Imogen speaking.’

‘Auntie Imogen!’ Tristan shouted in response. ‘’livia, it’s Auntie Imogen. Are you in Greece? Mummy said you’re in Greece with Dad. Are you? Are you really?’

She laughed. ‘Yes, I really am and your dad is asleep already. It’s past nine o’clock here.’

‘He texted me earlier. He said the restaurant is really cool. Is it really cool?’

Imogen curled her fingers around the chipped glass she had found to pour the
ouzo
into. ‘It’s really…’ There were so many words she wanted to say other than ‘cool’. She smiled to herself. ‘It’s right by the beach.’ That wasn’t a lie and the beach was pretty spectacular.

‘Right by it?! That
is
cool,’ Tristan answered.

‘Is Mummy there, Tristan?’

‘Yes, she’s making lots of arm movements so I think she wants to talk to you. See ya, wouldn’t wanna be ya!’ And he was gone. There was a pause and then…

‘It’s a bloody disaster zone, isn’t it?’ Janie’s voice greeted. ‘I’m imagining those photos you showed me, but doubly worse, like
World War Z
.’

‘The flight was on time, no turbulence and I had the best
stifado
I’ve ever had at a lovely little taverna.’ Imogen downed the shot of
ouzo
and closed her eyes. Her sister-in-law was panicking but a degree of panicking was good. It meant she still cared what Harry was doing. That she hopefully still cared for him.

‘You’re drinking, aren’t you? It’s that bad, you’re drinking just thinking about it.’ Janie sniffed. ‘Are you there? Are you looking at the devastation and wondering what the fuck is… duck, I said duck, children, what the duck is going on?’

‘It’s going to be OK, Janie. I promise. And I promise it isn’t
World War Z
.’

‘
Mad Max
?’

‘No, it’s…’

‘
Sharknado
?’

‘Janie, calm down.’

‘I can’t calm down. You’re on the other side of Europe, Harry’s spent a fortune on a money pit and Grace is…’

At the mention of her mother’s name Imogen gripped the
ouzo
glass tighter. ‘Is Mum OK? Was she dressed?’

‘Sorry… I didn’t mean to worry you. We went to see her on the way back from school and… well, I haven’t seen her for a while and…’

Janie didn’t need to say any more. Nothing seemed to get her mum animated – until she’d dropped Harry’s restaurant news on her. She swallowed, putting the glass down and picking up the tea cup without a handle.

‘She had a dressing gown on. And she asked if you’d taken Harry in hand yet,’ Janie finished. ‘She was catching up on
Poldark
.’

Imogen let out a sigh. ‘She’s doing something I guess.’

‘Is Harry there?’ Janie asked.

‘He’s asleep.’

‘I had a thought… you know… because this restaurant idea is so mental. Is he taking his medication?’

‘I’ll check in the morning. He’s been fine today.’

‘So,’ Janie said. ‘Tell me. Apart from the hideous run-down restaurant, what’s Corfu like in 2016? It must have changed since I visited it last.’

Imogen focussed on what was in front of her. A star-filled sky and the sound of the waves as they spurted rhythmically forth, shaking the stones on the shore. She watched the fronds of a nearby palm shifting in the light wind. ‘It’s lovely,’ she answered finally, meaning it. ‘If things were different, then…’

‘Then?’

‘Then I’d definitely consider it for a holiday destination.’

Imogen closed her eyes as tension took hold again. If only this
could
be a holiday. How different would she be feeling right now? What would she be doing? Seeking out the music drifting across the beach? Dancing until her feet got sore? Maybe she would still be on the beach with Panos…

But she was here now, committed to helping Harry set up a restaurant to win back Janie. But what if they could achieve neither of those things? There were no guarantees about any of it. And she had a life back in England to maintain. The possibility that the Wyatt Group might reply to her application…

‘Do you think you’re going to be able to persuade him to sell it on?’

She held the phone a little tighter to her ear. What was the right thing to say to someone so many miles away? What did she really think after half a glass of this disgusting aperitif? She couldn’t tell Janie about Panos’ offer. Janie would probably find his contact details and accept the offer on Harry’s behalf before the sun set.

‘We’ll see,’ she answered, slugging back the rest of the drink and wincing as it burned her insides. She started to cough violently.

‘What
are
you drinking?’

‘I don’t know,’ Imogen answered, shaking her head as the alcohol flooded her system. ‘I found it in a cupboard under the sink.’

‘Bloody hell, Imogen, are you sure it isn’t cleaning fluid?’

‘I’m sure,’ she answered. ‘Cleaning fluid would probably taste a whole lot better than this.’