Except,notperfect.
Because Tommy’s voice had other-worldly properties. It wielded so much power that he could be calling from Timbuktu and it wouldstillundo me – not just in body, but in every way that mattered.
And he wouldn’t be in Timbuk-bloody-tu – he’d be in the next bloody room. Gah!
It was decided – Tommy was uninvited to my villa. Whatever his big news was, he could send me an email like a normal person. I was about to tell him, but we’d arrived at a brand-new minivan.
With a push of a button on his key fob, Michalis opened the side door. I eyed the interior.Hmm– a little too cosy for me and with my luck, I’d end up thigh to thigh with Tommy again. So, I opened the front passenger door, climbed into the cab, and put on my seatbelt before anyone could question me. The others got in the back and when Michalis climbed into the driver’s seat, he gave me a curious side-eye.
‘I get car sick,’ I explained. Not entirely a lie and I’d seen those winding roads as we’d flown over earlier. Best to be up front (and as far from Tommy as possible).
But it didn’t take long to forget Tommy and Elsa and all the other bizarre goings-on from the past few days, because Naxos was extraordinary.
Leaving the marina, we skirted the town of Chora, with its energetic waterfront, densely packed buildings, and the imposing Kastro Fortress.
‘It was built by a Venetian nobleman, who conquered Naxos800yearsago,’ said Michalis as we craned our necks to see it. ‘The Venetians occupied Naxos for 350 years, then the Ottomans… Then, after eight years of war, we finally won our independence in 1830.’
Call it naivety, but I hadn’t realised that Greece had been occupied for much of the last millennia, nor that they’d had to fight for independence. It certainly accounted for the varied architectural styles that contrasted –clashed?– with the boxy white structures synonymous with the Greek Islands.
The town of Chora now behind us, we started an easy climb into the hills, the views expanding with each inch of road we covered. To the left, the Aegean shimmered, its distinct, fluid shades of blue juxtaposing against the terrain – the russet-browns and ochre-tans of rugged, untouched earth and the vibrant greens of cultivated fields and terraces.
‘This is Eggares,’ said Michalis as we approached a small village on the slope of a lush, gently sloping hill. ‘My family is from here.’
‘You were raised here?’ I asked, turning towards him excitedly.
‘Yes,’ he replied with a puffed-out chest.
‘It must have been incredible,’ I said, my eyes returning to the view. ‘It’s so beautiful.’
I watched out the window, my eyes hungrily taking in every detail of the picturesque village. The buildings were quintessentially Greek – startlingly white, sharp angles, with archways and sky-blue domes.
The church was impressive – so imposing that it seemed almost out of place in such a small village. And as we got nearer, the ornate embellishments around the blue domes stood out – reminding me of Saint Marco’s Basilica in Venice, perhaps evidence of the Venetians’ lengthy occupation.
Venice – another place I’d been to only once before. With Tommy. Who would have thought that a short trip to Greece would include so many bittersweet memories of my first marriage?
God, if I’d known that ahead of time, I would have told Julian to go ahead and call Daisy Harrigan the Sexy Single – AKA Copycat Barbie.
We took a turn. ‘Are we going to the church?’ I asked Michalis.
‘To the olive press museum. My cousin Giorgios – he will meet us there.’
Now I love a good museum, but I wasn’t holding out much hope that a museum dedicated to olive presses – or was it just a single olive press? – would be particularly entertaining. But Minh and Niki would need content for their campaign, so if it was dull, I’d fake it.
It wouldn’t be the first time – professionally speaking, that is. I haven’t faked an orgasm since uni. If it’s not happening, no sense in forcing it.
Sorry, my mind’s wandering again. Where was I? Oh, yes… Eggares.
Giorgios was waiting for us when we pulled up outside the museum, wearing the exact same smile as his cousin. I looked between them twice before deciding they could pass for twins – even though Giorgios looked ever-so-slightly older. Not that I would mention it.
‘Sas kalosorízoume!Welcome, friends,’ he called out as we decanted from the minivan onto the museum’s forecourt.
Minh took photos of Giorgios shepherding us inside, then jogged off towards the church next door to photograph its impressive façade. I watched him over my shoulder, wishing I could follow. The church was even more spectacular up close.
‘We will have time to see it afterwards, if you like,’ said Michalis, giving me a knowing smile.
‘Sorry, I’m sure this will be very interesting.’ I wasn’t sure – how could it be? – but I was working, and I would fulfil my obligation without complaint.
But once inside, I realised how wrong I’d been. The museum was remarkable, particularly the enormous olive press. And Giorgios was a compelling guide, not just explaining the history of olive oil production but personalising the tour with stories about their family, who had lived in Eggares and produced olive oil for generations.
