‘Sam, do you mind if I ask something?’
‘Shoot.’
‘Why is your coffee shop called No Name Coffee Shop?’
Sam massages his neck, pulling a face. The fabric of his T-shirt pulls taut. God, how was it not ripping off him like the Incredible Hulk?
‘Truthfully, we couldn’t think of a name.’
‘Oh.’
I giggle. So simple.
Sam, abashed, rubs at his jaw. ‘Yeah. Mum was going around and around in circles, trying to think of a cute name for it when she was opening it. And me, being me, said No Name, and it stuck.’
God, I could hug him.
We take a right, and I gasp. Bouquets of flowers hang from doors, bursting colours of red, pink, blue and green. The doors are painted in shades of sherbet yellow and muted pink. Cats flick their tails lazily, lounging in the last rays of the day, and of course, I bend down and stroke every single one.
‘They’re stray,’ Sam says.
‘Really?’
‘Lots of cats here are stray,’ he says. ‘They kind of just get looked after by the community.’
There’s silence around us, as if we have strayed into a part oftown wrapped in cotton. All that remains is the faint aroma of food, the distant bustle of the surrounding city, and snatches of Greek conversation escaping from open windows. A little slice ofauthenticity, not found in the guidebook. Real life.
‘That makes me sad.’
‘It is sad, but trust me, they get fed, looked after, and they go to the vets if they need it,’ Sam says. ‘There’s one woman who has made it her life mission to neuter them, get them appropriate treatments. They’re the royalty of strays.’
‘That makes me feel better,’ I say as I stroke a black cat with green eyes. ‘I’ll call this one Charles.’
‘As in?—’
‘King Charles, yes.’
‘Okay.’ Sam chuckles. ‘Come on, we’re close to Mum’s.’
The street, on a slant, leads to a little square, where blue door townhouses fade in the setting sun. Sam pushes open a rustic blue gate and we climb two haphazard stairs to the front door. From here, we get a good view of Athens. He knocks, a chip of paint peeling at his fingertips. King Charles the Cat follows, waiting patiently at my feet.
‘Oh, he comes here often,’ Sam says, at my surprised face. ‘Mum feeds him.’
‘Please tell me she hasn’t named him something stupid.’
‘Oh, Merlin, there you are.’
Jill stands at the door with her arms outstretched, and King Charles the Cat wraps himself around her ankles, meowing as he does so.
‘Merlin?’ I mouth at Sam.
A wry smile tweaks his rosette lips.
‘Is your mum the woman who is making it her life mission to look after the cats of Athens?’
Sam’s cheeks blush. ‘Yeah.’
Stepping through into Jill’s home, there’s the scent of orange, sweet and tantalising. It’s like walking into a wellness retreat in Tulum, with shades of light brown, bottle green and eggshell white mixing in the form of rugs, curtains and furniture. Not that I’ve been to a wellness retreat in Tulum, or, in fact, Tulum, but it’s how I imagine such a retreat would look. Antique tables made of dark oak fill some of the space. Light finds its way in through large windows and a set of doors, which open out into a private garden outside.
