PS Olive You. Lizzie Allen

-Chapter Three-

      After that I felt less inclined to house-hunt. I hung around the villa, took myself on long walks and read my book. On day four, our agent, Theodora, turned up on my doorstep frothing at the mouth. She was an annoying little woman. A five-foot troll with a screeching voice that escalated to a glass-shattering pitch if you tried to talk over her. She wanted to know why I’d not been returning her calls. I lied about being busy, but it was obvious the little enthusiasm I’d previously mustered had evaporated entirely. Our excruciating house-hunting expeditions thus far had amounted to no more than driving round the island in her Opel Corsa and stopping here and there to extort information from locals. She wasn’t even a proper estate agent, but since Ajax was a local politician, it apparently entitled her to stick her fat fingers in every pie.

      Part of the problem was the lack of sale stock. The island’s permanent population lived in houses so poor and run-down no one wanted to buy them, and the smattering of plusher holiday homes rarely came on the market. Andrew was convinced that would change as the country slid deeper into recession but the longer I was on the island the less I believed him. The people had an almost familial bond with the place. Generations of families descended there for their annual holidays to homes owned by grandparents and great-grandparents before them. You got the feeling they’d rather starve than give up Iraklia. Me circling like a buzzard waiting to pick at their bones wasn’t going to change that.

      Theodora felt differently. The scent of money had morphed her into a truffling pig, digging deeper and deeper into the undergrowth until she excitedly announced she had unearthed a whopper.

      I knew before she even told me – Urian’s farm.

      Unbeknownst to her I’d stalked it on Google Maps several times already. It wasn’t difficult to find. A few ‘naïve’ comments to Christos about ‘that side of the island’, and within minutes I had him drawing up a full-sized map on a napkin and gleefully marking out Urian’s place with a cross. His eyes twinkled as he did it, so it’s quite possible my ‘naïve’ comments weren’t as disguised as I thought. Anyway, by the time Theadora came grunting in with her two-paged sales pitch, I’d already scanned the place on satellite, hiked past it along the beach front, and driven up the gate on the pretence of being lost.

      The property was a picturesque smallholding that straddled two hills and rolled away towards a rocky coastline. The name, presumably charming in Greek, translated clumsily to ‘Goat’s Neck’ in English, which, according to Theodora, was on account of the way the property occupied its own small peninsula and was dotted with goats.

      When Theodora heard from Urian’s aunt that the family’s dry-cleaning business on the mainland was struggling she’d called Urian in Athens and persuaded him to sell. As far as she was concerned she’d brokered the deal of the century, so my sudden retreat drove her into a frenzy of indignation and she persisted with her assault like a fly smashing into glass.

      The entire thing left me feeling sick and confused. Clearly his family were in dire straights financially, but this was their history for God’s sake! Urian’s legacy. I’d seen the pain in his eyes the first time I’d met him.

      ‘Our Country is on Sale’ he said.‘ Foreigners will come to buy us.’

      How could I do that? Be the foreigner that capitalised on his loss. The vulture that tore the meat from his bones. I wanted to be toasting the sunset on Goat’s Neck beach with him, not driving him from the place he loved.

      To avoid her I tried to keep on the move. I started going to Kikis for breakfast, mostly in the hope of seeing Urian, but also because I became quite fond of Mr Potatohead whose name I’d since learned was Evangelos.

      His wife Sofia was equally charming. She ran the kitchen while Evangelos did front of house, a job ideally suited to him. Wherever he went he was followed by a menagerie of people and animals wanting his attention – the keys to the cellar, a titbit of bacon, a pat on the head. One of his errant offspring was invariably hanging off his leg as he gracefully wove his way between tables with plates held aloft in his massive hands. Even Barbara Streisand plumped up his feathers and called out loudly as he passed. Evangelos made a habit of stopping every so often, no matter how busy the restaurant, and scratching the colourful bird behind the ear. His party trick was to dance comically in front of it which would make Barbara Streisand jump up and down in excitement and shout ‘Yaso, yaso’ loudly.

      If I turned up before ten I was usually in time to see Urian and Gregorie arrive for breakfast. My heart would speed up as soon as I heard the distant buzz of their motorbike coming over the hill. Ridiculous I know, but it felt enlivening having an adolescent crush after all these years. It made me want to feel beautiful again with that same blushing awkwardness that gave teenaged passion its pulse-quickening edge. The more Andrew annoyed me with his pompous calls from Brussels (barked instructions and orations about his own glorious conquests), the more I justified my titillating daydreams to myself. I’d played the dutiful housewife for fifteen years. Hell, I was owed a few harmless fantasies.

      Not that Urian even looked my way. He’d stalk in, grab a paper, order a coffee and commandeer his usual table on the veranda without so much as a surly nod. Clearly he wasn’t a morning person. Although he didn’t seem like much of a night person either, given how moody he’d been the first night we’d met. That set me off thinking about the times of day that would suit Urian…

      Carnal carousal at dawn?

      Febrile fondles at dusk?

      Comforting cuddles at lunch?

      I needed to get a grip.

      Gregorie was the opposite. Warm, convivial, approachable. There was clearly something going on between him and Turban Girl as they often arrived together and shared things like forks and plates of food. She could speak fluent Greek (of course!) and I’d turn green with envy as she huddled conspiratorially over the newspaper or round the radio.

      Only Gregorie was kind enough to give me the time of day. He usually wandered over after breakfast and asked what I’d been up to, whether I’d taken in the caves at Agios Ioannis or climbed Papas, the island’s highest mountain. I usually felt embarrassed that I’d done so little with my time.

      Moisturising.

      Exfoliating.

      Detoxing.

      Toning.

      That’s what filled my days.

      Halfway through my stuttered excuses I’d feel Urian turn his scornful gaze on me. Once, I was brave enough to return his stare but I had to break away first. He just continued staring over his paper with his bottomless brown eyes as if seeing me exactly for who I was. No one.

      After that I often felt his hot stare penetrating my forehead from across the restaurant as I self-consciously scooped my yoghurt and honey into my mouth, trying not to smudge my lipstick. His expression was unreadable, but I figured it was one of disdain. I was the vanguard of league of greedy foreigners come over from Europe to gobble up his heritage like low-hanging fruit off a vine. What was he thinking? Did he know I was the devil Theodora was in league with? Or did he just disdain me for being a stupid, botoxed foreigner? The more he condemned me with his Heathcliffian scorn, the more I responded with a Brontean yearning to feel his thighs against mine.

      Back home in the villa I Facebook-stalked him – but of course he was way too cool to be on Facebook. In desperation, I ended up Googling his name like the sad loner I was. I found it on a page of popular Greek names for boys.

      Get this, Urian means ‘from Heaven’.

      Naturally.

      Theodora worked herself into a flat spin of bewilderment over my refusal to engage. I had the money, she had the property - why would I not dance? She soon worked out my new schedule and started turning up earlier in the mornings, prompting me to take up jogging to Livadi before breakfast. If I left early enough I could catch the cinematic splendour of dawn breaking across