“You know, I have contacts that are senior partners at a few law firms in London. Dawson Law? I could line you up an interview for when you get home.”
My eyes double in size. “Seriously? Oh my God, that would be amazing.” Dawson Law is one of the top law firms in the UK. Not the top. That’s Madison Legal, where I eventually want to end up. But I’d gladly take an in at Dawson Law. This guy is the gift that keeps on giving…Michelin star food, my best orgasm, now this?
We laugh and talk for hours through the 11-course tasting menu I order for us. Yes, I wanted this meal to last and I’m making up for three weeks of gyros.
The conversation is just so easy. At one point, I laugh so hard at something he says, I snort wine out of my nose. I thought he’d be the type of guy to only go after sexy women at the top of their career, who have it together, live by themselves and know how many degrees to tilt their wine glass. Not me. Perhaps that’s why I introduced myself using my full name and not just Elly.
Slowly I gnaw away at him, picking up snippets of his life. The picture is forming, but there are still large parts of the puzzle I can’t piece together. Whatever’s the cause of his anguish these past few days, he’s not giving anything away.
Good things come to those who wait.
Me? I’m an open book. His eyes brim with interest as I chat about my degree, life as a student, my hopes and fears, our island-hopping plans.
A few hours later, it’s a hat-trick. Three glorious nights of award-winning sex followed by the sweetest pillow talk ever. More than I’ve had in my lifetime. Thank you, Greek gods.
***
I happily plunge the brush down the toilet then flush. Not even the rich ballerina and her passive aggressive demands can wipe the smile from my face today.
He wants to see me again.
Humming to myself, I move to the bath and pull her hair out of the drain.
After Dimitris pays us today, we can politely tell him to stick his placard and his toilet brush up his ass. We can save enough money working at the bar to take the few weeks off we wanted at the end of the trip to go island-hopping.
“Bathrooms done!” I call out merrily.
“I’ll be upstairs on deck.” She smiles at me and scoops up a pair of sunglasses from the table and puts them on her head. In shorts and a bikini, she shows off a figure that can’t be ignored. I make a mental note to start doing squats every day.
I get to work in the kitchen. Crumbs paint the breakfast bar surface like she deliberately threw food around to give me work. Whatever, it’s fine. I run the hot water tap to fill the sink. Behind me, two animated voices, hers and a man’s, get louder as they descend the stairs to the lower deck.
When I turn to see who is with her, my heart vacates its cavity. It’s not the guy I saw onboard the other day.
Tristan.
My Tristan.
His jaw drops when he recognises me, just as mine does. We stand frozen, staring at each other. His is holding hands with her son.
His son?
His face turns white. “Elena.” But that means…
“You’re married,” I choke out. The scene couldn’t be clearer if someone drew a picket fence and a dog around them.
He blinks rapidly. “It’s not how it looks.” I stand stiff, not moving, not breathing.
This isn’t happening.
The ballerina looks between us, narrowing her eyes. “You cannot be serious. You fucked the cleaner? The cleaner?”
Tristan turns abruptly to her. “Not here, Gemina, not in front of Daniel.”
“Damn you, asshole” she roars at Tristan, triggering the son to start bawling his eyes out. Ballerina rushes forward and pushes against Tristan’s hard chest. “You think you can humiliate me? No!”
With a swift swipe of her arm across the breakfast bar, she sends two plates hurtling to the ground, smashing into tiny pieces.
I jump about two feet in the air.
Tristan steps back, stunned, then recovers. “Don’t do this in front of Daniel,” he pleads. “Sara!” he roars in the direction of the stairs. “Can you take Daniel and go for a walk? Daniel, go upstairs to Sara. Everything’s okay, Mummy and Daddy just need to talk. Mummy’s a little upset.”
Daniel stands still, eyes closed, mouth contorted, letting out a wail that could rip through your bones.
I feel like doing the same.
Just get out of here. Process it later. With shaking hands, I gather up my belongings and put my rucksack on my shoulders.
Unleashing a slew of expletives, the wife picks up a third plate and hurls it at Tristan, missing him by an inch. It smashes hard against the wall behind him.
“Gemina!” he hisses through clenched teeth. “Daniel, go upstairs.”
What the fuck? I didn’t ask for front-row seats at the theatre production of The Exorcist. This woman is taking the Greek tradition of plate smashing too far.
I scuttle past, getting out of the angry woman’s line of fire.
She turns her wrath on me as I escape. “You’re nobody, girl! Just another fling,” she screams as I stumble up the steps. “He’s just trying to make me jealous!”
Sara, the nanny, passes me on the stairs, giving me a fleeting panicked look.
I reach the deck and feel a strong hand pull me back.
“Wait,” Tristan begs, holding me in his grip. “It’s not how it looks. You need to let me explain.”
I refuse to let the tears fall. I shrink back from his touch and slap him hard across the face. So hard, it sounds like a whip. “Fuck off, Tristan!” My voice has an uncontrollable tremor in it. “Don’t come near me again!”
I climb off that boat faster than an Olympian runner and sprint down the dock, ignoring his shouts of my name behind me.
When I turn the corner, the dam opens, and I blubber uncontrollably on the street, ignoring the stares of random vacationers. My dumb phone pings. With trembling hands, I unlock the phone.
“Where are you? Let me explain. Please.”
Wiping snot from my face, I click on his contact details and hit block. What a gamut of emotions I’ve gone through in a single day.
How could he? And how could I be so easily fooled? I hung onto every word he was saying. I thought I was smarter than this.
Nope. I’m just a naive girl who mistook a holiday romp for a fairytale.
If this is what island-hopping is about, I’m ready to bungee jump off this place.
One thing he didn’t lie about: he is a cliche. And now, he’s made me one too. The dopey younger woman who falls for the older playboy leading a double life.
He made me a mistress at twenty-four.
7
Elly Seven months later
My ears are assaulted by the creaking bed and a headboard slapping against the wall upstairs. The rhythm quickens, followed by two loud moans, one male, one female.
Does this guy ever stop? It’s midweek, not even the weekend.
That’s Frank the Shagger, one of my housemates, upstairs. We don’t talk too much but I know intimate details about his love life, like some sick peeping tom. It’s the closest thing I have to a love life. That and listening to the foxes mating in the garden. There’s been a drought since him.
My phone says six a. m.