It’s been two weeks since the barbecue in Wootton Bassett and right now, I’m currently sitting on the open terrace of the Venetsanos winery overlooking the magnificent caldera of Santorini in The Greek Islands. I savour the breath-taking views as I take another sip of wine from my glass, the sixth wine we’ve tasted this afternoon. The sun is starting to drop in the sky, the heat of the day giving way to the still warm but cooler early evening air. The sky is full of red shadows cutting across the horizon, the colour matching the deep red elixir in my glass. The sheer cliffs of the side of the volcanic crater that originally formed this island, as well as its sister island, Therasia, visible over to the west, as well as the Kameni Islands at the centre of the caldera, fall sharply away. Plunging down to the bright blue Aegean Sea below where a couple of cruise ships are sailing gracefully away from the port, leaving v-shaped ripples in their wake. Taking with them hundreds of cruise passengers who’ve also sampled the pleasures of Santorini, if only for one short day.
I arrived earlier and gate-crashed an already organised wine-tasting tour. It’s a very laid-back atmosphere in our intimate group of seven, made up of a couple from the UK, two Americans, two Aussies and myself and we chat easily amongst ourselves, helped along by the friendly demeanour of our host, Joanna. In front of us is a platter of cheese and Greek tapas, which complement the flavours of the various grapes perfectly and is only mildly slowing the effects of the alcohol on our spirits.
Before coming out onto the terrace, Joanna had shown us around the cool wine cellars, built into the cliffside where the grapes are fermented and the wine is bottled. Now she is enthusiastically introducing each new variety with a detailed account of the grape, the local topography, the benefits of the volcanic soil and the perfect climate in which to grow wine. Coming from one of the best wine producing countries in the world myself, I listen with some scepticism but cannot deny the quality of the wines I’m tasting.
After the barbecue I’d packed my bags, headed up to London to crash with Michelle, then a couple of days after that I took a cheap charter flight from Gatwick to Athens which Mellie had booked for me. I soon realised that with over 200 inhabited Greek islands to choose from, as much as I would have liked to visit every single one, I decided to focus my travel plans on the Cyclades group of islands located to the southeast of the mainland and which includes two of the most famous of all the Greek Islands - Mykonos and Santorini - which I arrived on yesterday.
I spent only one afternoon and evening in Athens, before jumping on a ferry to Mykonos the next morning. So I haven’t yet seen the Acropolis or the Parthenon back on the mainland but plan to make time before my final flight back to the UK a few days from now. Instead I jumped into a taxi from the airport, checked into my accommodation and headed straight to the nearest bar.
I really needed and enjoyed that first beer. I’d felt like a coiled spring ever since the barbecue and the subsequent interrogation from Michelle when I stayed with her for a couple of nights in London.
“I watched you all weekend, Christopher. Don’t deny it, I can tell you really like Victoria.” Nothing gets past Michelle. “I’m just curious as to how much. Are you just being a hot-blooded male and lusting after her, or do you really really like her?”
“Nah, not in way you think, sis.” I attempted to throw her off the scent. The last thing I need is her telling Mellie and then Mellie sharing that information with Vicky. “She’s obviously an attractive girl, but what would be the point of getting involved with someone while I’m here. I head home after the summer so how would that work if things got serious? It would only lead to heartache and trouble.”
“Humm…” Michelle had taken a drink from the glass of wine she was holding “...perhaps.” I sense there is more she wanted to say but instead she chose to hold the rest of her thoughts in.
Michelle, being older, has obviously had more relationship experience than I have. She had one long-term relationship in her mid-twenties which ended a couple of years ago and is currently with a guy by the name of David, and despite the fact she’s obviously from New Zealand and may want to move back there eventually and he’s British, they appear to be serious and in it for the long-haul. So either my last comment has made her reflect about the future challenges in her own relationship, or she doesn’t believe that dating someone from the opposite side of the world is a problem. I’m not sure which. She’s definitely a big believer that love conquers all and that you should take risks in life. Like most of my family, we’re all pioneers. Distance and complications have never seemed to be barriers for any of us going after what we want.
So the bitterness of that first beer on my tongue after arriving in Athens tasted sweeter than any I’ve had since I left New Zealand. I needed some solace from my own thoughts and I welcomed the opportunity to simply sit and watch the world go by for an evening.
I really enjoy people watching. It’s one of my favourite pastimes. I suppose being someone who loves to travel and experience different places, people and cultures from all around the world, it comes with the territory. Rather than show up the differences between myself and the people I’m with (such as a differing language, or type of dress or custom), when you sit back and observe ordinary folk going about their ordinary lives, you realise how similar everyone’s lives are and how connected we all are as a human race.
Ultimately, most people do an honest day's work for an honest day’s pay, look after their families and spend some of their hard-earned cash on other pleasures or passions. Be that sport, entertainment, or spending more time with friends or family. I might be travelling alone, but I never feel alone. I’m as comfortable in my own company as I am in the company of strangers.
Still, that first beer in Athens gave me the opportunity to disconnect from the multitude of thoughts that had persisted in whirring through my brain following that last weekend in Wootton Bassett, and instead, soak up the atmosphere and observe the people around me. I needed the distraction to regain my balance, and almost two weeks later I feel as if I’m just beginning to regain my centre.
For days Michelle’s question had been ringing in my ears. “Are you just lusting after her, or do you really like her?” and since putting some distance between us, I’m now no longer besotted with Vicky like I was when I left. There’s no doubt she’s a lovely girl and obviously very fanciable, but I realise now I was in danger of becoming obsessed by her. I realise now the intensity of my feelings were completely irrational and ridiculous in the short time I’d spent with her. These last few days I’ve decided that when I go back to the UK, I will continue with the original plans I had for the rest of the summer. Focus on spending time with the rellies I’ve yet to catch up with, visit the places I want to see and enjoy the things I want to experience.
For all this has been a relaxing holiday, it’s also been jam-packed as I’ve attempted to fit as many islands and sights into the minimum amount of time available. I spent that first evening bar hopping around Kolonaki Square engaging in small talk with the bar staff and the other backpackers that were out drinking and having a good time. It was impossible to sleep in the heat of the city, not really surprising for the middle of the summer in Athens. The next morning my bedsheets soaked in sweat, I decided to head straight out to the islands, jumping on the first ferry to Mykonos, in the hope that the islands would benefit from a cooling Mediterranean breeze.
I managed to get laid on my first night in Mykonos. It wasn’t difficult. I’ve heard about the ‘Brits abroad’ reputation but this is the first time I’d experienced it first-hand, and it was hilarious. I’d joined in with the party throng down at Paradise beach, throwing back shots of Tequila along with the hordes of other young British tourists. Gaggles of girls and gangs of boys all on holiday in big groups together. Some celebrating a specific event or birthday. All wearing the obligatory matching t-shirts printed with rude slogans on the back, or beauty queen style sashes ensuring their collective group identity, and all with the intention of attracting as much attention as possible from the opposite sex.
I only had to open my mouth and my Kiwi accent immediately made me appear exotic and seemingly highly attractive to the throngs of semi-naked British females. So before the evening ended, I found myself down on the beach making out with one of the party goers. A pretty girl with long dark hair, big breasts and loose morals, she seemed nice enough although I don’t remember her name. Neither of us were particularly bothered with minor details such as that, she knew what I wanted and I her, so we mutually scratched each other’s immediate itch, so to speak.
The next day I spent wandering around Mykonos town, checking out the ancient churches and the delights of Little Venice. After another cocktail fuelled evening, and milling among the throngs of partygoers once again, I hopped onto a ferry the next day for an excursion to Delos, an uninhabited island packed full of archaeological sites and ancient Greek ruins.
Just like the moment I turned down the corner onto the high street in Wootton Bassett and spotted the town hall and came face to face with real-life physical history, when I stood amongst the crumbling dusty ancient stones on the island, my mind struggled to comprehend the age of these uncovered temples. It’s almost impossible to understand that these ruins, worn away over thousands of years, document the creation of today’s modern civilization.
After returning to Mykonos, I hopped next to Paros which is a much quieter island and spent the next two days sunbathing and chilling out. In one sense it is a shame that such a beautiful island as Mykonos, with its traditional white-washed buildings with blue tiled roofs and long yellow sandy beaches is awash with young and very drunk British tourists that have no appreciation for the natural beauty of the area, but then on the other hand these types of holidaymakers appear to be very localised to specific towns that have sprung up to service them. You don’t have to go very far to get off the beaten track and discover the real authenticity of the place. It’s the exact same in Bangkok, or parts of Thailand or even Bali which are just shag- fests disguised as package holidays.
After my hedonistic sexually fuelled days on Mykonos I wanted my next stop to be authentically Greek. So, off the beaten track at Paros, I headed up to the north coast’s Kolimbithres beach. Small sandy coves join together like lines of private swimming pools, broken up by hard granite rocks. The clear water a welcome relief from the hot Greek sun that beats down relentlessly from cloudless skies. I had fun hiring a jet-ski to explore more of the coastline and only left the beach to gorge on the wonderful freshly caught seafood that is the staple diet on all of the islands.
Naxos became my third island hop. Exploring the island by car, it was nice to get up into the mountains and breathe in the cooler mountain air after just over a week of hot sticky beach living. On my jaunt around the largest of the Cyclades island, I discovered some stunning vistas. Steep barren mountains carved up by layers upon layers of terraces. Most impressive was the view from Mount Zeus in the middle of the interior, the highest peak in the Cyclades. I drove through surprisingly fertile valleys where an abundance of olives, grapes, figs and citrus fruits hung heavily in clumps from short stumpy trees. Enchanting mountain villages such as Halki and Apiranthos, with their hidden local tavernas, revealed themselves once I’d escaped from the tourist trail.
I arrived on Santorini from Naxos yesterday. I have two more nights planned here before a final hop to Milos for two nights, leaving me a couple of days to finish my explorations of Athens, before my return flight back to London. I’ll arrive back at Michelle’s in Richmond on Friday afternoon just before her party on Saturday, keeping everyone happy.
The wine continues to flow easily as I’m seated next to the British couple, Mike and Fiona. Their thicker pronunciation of vowels jars with my own ears as I learn they live just outside Manchester, or as they pronounce it “Man-ches-tar”. The conversation moves easily between the three of us as it turns out Mike, a sales manager for a logistics company also shares a passion for fast cars and dabbles in some second-hand car trading, and Fiona is a long-haul air hostess so also very well-travelled.
“What advice would you give someone like me, Mike, if I was to consider dipping my toe into the UK second-hand car market?”
“Loads,” Mike replies. “Certain brands such as Beamers, Porsches and Mercs always hold their value better than the French and Italian cars, so I would aim for the top end of the market if you can. Always aim to buy from the owners direct, rather than any backstreet dealers who will have already added their margin.”
“Yeah. I kinda figured that. I suppose it’s knowing where to go to find the best deals at the beginning of the purchasing chain.”
“You need to get your hands on an Autotrader as soon as it comes out on at the crack of dawn on a Thursday. And I would consider investing in a mobile phone or at least a fax machine. Then you have to be prepared to chase down the best deals over the next two days. How far you travel around the UK, you’ll need to decide. But all the best deals will be gone by the weekend,” he tells me. “The biggest challenge for me personally, because I also hold down a full-time job, is having the time to get into the market that early each week. By the time I’m able to properly research what is available, most of the best cars have already been snapped up,” he continues. “Otherwise head to the auctions on a Monday morning, when the high street dealers have cleared their second-hand or traded-in stock from the weekend. Most people still buy new cars from the main dealerships on a Saturday, and unless their traded-in vehicle has a list price of more than at least £2,000 to £3,000, rather than sell them from their own forecourts, most dealerships just move the lower value trade-ins straight out the back door and into the auctions on the Monday.”
It’s unbelievably valuable information and I tell him so. “Mike, I can’t thank you enough for all of this advice. If I do decide to dabble in a few deals while I’m over here, you’ve probably saved me thousands in lost time trying to get to grips with the ropes and thousands in overpaying for poor stock.”
“You’re very welcome. It can also be useful to build a relationship with some of the high street dealerships in your area, who might sell you their traded-in stock even before it gets to auction. They like people like you that will just pay cash and help them ease the blockages in their system, but it takes time to build those relationships - plus you’ll have competition in that space.”
We clink our glasses together before savouring another sip of yet another wine Joanna has brought us. I genuinely like Fiona and Mike. They’re really good craic and easy company. I like people who can be both self-deprecating and engage in friendly put-downs without taking offence.
“Do you mind me asking what happened to your eye?” Fiona asks.
“I was attacked by a shark.”
“Reeeally?” She knows I’m clearly winding her up.
“No, not really, but that sounds much better than the real story, which is I did a bungee jump when I was about eleven years old and my eye popped out. They couldn’t get it back into the socket, so the doctors had to take it out.”
“Reeeally?!” Fiona’s eyes widen even further.
“No, not really but we could keep going with this all night.” Mike and I catch each other’s eye, and snigger into our wine glasses.
“Oh, I give up” Fiona says, ending the game. I might tell them the full story another time. It’s not that I don’t like telling people, it’s just that it’s not such a big deal as far as I’m concerned.
Over on the top terrace behind us the winery staff are setting up for what appears to be, a wedding ceremony. Rows of white- covered chairs tied with pink sashes are lined up with military precision. Pots of native Greek perennials have been placed around the terrace. Fairy lights are strewn from one side to the other and an impressive floral wedding arch, intertwined with bougainvillea and hyacinths, has been strategically placed to maximise the spectacular view of the breath-taking vista from the clifftop over the caldera and to frame the heart-stirring sun, which continues to set over the sea beyond. The sun will likely drop to the exact picture-perfect position under the centre of the arch just as the bride and groom take their vows.
The groom, we can see, is nervously pacing back and forth, shaking hands with his guests and relatives, as he waits for his bride to arrive. A single pink orchid pinned to his crisp white linen shirt. Even a stone-hearted person couldn’t fail to be moved by the romantic scene unfolding on the top terrace as two people are about to become one union in one of the oldest ceremonies known to mankind.
“Do you have someone special in your life, Chris?” Fiona asks, turning her focus back to me.
For a fleeting moment my mind flicks back to a couple of previous girlfriends in New Zealand before discounting them. Suddenly a cinematic roll of images of Vicky flashes through my mind; Vicky behind her desk at work, Vicky relaxed and in tracksuit bottoms with her hair tied up, Vicky’s face in profile as she’s driving, Vicky giving me a warm friendly hug and Vicky curled up next to me on the sofa, drinking tea and watching a movie - before I reply with a steadfast, “No.”
“And you’re not running away from anyone, are you?” she asks inquisitively.
“Not from anyone in New Zealand,” I reply truthfully. Choosing to leave out the reason I rushed to leave the UK two and a half weeks earlier.
“Humm. I sense there’s something you’re not telling me, Mister Christopher Williams. There’s something lurking deep behind those eyes.” She leans forward, slightly wobbly from all the wine we’ve been drinking. “Have you ever been in love?”
“Flippin heck, Fi. This isn’t the Spanish inquisition, you know,” Mike interjects, “you’ve only just met the poor bloke a few hours ago.”
“I know,” she says, placating Mike, and then turning back to me smiling coyly in an attempt to coax an answer out of me, “…but have you?”
“I don’t think so,” I reply honestly. “Lust maybe. But love? I’m not so sure.”
“Well then, that means you haven’t… I knew instantly when I met Mike. I just couldn’t stop thinking about him and just wanted to… no, had to be with him.” She continues, “Some people describe it as meeting your other half. The missing piece of your jigsaw, so that they ‘complete you’.” She uses air quotes to emphasise the point. “But I think that’s absolute bollocks. If you need someone to ‘complete you’ then you’re not fully complete as a person to begin with. I believe when you find the right person, you magnify each other. You bring out the best in each other and together you are more than the sum of your individual parts if that makes sense.”
“It makes perfect sense. I’ve just never heard anyone explain it that way before.” I’m drawn in by Fiona’s explanation.
“And it feels almost instinctive to want to do absolutely anything for that person,” she continues. “I knew the instant I met Mike. Obviously, I fancied the pants off him and wanted to jump his bones immediately.”
At which point Mike makes a hand gesture, as if presenting himself with the unspoken meaning of, ‘of course, why wouldn’t you fancy the pants off such a fine specimen as this?’
“But I knew he was that person for me and I for him. I absolutely could not and would not want a life without him in it.”
“Beautifully put, my darling.” Mike chinks glasses with his girlfriend as they lean forward and peck each other on the lips tenderly, holding eye contact and smiling lovingly towards each other. A private moment of intimacy between them.
“Sounds like you two lovebirds should be the ones up there on that terrace getting married,” I say, realising this is not a moment for a light-hearted quip. They really mean it and they clearly love each other deeply. “That’s really lovely to hear.”
I find myself wondering what that must feel like. How do you know the difference between just fancying someone, or feeling the depth of emotion Fiona has just described? I’m wondering what depth of emotion I would class my previous infatuation with Vicky as. Just lust, or could it have been the real deal? There’s a good chance I’ll never know. Fiona turns back to me, her inquisition clearly not yet over.
“I get the feeling, Chris, that you’ve either been hurt in the past and you’re protecting yourself, or you’re afraid of being hurt in the future - I’m just not sure which.”
“Or, I’ve just not met the right person yet.” I offer up a third option. “Or I’ve met the right person, but she simply doesn’t know it yet,” I add with a conspiratorial wink, taking another sip from my drink.
“I knew it!” Fiona exclaims, snapping her fingers and pointing in front of my face. “Now that makes things a lot more interesting.” Both her and Mike lean towards me, eyes as wide as a set of twins on Christmas morning who’ve just discovered their pile of wrapped gifts from Santa under the tree.
I contemplate whether I should tell them about the encounters I’ve had with my sister’s flatmate or keep my thoughts to myself. I’ve not had the opportunity to talk to anyone about how I’ve really been feeling, and these two ‘new’ friends are not in a position to leak anything back to Mellie or Michelle so I decide ‘what the heck’ and launch into explaining the sequence of events and muddle of emotions that have been dogging me these past few weeks since I landed in the UK.
I tell them that despite my initial rush of feelings, Vicky’s given me no firm outward indication that she’s interested in me, but my gut tells me she’s not happy with her current boyfriend, and that although she hasn’t acknowledged it, even to herself perhaps, I really feel she is also drawn to me, as I her. At least she doesn’t rebuff any playful flirtations I’ve made to her and I’m sure she can also feel the crackle of electricity that fizzes in the air between us whenever we’re in close proximity. Or all of this could just be wishful thinking on my part and she could just be being very British; their innate politeness a deeply ingrained cultural quality. Added to this is the additional complication of her existing relationship, meaning regardless of how I feel, or should I say felt before I left for Greece, pursuing anything on my return is a pointless exercise.
“Would I not be better to just keep my thoughts to myself and just get over it before it even has a chance to start?” I ask.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Fiona says earnestly. “Sometimes it’s not just about meeting the right person, it’s about meeting the right person at the right time. Mike was married to someone else when we first met each other.”
“Whaaat?” I respond dumbfounded. “Oh, now that makes things a lot more interesting,” I say, mirroring her comment to me earlier, leaning forward to signal I want to hear the full story. “Keep talking.”
“Yes, he was,” Fiona confirms, “and although he was obviously unhappy in that marriage, and we flirted outrageously with each other, mainly instigated by me, we had to bide our time before we could get together. Perhaps your timing is just off with this Vicky, and you just need to be patient and sit it out. If it’s meant to be, it’ll happen when it’s meant to.”
Mike rolls his eyes at me, as if to say, women, eh? Always making everything about love and relationships.
“So, anyway, back to cars,” he says. Attempting to turn the conversation back to something more light-hearted and manly.
However, I’ve found the opportunity to unburden myself unexpectedly cathartic, even if the conversation has brought my feelings for Vicky back up to the surface, after my attempts to suppress them. Hearing Fiona’s story of her attraction to Mike has made me realise that my feelings for Vicky are more than just lust. There is something so captivating about her I know we have the potential to be so much more to each other. Yet Fiona’s sage advice about, ‘if it’s meant to be, it’ll happen when it’s meant to’ has also given me a sense of calm about the whole situation. Perhaps our timing is just off. I decide I’ll simply let things play out when I next see her and go from there.
The three of us take another sip from our respective glasses as the sound of the first movement of ‘Spring’ from Vivaldi’s Four Seasons variations interrupts our conversation and turns our attention back to the ceremony up on the top terrace. A beautiful, soft, floating vision of white steps out of the bridal car before gliding up the aisle on the arm of her father towards her soon-to- be husband, just as the sun drops below the top of the arch, lighting up their love for each other as if they had just drifted down from heaven. Ten minutes later, after exchanging their vows, the couple are pronounced husband and wife by the person officiating the ceremony. The wedding party all rise from their seats and applaud loudly, as we too raise our glasses and shout, “Opa! Opa!” sharing in everyone’s delight on their happy day.
Mike and Fiona invite me to spend the next day with them. So, at their request, I join them at their hotel the next morning after breakfast. They’re half way through a ten-day vacation on Santorini, so unlike myself, who is trying to cram as much into each island visit as possible, before hopping onto the next, their intentions are simply to kick back and relax during their holiday. We hang out by the pool, drinking beer, laughing and talking about work, family, travel and life in general.
Mike and Fiona do not seem overly concerned that their cosy twosome has turned into an odd threesome and appear in no rush to end our ‘date’, in fact the absolute opposite. So after a hot day by the pool, Mike and I head indoors in the late afternoon to watch the British Grand Prix from Silverstone which is being broadcast in the hotel bar. The place erupts when the British driver, Damon Hill, wins in a nail-biting race, holding his nemesis, the German driver, Michael Schumacher, to second place. I head back to my hotel very briefly to shower and freshen up before meeting them both again that evening for dinner.
We repeat the same thing the following day and before I leave the island we exchange contact details, having agreed we will definitely meet up again back in the UK. We’ve already pencilled in a weekend in a month’s time when I plan to visit them up in Manchester. I’d like to believe that Mike and Fiona will become friends for life, it certainly feels that way, and I leave Santorini with very fond memories of both the island and the two of them.
My final island hop is to Milos, which lies halfway between Athens and Crete. The farthest west of the Cyclades and a natural stopping point before my return to the mainland. I spend my final few days uncovering hidden beaches and magical coves untouched by man and unaffected by tourism, reaching them through unmapped sand dunes and off-road tracks. The quad bike I’ve hired is proving to be the best way to find these hidden treasures.
Some beaches are completely void of any tourists and so I strip off completely. The cool water soothing my tight red shoulders, sunburnt from two hot days sat by the pool with Mike drinking beers. Swimming naked in and around the caves at the various headlands, I assimilate the feeling of being totally at one with my surroundings. My only companion the calm movement of the gentle waves that bob up against my body. Ever flowing, ever constant.
This, I think to myself, is what I call living. When I’m in or around water I always feel an inner peace shroud me. It’s as if all the drama of any life events or turmoil of any inner thoughts are calmed by immersing my body in aqua. As if the water connects me to some powerful life force. I suppose that’s why I’m always drawn back to water time and time again. Surfing or paddle boarding in my favourite spots in New Zealand or basking in the hot springs at Hanmer, or as in today, swimming naked in the sea off a remote Greek island. It’s more than just a metaphorical ‘recharging of my batteries’, it really feels like my inner spirit is being topped up by the healing qualities of the warm pure water. I always emerge from the waters feeling calmer, stronger and ready to face the world again.
Forty-eight hours later I’m back in London. Once I clear arrivals at Gatwick, I call Michelle who’s still at work and she tells me to travel into the City and meet her there. It’s a lovely sunny summer’s afternoon and their entire office has knocked off early and are having drinks in Broadgate Circle just around the corner from their offices near Liverpool Street. Although a complicated and high-pressured job, Michelle works for a relatively small brokerage firm with a tightly knit team. They all work very long hours, so as long as the work gets done, then it’s not uncommon for them to leave the answering machine on and take off early for a few drinks on a Friday afternoon.
She has a cold beer waiting for me after I battle my way up to London Bridge and then into the City by bus, arriving at the pub just over an hour later. She introduces me to her work colleagues, some of whom are also coming along to her party tomorrow evening. I meet a portly bloke, with red veins in his cheeks and a raucous laugh to match, who’s called Ted (I assume short for Edward) and another called Cornelius.
Is that even a real name? I’ve never met a Cornelius before. I seem to be coming across more and more comical names whilst I’m in England. First Wootton Bassett, now a Cornelius! I chuckle to myself as I wonder what other quirkiness I may uncover before I eventually go home.
We leave the City before the rush hour becomes too manic, heading back to Waterloo before catching a train back to Richmond and Michelle’s flat. Mum, Mellie and Vicky are arriving later, and we plan to eat out locally tonight.
London, I’m fast appreciating, is a massive metropolis and I’ve spent as much time today on trains, tubes and buses getting from one side to the other, as it took me to fly back from Athens earlier this morning! I have no idea how Michelle does this every single day. Joining the other millions of commuters at the crack of dawn, often standing on an icy cold platform in the winter, waiting for an overcrowded train to take her from one side of the city to the other. It might be good for your bank balance, to hold down a highly paid City job but it can’t be good for your health. I already find the pollution really irritates my glass eye. My artificially created socket is devoid of any natural lubrication, so any dirt or grit that settles on my glass eye can really cause major problems and it always feels sore even after one day on the tubes.
Not long after we get back to the flat, Mum arrives. It’s great to see her. It’s almost four months since we last saw each other back in New Zealand before she left. She’s just finished a part- time contract and has the next few weeks off, before taking on another carer’s role for another rich but sadly infirm pensioner. After she’s had the opportunity to catch up with myself and my two sisters this weekend, she’s taking off on her own travels around the UK to see cousins and other distant rellies.
All the calm and inner peace I’d thought I’d found during my trip around Greece, and in my conversations with Mike and Fiona, evaporates instantly the minute Vicky walks through the door behind my sister. It’s like I’ve been hit by a bolt of lightning, my body charged by a thousand volts of electricity as she hugs me warmly in greeting.
“You look really well,” she says, I assume referring to my now topped-up tan. “I can’t wait to hear all about your trip. I’ve not had much opportunity to visit Greece. Certainly not to island hop like you just have. You’ll have to tell me what you got up to.”
With absolute certainty, I know this infatuation which has overtaken my mind and my body once again, like I’ve just been hit by a runaway train, is not just lust. Lust was a quick root on the beach in Mykonos, whereas this feeling is different, very different. It feels like meeting her was a preordained destiny, and that without doubt we’re meant to be together. She’s meant to be mine. I would go as far as to say, it feels as if this is the real reason I have ended up in the UK at this time. Not for the purposes of catching up with family, or tramping around, which was what I’d thought had brought me here. Rather that everything in my life thus far has led me to this point in time and to this exact moment. She simply has to become mine. In my heart I feel like she already belongs to me.
I have no idea how or when it will happen, but I’m determined to have her and absolutely nothing, no person, situation, family disapproval, inconvenient travel plans, different citizenships from opposite sides of the planet, or current boyfriend status, is going to stand in the way of me getting what I want. That, as I hold onto her hug a fraction too long, I am 100 percent certain of.
“Oh, I have so much to share with you, Vicky. We’re going to have all the opportunity in the world for me to tell you everything,” I whisper in her ear, making it as clear as I possibly can that I’m not just referring to my recent Greek adventures.