Forty-eight
Agios Spyridon
‘Oh my! This is beautiful!’
Sonya’s observation was in no way exaggerated. Tess leaned out over the bow of Andras’s boat, taking in the bay of Agios Spyridon as they approached over the waves. A long, golden stretch of sand beckoned. There were loungers on the shore, together with a couple of pedalos and two small speedboats, but the beach wasn’t busy. Slim eucalyptus trees swayed behind it, then beyond were more of Corfu’s undulating fields and hills, the peak of Mount Pantokrator clearly visible on this blue-sky, thirty-degree day.
‘There is the church,’ Andras called over the boat’s engine. He pointed at a tiny lemon-painted stone building sitting just off the sand. It was like someone had placed a Mr Kipling’s Fondant Fancy on the rocks.
‘Really?’ Sonya said in awe. ‘That’s really the little church? Oh, Tess, look at it! It’s like a cute doll chapel covered in marzipan.’
‘Mmm,’ Tess answered. She couldn’t deny it was beautiful but the whole church thing had been pinching at her since Andras had mentioned it that morning.
‘How many people does it hold?’ Sonya asked.
Andras slowed down the boat as they neared the shore, letting the engine just tick over as they eased towards land. ‘I do not know. It is not very big.’
‘I thought there were almost a hundred people coming to the wedding,’ Tess piped up.
‘And that is how many the church will hold if my mother has her way,’ he answered.
‘A hundred people!’ Sonya exclaimed. ‘A hundred people in that little chapel?’
‘I am joking,’ Andras said, smiling. ‘The church service, it is for just family. The reception and second ceremony on the beach at Kalami is for everyone.’
‘Second ceremony,’ Tess said, shaking her head.
‘You think this is … how do you say? … Over the top?’ Andras asked.
‘Oh, just a little,’ Tess answered.
‘We are Greek, remember.’ He smiled, as if that explained everything.
‘Well, I think it’s lovely,’ Sonya said softly.
Of course she did. Because, despite only being almost-engaged, this was what Sonya had been dreaming of since she had started getting serious with Joey. Sonya was the big white wedding, dove-releasing, chimney-sweep-needing, jazz-band-in-a-marquee type. Tess knew her friend had a scrapbook of ideas for her wedding. Sonya had never shown her, because of Adam, but Tess had found it when she was searching for the karaoke CDs during a girls’ night. Tulle and lace scraps were there, the business card and leaflet of a company that hired out wigwams in the New Forest, her wedding song list with some scratched out and others added as time progressed. Tess had slammed the book shut after three pages and never opened that drawer in Sonya’s place ever again.
‘It is not so bad,’ Andras said, waving at the man on the beach who looked ready to help them with the boat. ‘At least it is someone else’s wedding, no?’
He wasn’t wrong there. Tess focused on getting nearer to dry land and then she realised what was missing …
‘Where’s the dock?’ she asked.
‘There is no dock here,’ Andras answered. ‘I will let down the anchor when we get closer. We may tie up to the other boats.’
‘But … I’ll have to get out in the sea.’ She swallowed. She hated this. Her Zanotti’s were starting to show signs of saltwater damage already.
‘We can swim,’ Sonya said. ‘You have your bikini on under your dress. Like we did near the Rothschild house. The water here looks even clearer.’
‘It is OK,’ Andras answered. ‘If you cannot take off your shoes I can carry you.’
She closed her eyes. What was going to be worse? Removing her shoes and feeling the earth touch her soles or letting Andras carry her up the beach again like a scene from some lame romance film? She wasn’t sure, but now, as they chugged forwards, Andras looking like he was concentrating, she could see a group gathering on the sand. And in the middle of the pack was Isadora, her imposing figure standing out above even the men of the party. She would be watching and waiting for Tess to mess up and, whether she understood the reasons why or not, she didn’t want to make a fool of herself. Her fingers went to the buckle on her left foot. She could do this. She could totally do this. After all this time, being scared of going barefoot had to stop.
‘Ooo look! There’s a little crab!’ Sonya announced, head hanging over the boat, hair almost touching the surface.
She swallowed. Great. The earth and crabs. It was like the entire universe was plotting against her. Everything she hated under her feet and a Greek matriarch waiting to watch her every move.
Andras greeted the man from the beach who was wading out to meet them.
‘I’m so hot,’ Sonya remarked, flapping her hand in front of her face. ‘I can’t wait to get into that water.’
Tess could wait. She could wait a billion years, or until the Georgiou family stopped looking, whichever scenario came first.
‘We can get out now?’ Sonya asked, looking to Andras.
‘Yes, of course,’ he answered.
‘Here I go!’ Sonya exclaimed.
Tess watched her friend deftly step up on to the side of the boat, fingers pinching her nose, and launch herself into the sea. Sonya resurfaced with a smile on her face, wading towards the shoreline.
Right, that was it, there was no more hesitating to be done. If she didn’t do something then Andras was going to stop being busy with ropes and anchors and he would probably throw her over his shoulder like a fireman. That thought made her shiver but also spurred her into action. She had to do this. She had to do this. It was just taking off her shoes, getting into the sea, walking up the sand and putting them straight back on again. Her heart began to palpitate. She could do this. It was just walking … it was sand, not cold flagstone. There were no violet and cream flowers anywhere, no father by her side, no organ music … just the faint thrum of euro-pop coming from somewhere and the sun on her back. It was nothing like the same. Nothing like it …
‘You are OK?’ Andras asked.
That was it. She couldn’t stop now. She wrenched at the straps, tugging the leather upwards until the buckle came loose enough to negotiate with.
‘Fine,’ she answered. Was that her voice? All squeaky and uncontrolled?
‘I could—’ he began.
She leapt up off her seat at the side of the vessel. ‘No! I’m fine.’ She looked down at her feet, still inside the sandals. It should be as easy as a tube of Pringles: one firm rip, the foil top comes off, then no stopping to think about anything else. She closed her eyes then quickly, one by one, took off her shoes. An overwhelming feeling immediately surrounded her, just like it did every time she took off her shoes. Memories, sadness, anger, hurt, pain. She gritted her teeth, sandals hanging from her fingers, and stepped up onto the ridge of the boat, trying to maintain her balance.
‘Tess,’ Andras said.
She couldn’t have him saying anything else. She just had to jump. A little bunny hop into the thigh-deep water, trying not to think of crabs, a quick fifty-metre shuffle, then straight on to the sand and back into her shoes. She gritted her teeth together, then … jumped. Splashing down, her feet were moving before they had even made contact with the surface. There would not be crabs, or little fish, or weed. She was going to hold on to her game face, she was going to swagger through the water like a model on a photoshoot and then, as soon as she was on dry land, the sandals were going back on.
She was almost there. She could see sunbathers, children making sandcastles, running with buckets full of water, parasols gently rippling with the light breeze … she just needed to relax, pretend her feet weren’t bare, convince her mind that they were covered by gossamer, or at least New Look’s lightest nylon-Lycra mix.
She didn’t see the dog coming. One minute she was competently facing her fears, the next one of her Zanotti’s was wrenched from her hand and a large, scruffy, taupe-coloured dog was running up the sand, the wedged shoe hanging from its slathering mouth.
Sheer terror gripped her as the other shoe in her hand dropped to the ground. She stopped walking until she realised her feet were on the sand and it felt like they were burning. She lifted them up, jogging on the spot, her eyes seeking out the sprinting dog.
‘Help!’ It wasn’t a shriek, it was a faint, yet desperate plea to no one in particular and yet everyone all at once. What was she going to do? It had one of her shoes. She had no wearable shoes. Her eyes went to Andras’s family. They were mere metres away, all looking at her as she continued to perform some sort of Navaho Indian circular dance routine on the beach. They already thought she was evil. Now they would think she was evil and deranged.
‘Tess!’ Sonya called.
And there was her friend, towelling her damp skin down with her sundress, perfectly able to be calm and relaxed with bare feet. Tess felt sick. Where was the dog? She squinted her eyes, focusing her gaze down the beach, looking for the back end of a sandy mongrel.
‘It is OK.’
Andras’s voice flooded her ears and her senses. She turned her head, looking for him, waiting to snap back a reply that she was fine. That he should just leave her alone. Instead, the expression of sympathy on his face made her insides crumble like an OXO cube. She would not cry. She would not cry.
‘My … sh-shoe,’ she attempted.
‘I know,’ he answered softly.
And then he was lifting her, gathering her up in his arms before making gigantic strides up the sand like she was no weight at all. Tears were forming before she registered it, her head pressed against Andras’s bare shoulder and chest, determined not to look at the Georgious or Sonya, just willing herself away from this situation, blocking everything else out.
Andras had seen the dog snatch Tess’s shoe and he instinctively knew what he had to do. Carrying her now, he wasn’t heading for his family, or the church, or even the dog, he was going to solve this, quickly.
‘You are OK?’ he asked, stepping between large rocks up the incline to the small road that ran parallel to the beach.
He knew she was close to crying. She had clung to him, hiding her face away from the prying eyes of his family.
She didn’t reply, just carried on sniffing, her face pressed against his torso, waves of hair and her tanned legs over his arms the only things visible.
He gave a quick look for traffic, then headed across the road. Tarmac turned to tiles and he stopped outside, underneath the blue and white canopy of the St Spyridon mini-market.
‘Tess,’ he said. ‘You need to choose.’
She shook her head.
‘Tess,’ he whispered. ‘There are shoes.’
He felt her move slightly then, shifting a little in his arms until eventually her head was lifting slowly, the blonde waves falling back and the tip of her nose appearing first, followed by those blue eyes.
‘Look,’ he encouraged. ‘They may not be designer but they are good for the beach.’
He watched her strained face scanning over the selection of flip-flops on the rack. Her breathing was beginning to even out. She removed one arm from around his neck and reached out for a plain pair of white flip flops with a small Greek flag on the side of the rubber thongs.
‘These ones?’ he asked.
She nodded.
He plucked the sandals from the rack, removed the cardboard sleeve from the toe peg and reaching down, slipped one on to each foot. Then, he gently lowered her to the ground, steadying her as he did so, until she stood upright, facing him, her eyes a little reddened, her lips still showing signs of tremor.
‘OK?’ he asked.
She gave an unconfident nod.
‘I’m just going to pay for the shoes,’ he told her. ‘Wait here.’ He made to move off before stopping again. ‘Do not approach my crazy family without me, or any crazy dogs.’
Her mouth moved into a half-smile, and only then did he leave her.