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“It won’t be for a while yet, love,” Dad adds quickly, fiddling with the napkin tucked into his tight collar. “We’ve got to find a place here first, sort out the house in London. It’ll be ages yet.” Not with Mum on the case, it won’t, her middle name is efficiency. I want to cry.
Picking up my wine glass, I down half of it in one go. “But… but…” I take another large gulp. The heavily tanned woman says something to her partner as she curls her blonde hair behind her ear, and he gives me an indiscreet look, face red from the sun against his silver hair. “You can’t even speak Greek, how will you communicate?” I grumble, because right now I’ll do and say anything to put them off this ridiculous idea. George will be livid when I tell him. Livid!
We’re wordless for a few moments, and I’m suddenly aware of my heart thumping hard against my ribcage, then Dad says, “Come on, love, most of the locals do speak English.” He’s right, Cyprus is very accommodating to the British, but I’m desperate to dissuade them.
“Well, it’s not as if you live with us, darling,” Mum points out, “we hardly ever see you.”
“What?” I reach out for the wine bottle. “I ring you most days, don’t I? And besides,” I add loudly over the babble of voices from fellow diners, “at least I know you’re there, that I can pop round whenever I like, and what will happen if…”
“You’re a grown woman now, Audrey,” Mum cuts across me, “You’ve got lots of friends. And George has his own family now.” She looks at Dad for support but he’s staring at her through narrow, angry eyes. “Well,” she huffs, fanning herself with the dessert menu. Mum always gets defensive when she’s outnumbered. “There’s still a lot of organising to do. Your dad’s almost seventy-five now, you do know that, Audrey, don’t you? The milder climate will do wonders for his arthritis. Our GP’s been telling us that for years. It’ll be a new lease of life for us.” Then she looks at me, hurt. “We thought you’d be pleased,” she says in a quiet, remorseful voice, “having a holiday home on tap.” She looks around her in awe, “On this beautiful island.”
But the news has dampened the mood. My entire world is crumbling yet everyone else seems to be getting on with theirs - making plans, changing jobs, EMIGRATING. I down the rest of the wine in one. Mum and Dad exchange glances.
I feel lost, bereft, abandoned. This holiday was a mistake. What the hell am I doing here? I should’ve sweated it out at home on Dukes Avenue instead of coming on this ludicrous escape. I press my lips together hard to suppress the tears from springing to my eyes, and as I look out of the window a gush of heat spreads through my body like wildfire. And that’s when it happens.
“Oh my God.” I scrape my chair back and shoot to my feet. A few diners at adjacent tables look round, heavily-tanned-woman and her red-faced partner gawp at me, enjoying the floorshow. “I can’t believe it …I …” A waiter knocks into me, almost tipping the plate from his hand, and says something in Greek. I think he’s swearing.
“Darling? What is it?” Mum asks abruptly, “Are you okay?” “I…I…” The words catch in my throat. My tongue feels like
lead. I look down at my trembling hands. Sweat is beginning to slide down my cheekbones.
“Ruby,” Dad says urgently, “she’s gone pale! Didn’t I tell you to wait until we got back to London before telling her we’re moving? Didn’t I?”
“Lionel, she’s a grown woman. It’s not my fault if…”
“Oh, you really know how to kick a person when they’re down, don’t you?” He yanks the napkin from his collar and tosses it onto the table furiously. Mum and Dad continue to argue, their voices a wispy, snappy buzz in my ears. I stumble against my chair, my legs feel like jelly. Dad jumps to his feet, grabs my arm, then yells, “Someone get her some water for heavens’ sake!”
Muffled murmurs and gasps fill my ears. And then everything seems hazy – as if I’m in some sort of dream.
“Oh, my goodness.” Mum leaps to her feet and yells at a waiter, “Please…Bambos, hurry.” I feel her hands curve around my waist. “It’s my daughter…I think she’s…”
I look back at the window. The room is spinning. I can’t seem to focus. His figure is a blur but he’s still there, wistfully pressing his hand against the window frame. He’s come to find me. He’s changed his mind. He’s come to take me home.
“Nick,” I whisper before slumping over the table into darkness.
3
George isn’t surprised to hear about Mum and Dad’s plans to move to Cyprus, when I call him with the news the next day.
“They’ve been behaving like a couple of newlyweds all summer,” he sniggers, not sounding the least bit distraught.
What is it with me? Why am I feeling so crushed? But then, I’ve always been closer to our parents than George has. He left home as soon as he could, living in student digs while he studied for his maths degree, taking on bar and restaurant work to make ends meet. I, on the other hand, held onto my mother’s apron strings until I was well into my twenties. They had to practically shove me out the door.
“Be great, though, hey, Sis?” George says enthusiastically, “Rent- free accommodation whenever we feel like it on a beach resort.” Mum’s words exactly. He really is his mother’s son. “Florian will love it.” I smile at the mention of my nine-year-old nephew. I can just imagine the pair of them in long shorts, baggy t-shirts and flip- flops. George has always been a bit of a beach-bum. He had a stint as a holiday rep in Rhodes one summer while he was in-between teaching jobs, which is where he met Vicky and where Florian was conceived. But, that was back in the day when George had a full head of hair, a six-pack and a string of girls chasing after him.
“So, how’s my favourite boy?” I ask as the doorbell rings. Mum said that Maria was due round this morning. Maria’s a Cypriot woman with grown-up children. She’s part of the cleaning team on the block, and, despite her English being very poor, we’ve struck up a bit of a friendship, even though she can’t pronounce my name properly.
“Maria,” Mum said, on my second day here, “this is my lovely daughter, Audrey.”
“Oddly?” Maria looked puzzled, “Funny name, Mrs Fox.” “No, Maria, not oddly. Audrey, A-U-D,” Mum spelt out. “Ah…A-U-D, like the car, yes?”
“Yes!” Mum and I said in unison, pleased that we were making progress. Maria puffed her chest out, blew a strand of loose hair off her round, olive-skinned face and beamed at us proudly.
“Audi,” she said, shaking my hand heartily, “I very please to meet you.” So we settled for Audi, well it’s better than Oddly, isn’t it?
I open the door and wave Maria in, miming, “Hello and sorry.” She presses a finger to her lips and whispers, “Okay, Audi,” as she scurries past me into the kitchen.
“Vicky’s taken him to a birthday party,” George goes on, to the pelting soundtrack of Maria filling her metal bucket at the sink, “and Josh and Nathan are with her parents, which means…” I know what it means - the sofa, the remote control and lager, “I’ve got the whole afternoon to myself to watch the match in peace.”
