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But I don’t board the W7 bus. I don’t break my stride at all. I just carry on walking and walking and walking until I find myself outside number 6 Wolseley Road. I won’t be made a fool of by a man again. I need answers and I need them now.
28
I hammer on the knocker, no doorbell in sight. The curtains twitch, then the hall light comes on, the door opens. I’m instantly greeted by a gust of Mediterranean cooking. A slight, elderly lady dressed in black is staring up at me. Her hair in a neat white bun, her creased, tanned face etched with bewilderment.
“I’m sorry to trouble you,” I say lightly. She doesn’t answer. “Is Aliki home?”
“Aliki?” she asks, confused. I nod fervently. “Who arrr you?” she demands in a heavy accent, all the time regarding me dubiously. I tell her I’m a friend of Connie’s; she furrows her brows. “Constantina?” she says almost accusingly.
“Yes,” I reply. Connie did say that her grandmother calls her by her full Greek name. “Constantina.”
“Constantina no in.” Yes, love, I want to say, I know that. She’s a few blocks away fucking my ex-fiancé’s brains out.
“Aliki in?” I find myself saying in an accent similar to hers.
“Aliki, yes, she in.” She gives me a small, tight smile before hollering, “Aliki mou! Eineh mia fili tis Constantina’s, seh theli. Ela etho.” Well, all I could fathom from that sentence was Constantina. But, judging from her expression, I expect she’s just told her that there’s an insane looking woman at the door who wants to see you.
“Okay, Mamma,” a voice yells in the distance, “I’m coming.” Within moments Aliki’s at the door, drying her hands on a tea towel. “Hi,” she says brightly, throwing the towel onto her left shoulder with a miniscule reflex frown. “Can I help you?” She doesn’t know who I am. There’s a bit of grease on her olive skin, she wipes it with the back of her hand. She’s very much as I expected, small and plump with short, dark brown layered hair, large dark eyes and a big friendly smile. Very mumsy.
“Hi, Aliki,” I say a little too chirpily. My heart dances in my chest, its rhythm cascading down into my stomach. “I’m so sorry to bother you.” I croak, then clear my throat. This isn’t going to be as easy as I thought. “I’m Audrey.” She looks at me a little hesitantly for a few moments. To give her credit she has only ever seen me from a distance and I’ve always been in the car. Suddenly, her expression brightens. She’s recognised me, her lips part.
“Audrey!” Lily bounds towards me. I bend down and she wraps her little arms around my neck and gives me a big, tight hug. “We’re not going for a pizza now; Yiayia’s making me pasta with tomato sauce and halloumi cheese, mmm, my favourite. Granddad just rang and said you were ill.” She pauses and knots her fine eyebrows together. “Are you all right, Audrey? You don’t look ill.” She touches my cheek, “You’ve got mascara shaped tears. Mummy has them too sometimes. Have you been crying?” I didn’t think about the possibility of smudgy, teary make-up. No wonder Aliki’s mum was looking at me as if I’d just crawled out of the woods.
“Come on, Lily,” Aliki says, taking her hand. “Let Audrey come inside. It’s chilly out there and we don’t want her cold to get worse, do we?” She winks at me and waves me inside. I step into the large, square hall, cluttered with boxes of bric-a-brac and bin bags. They must be in the middle of a move.
“I’ve come at a bad time, haven’t I?” I glance at my watch without registering the time. “I don’t want to spoil your dinner.”
“No, it’s okay.” She closes the door behind us. “Mum and I have already eaten. We had bangers and chips earlier, can’t beat good old British grub, can you? Mamma,” she shouts, “can you watch Lily’s pasta?” The petite lady reappears at the kitchen door and nods ardently.
“Mamma, this is Audrey.”
Mamma furrows her white brows. “Ah, yes,” she says after a moment, “Danny’s gayfriend.”
“Oh,” I protest. “Does she think I’m a lesbian?”
“No,” Aliki giggles, “she means girlfriend, it’s just her accent.”
“You hungry Oddry?” she asks, then looks at her daughter. “I makey some more soshinga and chips Aliki, mou?” I’d forgotten how hospitable the Greek Cypriots are, but the last thing I want is a plate of sausage and chips. Aliki looks at me and I shake my head.
“I’ve already eaten,” I lie, hoping that my stomach doesn’t let me down with gurgling noises. The food does smell good. “But thanks.”
“I go buy you chips from the Fishatigo,” Mamma insists reaching for her coat on a nearby armchair. “You very skinny, you eat and be big and strong like Aliki.”
“Oooh, oooh, I love chips from the chippie!” Lily says excitedly, “Can I come with you, yiaya Despina?”
“Oh, Mamma,” Aliki says, annoyed. “Stop trying to force feed people, Audrey said she’s eaten.”
“Ah, okay. I put the kettlon on, then, and make a nice cub o’tea,” Despina announces, clasping her hands together and nodding at me cheerfully.
“Oh er…” I begin.
“No, Mamma, leave the kettle alone. I think Audrey would appreciate something stronger.”
“Oh-rite,” she grumbles, “Come, Lily mou, come.” And with this, Lily happily follows her great-grandmother into the kitchen with the promise of being allowed to grate the halloumi cheese.
“Please, sit down.” Aliki gesticulates at the sofa covered in a massive burnt orange throw. “I’ll just get us some glasses for this.” She plonks a bottle of Five Kings Brandy onto the walnut coffee table and totters off.
I stare at the tawny liquid in the familiar broad-shouldered bottle and smile sadly. It’s one of Dad’s favourite tipples, especially when he’s in Cyprus. He was particularly impressed with its historical namesake. “It was created by the KEO Company to commemorate the banquet of the Five Kings, Audrey,” he told me as he filled two tumblers on the balcony in Cyprus a few weeks ago, “and hosted in London by Sir Henry Picard in 1363 for the kings of England, Cyprus, Scotland, France and Denmark. What an honourable name for a brandy, eh? Yiamas.”
