‘You’re such a cheap date.’
We flick through the faux-leather menus and before long a waiter, a guy in his early seventies with a tea towel slung over one shoulder and a car salesman’s smile, appears at our table, his pen poised over his pad.
‘I can recommend today’s special. Red mullet, straight off the boat this morning.’
‘Sounds perfect,’ Dom says. ‘Thank you, Kostas.’
Simone pouts. ‘You’re not sharing a platter with me?’
He shakes his head. ‘I’m not especially hungry.’
‘I’ll share with you,’ Victoria offers.
‘Stuffed peppers for me. No cheese,’ Willow says, handing Kostas her menu.
Felix and Barney both choose the red mullet and then Kostas turns to me.
I clear my throat. ‘Éna souvláki, parakaló.’
‘You speak Greek, yes?’ he says, beaming.
Blushing, I pinch my thumb and forefinger together. ‘Móno lígo.’
‘I didn’t know you spoke the lingo,’ Dom says, impressed.
‘I really don’t. I just thought it would be nice to learn a few words, so I downloaded Duolingo.’
‘Why bother when there’s Google Translate? Besides, most Greeks speak English,’ Victoria says in that snooty voice of hers.
Willow wades in. ‘Jesus. Just because English is a global language doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try to learn other people’s,Victoria.’ She draws out the name until it sounds like an insult. ‘Trust you to think the world revolves around you.’
‘Willow!’ Simone snaps. ‘That’s quite enough.’
‘I’m just saying it like it is,’ Willow says sulkily.
‘Well, don’t.’ Simone looks to Felix for back-up but he’s too busy chatting up a waitress half his age to pay her any attention. ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ she mutters under her breath.
‘When d’you hear if you’ve made partner?’ Dominic asks her, smoothly changing the subject.
‘What? Oh, they’re meeting to discuss it next week.’
‘You’re a shoo-in, aren’t you?’
Barney tips his glass towards Simone. His eyes are already ever-so-slightly glazed. ‘Unless they find any skeletons in the cupboard, eh, Simone?’
‘They’re a bunch of buttoned-up reactionaries to a man. I have to be whiter than white. If I had any skeletons – which I don’t, by the way,’ she adds, glaring at Barney, ‘I’d be sent packing. They wouldn’t countenance even the faintest whiff of a scandal.’
‘Let’s hope they deliver the goods,’ Dom says.
Simone raises her glass and clinks it against his. ‘I’ll drink to that.’
Kostas brings our food and conversation lulls while we eat. The souvlaki is delicious. The chicken, seasoned with lemon and oregano, melts in my mouth; the tzatziki is cool, fresh and creamy. I’m chewing the last corner of pitta when Victoria asks, ‘So, where did you go to university, Amber?’
‘Oh, I didn’t.’ All eyes turn towards me and I redden again. ‘Not many did from my year. It wasn’t that kind of school.’
I don’t mention the fact that Mrs Frederick, my A-level English teacher, had begged me to consider at least filling in the UCAS form but how could I, when Gran needed me?
‘You could apply for one of the London universities, Amber,’ she’d said. ‘UCL or Royal Holloway. You could live at home then.’ Like all my teachers, she knew my situation. For one heady, fleeting moment, I’d pictured myself in a cavernous university library, a pile of classics on the desk in front of me. Sticking arty posters on the wall of my student digs. Dissecting the works of the Brontës and Jane Austen with my fellow English undergrads. But it was out of the question. We were already on the breadline, surviving on Gran’s state pension and my child benefit. I couldn’t afford to rack up thousands of pounds in student debt. I needed a job.
