Yan grins and puts an arch hand on his hip, camping it up. ‘I work with what Nature gave me, and Nature blessed me with the will to go to the gym six times a week.’
‘Whatever.’ I smile wanly and root through my suitcase to find my make-up bag. ‘You go to pick up guys. That story about how you met your last boyfriend in the British Museum is a load of rubbish. You met in a sauna.’
Chapter 6
When I eventually creep downstairs, it’s exactly seven and the kitchen is a hive of activity. Mum, Auntie Toulla and Pen are slicing carrots, peppers and halloumi and arranging them on a platter around a central dollop of houmous while Uncle Tasos sits in the corner, newspaper resting on his pot belly, reading the sports section. In terms of gender equality, the Greek Cypriots of London are roughly on a par with the Taliban.
Toulla spots me first. ‘Hello, stranger. Back from your travels at last.’ Toulla gets all her info about me from Mum, who hates that I moved into Rich’s flat in south London instead of staying west with the rest of the Praxitelis clan. Being eight miles away in Clapham was the equivalent of being across the Atlantic. I scoot over to air-kiss her, but I’m not quick enough and her thumb and index finger clamp on to my chin in a ‘Let’s have a good look at you’ way. Thirty-one years old, but I’ll be forever eight to this woman.
‘Gorgeous girl,’ she says, giving my cheek a light slap for funsies. This is how affection is shown in this family: mild bodily harm. ‘You’re the spit of my Stelio. Especially around the eyes.’
I nod like it’s the first time I’ve heard this, and not the eighty-first. It’s not the compliment she thinks it is. Her Stelio is 34, prematurely grey and currently sporting a Socrates beard.
We both have round eyes that are slightly too big for our faces which means we both suffer from Resting Surprised Face. ‘Slightly too big’ is how I’d describe them now. As a kid, Ithought they were freakishly large and I cried for hours when some rando on the bus called me Goggle Eyes.
My wide-eyed cousin now strolls in with a quick ‘Alright, Nells?’ and even quicker sleight of hand that magically transports three mini sausage rolls into his mouth. I want to remind him that his dad was stick-thin till he was 50 when the Buddha belly appeared overnight, but I’m not that petty.
‘I’m here to help with drinks,’ he announces, taking a bottle of wine out of the fridge.
He pours me a glass and gives my shoulder a squeeze. This time his ‘Alright, Nells?’ is heavy with concern.
‘You’re worth ten of him.’
I nod mutely. Mum has been telling people that Rich and I have split up, but how many of the humiliating details has she shared?
‘He’ll soon realise this new girl isn’t half as good as my Nella,’ says Mum. Well, that answers one question.
‘I never thought that Rich fellow was right in the head,’ says Toulla, circling her finger near her temple.
‘He’s a bastard,’ says Mum and I almost drop my glass in shock.
Mum doesnotuse language like that, although her insult is defanged by the fact that, like most Greeks, she tends to end words with a vowel, and she pronounces ‘b’ like ‘p’.
Her ‘bastard’ comes out as ‘pasta’.
Stelio leans in to whisper, ‘He’s a right fucking fusilli.’
In spite of everything, I smile.
Dad once rang to ask me where he could get a replacement battery for his ‘prawn shaver’, and I was stumped for a full five minutes before I realised what he meant.
They think they’re being supportive, but I’d rather Richwasn’tthe main topic of conversation tonight. I leave them to it and brace myself before entering the living room.
I needn’t have worried. My presence isn’t remarkable enough to distract Tig, who’s holding court in front of cousins Anna, Anna-Maria and Maria. (If you’re Greek and born in August, the chances of being named Maria or Mario are basically 100 per cent. August the fifteenth is a public holiday that has something to do with the Virgin Mary, but really, it’s just an excuse to party.)
I hang back, but Stelio works his way round the room, offering top-ups, cracking jokes with Uncle Takis, and complimenting Auntie Eleni on her new glasses. But when he reaches his brother Stav, the jokes pause and they exchange words.
The serious conversation is over as soon as it’s started and a smiling Stelio is off again, the next compliment already tripping off his tongue. He tells Granny Maria (born 16 August; she won’t tell anyone the year) how lovely her hair is.
Theo is sitting next to her, a move she no doubt orchestrated. She’s always had strong opinions about our boyfriends – she was lukewarm about Rich, which should have been a warning sign – but for once I’m glad she’s grilling a prospective partner. Theo looks terrified, as well he should.
She’s a formidable woman who was widowed when Dad was still a teenager. Steely-eyed and sharp-tongued, she doesn’t put up with anyone’s bullshit. I’ve only ever seen her smile at the cat, and only when she thinks no one else is looking. If anyone can get Tig to drop this engagement nonsense, it will beYiayiaMaria.
I’m curious to see how well Theo is handling her interrogation, but before I can move closer to find out, Stav corners me.
‘So, I heard about Rich giving you grief …’ He looks embarrassed, like he’s been instructed to have this conversation.
A thought-terminating cliché is the quickest way to put him out of his misery. ‘Yeah, well, it is what it is.’
