Page 30 of The Greek Café

I shrug. ‘I guess I just don’t really have any experience of kids, other than in a swimming pool.’

Over breakfast I tell her all about my upcoming meeting with Kai’s builder friend.

‘You really think you could stay here?’ she asks as she eats a pancake topped with fresh fruit.

‘I do,’ I tell her. ‘I just adore being in Rhodes.’

‘I guess you should go for it then. How exciting!’ she says.

‘It is, although I do wonder whether I can really do it.’

‘Of course you can!’ She almost shouts the words in her enthusiasm. ‘Why shouldn’t you? You told me you have the finances. And that you worked in a café when you were young. You have all the qualifications needed, right?’

‘Oh Summer, you’re right. It will be a café selling snacks, not the Café Royale. Thank you.’

I reach over and squeeze her hand, and she stands and almost squeezes the breath from my body in a bear hug.

‘You go for it.’ She beams.

I can’t get those early morning swims out of my mind, and the temperature here in Rhodes stays warm for almost nine months of the year. How often will an opportunity like this come along? I feel like it is meant to be, and I decide to grab the chance with both hands.

‘It’s actually structurally quite sound,’ says Jack, a cheerful fifty-something-year-old who is wearing glasses and carrying a notebook as he looks over the building. The fact that Jack made the move from the UK to live here in Greece reinforces my belief that making a life here is doable.

The interior of the building already has the layout of a café, with a kitchen at one end and a small storage room and toilet beyond. The top floor is accessed by some stone steps at the side of the building.

Ireta stays outside and leaves us to it. Following Jack upstairs, I push a door open to reveal a huge front room with a tiny kitchen leading from it.

I walk over to the window, and I am instantly mesmerised by the view of the lemon grove, sloping down to the sparkling sea.

‘That’s quite a picture window,’ comments Jack before he prods walls and probes the wooden skirting boards. ‘No sign of woodworm,’ he tells me to my relief.

‘Not bad at all,’ he concludes as he glances around. ‘Bit of plastering, obviously replacement windows, new bathroom and kitchen’ – he drops his voice to a hush – ‘unless you like the brown bathroom suite,’ he teases. ‘And those pink tiles.’

‘Yes, you can leave that,’ I joke. ‘And the lime-green kitchen cupboards.’

‘Actually, they are probably in vogue again.’ He grins. ‘I have fitted a few glossy kitchens in bright colours lately.’

‘Really? I think that colour would make me feel sick. They can go.’

I hope Ireta hasn’t heard me, in case she chose the kitchen. I don’t want to be disrespectful. ‘Although I imagine some people might find them quite cheerful,’ I add, just in case.

He quotes me what seems like a fair price for the renovation, and we head downstairs. Ireta and an estate agent are chatting outside. I have no idea how much the property is worth so a valuation is necessary, even if I do deal directly with Ireta.

‘Kalispera,’ says the female estate agent. ‘I see you have already had a look around.’

‘I have.’

‘It’s in pretty sound condition,’ says Jack. ‘Although it will need a full renovation.’

Ireta eyes the agent suspiciously, who carries her clipboard inside and takes a good look around.

Eventually, she reveals its valuation.

‘In its current state I would suggest an asking price of eighty thousand euros,’ she tells me.

Ireta raises an eyebrow, but I certainly wouldn’t want to be paying more than that, even though I can comfortably afford it.

‘Thank you.’