Page 15 of The Little Greek Guesthouse

She finished her beer, becoming accustomed to the taste, in not much of a hurry before returning to the cursed sander. An hour or two later, as the sun sank into a rich apricot colour and painted the floors golden through the open windows, the room was done. Everything, including Nina, was covered in dust. But she had to admit that the floorboards looked beautifully smooth; with a clean and a varnish they would be stunning. She looked out of the window at the courtyard below, seeing it not as it was – with the grit and scraps of broken plants gathered in the corners, the rusty table and chairs and weeds wiring their way through the flagstones – but with pots of bright flowers and clean, pale wooden furniture resting on fresh white stones.

She made her way out there, still dreaming of how she would design it were they staying, and rested her hands on the stone wall, gazing down at the smooth, pale beach and turquoise waters below. Shading her eyes, she saw two figures in Maria’s courtyard. Maria herself was immediately recognisable even from this height, with the streak of white running through her dark hair and the boot on her foot. The other person was taller, a man, Nina thought. She squinted, but the sun was in her eyes and she couldn’t make out any details. The famous grandson, perhaps. They seemed to be looking up towards her. Or at least to the house. She raised her hand, but they didn’t respond.

Sighing, she turned away, leaning her back against the warm stone. She breathed in the balmy evening air, sweet with pollen and fragrant with herbs, and shook her knotted hair out over her shoulders; despite everything, she felt at peace. Perhaps she would stay for another week or two, at least.

She glanced over to the rickety chair in the now-shaded corner where Vassilis had sat, remembering the stretch of his flat, muscled stomach as he leaned towards her. Sweat prickled under her arms and above her lip; she needed to clean up.

Quickly, she showered and dressed, taking extra care to curl her hair into loose, shiny waves and to apply her makeup. She put on a floaty dress and flat, pretty sandals; an elegant outfit that she could claim had taken no effort at all. The smell of gently baking fish, tomatoes and garlic drifted up from the kitchen, making her mouth water; Theo was cooking Psari Plaki. Nina hurried down to where Theo was pulling the food out of the oven, the sauce bubbling gently around the tender fish. There was already crusty bread, feta and salad laid out on the freshly scrubbed table.

‘Your timing’s good,’ Theo said as he caught sight of her. She couldn’t disagree. Apparently she had a knack for arriving as soon as food was ready.

She couldn’t stop herself from glancing around the room and out into the hall. Theo smirked. ‘You look nice.’

‘Thank you, Baba.’ She laid plates and cutlery out, pretending she didn’t feel a small stab of disappointment.

‘Yes, but the Vassilis has gone home.’ He placed the dish on the table and they both sat.

‘I – what? I wasn’t even thinking about him,’ she said, tossing her perfectly coiffed hair over her shoulder and thinking once again about Vassilis’s muscled and just-hairy-enough chest. ‘Is he married, do you know?’ She tried to sound casual, but her cheeks flushed hot, betraying her, and Theo just smirked and raised his eyebrows. ‘Oh shut up,’ she muttered. ‘Eat your food, that’ll stop you talking.’

He laughed, his shoulders bouncing, and she couldn’t help but smile at him, shaking her head. Then she took her own advice, filling her mouth with the delicious fish that melted away, the flavours of oregano and garlic building.

‘Mmm,’ she mumbled through her mouthful. ‘You really are the best cook, Baba.’

He shrugged and wiped his mouth. ‘I’m a good cook. But Maria – Maria is the best.’ He grinned. ‘And no. The Vassilis is not married.’

Chapter Eight

Maria stood behind Nina, apron tied and hands on hips, peering over her shoulder. Nina could tell from the sharp puff of Maria’s breath on her shoulder that all wasn’t going well.

‘What’s this here?’ she said. ‘Looks like Milo making it.’

‘I – pastry?’ Nina answered, picking at the lumpy, gloopy mush in the bowl. Her fingers were covered in the sticky mess, and her face, hair and the borrowed apron she wore were splotched with flour. She blew a clump of hair from her face and pushed it away with the back of her hand.

Maria tutted. ‘Looks like bird shit. Here, let me.’ She elbowed Nina out of the way; Nina happily obliged by standing aside.

‘I don’t think cooking’s my thing,’ she said, picking a sticky clump from her eyelash. She hadn’t realised Maria had been serious when she’d suggested Nina cook for her, but at least her plan was to teach Nina how to make local dishes; if they were relying on Nina’s culinary skills alone they’d have been eating beans on toast.

Maria waved her hand in dismissal. ‘It will come. Bit of practice, that’s all.’

Nina doubted it somehow; she always ate well at home because Theo cooked, but she and Sam had either eaten out or ordered in. She’d always been careful with what she ate, plenty of salad and fruit and water, but she drew the line at cooking it herself.

She didn’t mention this now though. Maria wasn’t a woman you argued with. She chewed on her bottom lip and watched with only mild interest as the older woman expertly sprinkled the dough with a little more flour, balled it and tipped it out of the bowl onto the board.

‘You knead,’ she said, gesturing towards the now perfectly soft and round lump.

‘Huh?’

Maria shook her head, and attacked the dough with gusto. Nina suspected she was channelling the frustrations she would like to be acting out on her. ‘Like this, see? Your mama never make bread with you? Now you.’

She stopped and stood back. Nina was frozen for a moment, in the heat of the kitchen, memories of her mum flashing then fading in her mind; her mum pushing her on the swings in the local park so that she soared higher than all the other children, or crouching next to her as they fed the ducks on the pond, or laughing as they splashed in puddles.

‘Baba always cooked,’ she said, and her voice sounded faint. It wasn’t that the memories made her sad, it was the unexpected reference to her mum that had thrown her. Most people, including Theo, didn’t speak about her at all, and those that did usually tipped their head and widened their eyes in sympathy. Maria was matter of fact, her focus on Nina’s lack of cooking skills rather than her bereavement.

She wanted so badly to ask if Maria had met her mum, to ask what she knew of her and pick her clean of the details, of any small snippet she could glean that was new. Her heart was racing and her mind clamouring with unasked questions. But Maria was pushing her, with surprising strength, towards the kitchen counter and gesturing forcefully at the dough. And somehow, as Nina copied Maria’s example of squashing and stretching the dough, the words wouldn’t come. She was in a daze.

‘Okay, good. Stop, stop, stop.’ Maria shooed her out of the way. ‘Never overwork it. But we will make a cook out of you yet, yes?’ She nodded at Nina, smiling a little, and the moment passed. ‘Now, we cover it and make the filling.’

She hobbled over to the sink, dampening a tea towel that she pulled from a drawer and placing it over the bowl. Nina stood dumbly, watching, her mind churning with questions she wanted to ask.