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The whole lot of his staff could be naked and feeding each other chocolate balls and he’d barely glance up from the screen. Yet he was looking now at a brown and yellow wavy bottom and watching how she reached right down to the bottom of the jar to get the last of the praline balls...
She was everywhere.
Her scent, her voice, those clumpy shoes...
On Thursday she returned from lunch with an armful of flowers, to brighten up the ‘glass factory’, as she called it, downstairs.
‘Roula!’ he called. ‘Get those flowers out from the ground floor now!’
‘It’s like a mortuary down there,’ she said. ‘They brighten it up.’
‘The staff will be in the mortuary soon. It’ll be like an ER. They’re all on puffers and nasal sprays...’
And then, before she left, she dropped a meal delivery on his desk.
‘Galen?’
He ignored her.
She was more than used to that in guest services—except he was not a guest and nor was she the bearer of discreet nuts and a cocktail.
‘Galen?’ she prompted again. ‘Your meal.’
‘Oh, yes...’ He stirred and reached for the silver-wrapped food.
‘Thank you!’ she said rather sarcastically on her way out. And then, as she closed the glass door perhaps a little noisily behind her, instead of freezing on the spot at her own audacity Roula actually wanted to dance.
She was herself—or rather, Roula was glimpsing herself...whoever she was.
Saturday morning found Roula surfing the net for jobs and updating her CV. Then, of course, the care home called.
Again!
‘Kupia Florakis had a very unsettled night. More nightmares. We want to discuss increasing her night sedation.’
‘Well, I can’t give permission for that,’ Roula said. ‘I’ll come in.’
The old lady was smiling when Roula arrived.
‘Kupia...’ Roula took a seat. ‘How are you?’
‘Cold.’
‘I boughtlipsopita,’ Roula said holding up a bag, ‘I need to stop, but honestly...’ She could not resist the Athenian bakeries and cafés, and today was indulging in little buns with orange zest.
‘That’s good,’ said Kupia and, teeth or no teeth, she certainly liked the bun!
‘You had bad dreams last night?’ asked Roula.
‘No.’
She shook her head and asked Roula to hand her a photo, and as she took the frame down Roula felt a lump in her throat. It was a smiling baby Galen with his parents. Gosh, he was the image of his father. Well, a decade younger perhaps.
‘Too old for her,’ Kupia said. ‘I said it would come to no good.’
‘They look happy.’
His mother had been black-haired and black-eyed and in the photo she wore a simple white top and a gold cross. Her eyes were shining as she looked at her son.
