Page 67 of Old Girls Go Greek
I went up to my room in a bit of a daze, my thoughts in a whirl. I went over our conversations, trying to remember what I had said, what he had said that evening. And all of it seemed quite ordinary. Apart from my meal choice and the incident with the fishbone and the toothpick. Remembering that made me flush with embarrassment again. And then we had sat and talked some more over our mojitos, until we had walked back and he had kissed me. Not that I had in-depth experience, but he was a great kisser too.
I watched more television those days than I did now, and occasionally I was lured into watching some terrible series or soap opera, where all the old people are stupid caricatures and the younger ones don’t seem to have actual jobs but are cool and endlessly busy with vendettas, unwise romantic entanglements or ridiculous disasters. Nearly always there is an ongoing sexual tension between two unsuited people which can occasionally last through a whole series, a plane falling on the town and a Christmas special.
This is when the kissing starts and it’s always unpleasant to watch as the hero plunges, mouth open like an excavator as though he is going to take a bite out of the heroine, and then there are closeups of tongues and a lot of tonsil hockey that no one wants to see.
It hadn’t been like that at all. He was gentle and careful, with no slobbering or slurpy noises, which are always so off-putting. I was beyond delighted, and long-dormant emotions resurfaced in me that I thought had been utterly quashed until that moment.
I liked being kissed. Well, I liked being kissed by him. What else might he be good at, I wondered.
Tomorrow was going to be our last full day here, the last chance to get to know him better, to think about what I wanted, the last chance to – yes, actually do some painting. I could just imagine myself back at the art group in Lower Begley, and undoubtedly Cassandra would want us to display our work for the people who hadn’t come with us.
Dennis would be able to pull out several things, and would explain where we had been, how the beautiful scenery had inspired him, how he had felt as he painted. Anita and Beryl would too, I expect. I knew they had been trying to capture the lovely light over the sea, the sense of the hot stones at the ancient excavations. I wasn’t sure what Effie had achieved, but I had literally only one drawing to show them from this holiday: the sketch of Costas’s foot.
I could almost imagine Cassandra’s expression when she saw it. How could I explain to her that I might not have done much painting but Ihadenjoyed a buffeting ride on a ringo, developed a taste for Greek coffee and Metaxa, shared meals, and drinks in lovely cafés and restaurants? I’d relished the experience of being out in the wider world with friends who made me laugh and rethink my life and my future. And I had met Will. And he had kissed me.
He had been an added bonus, and who knew where the future might take us? It might be somewhere; it might be nowhere. What mattered was my newly emerging belief in myself. I could still make friends; I could travel and have new experiences without asking permission or approval or anyone’s opinion. How marvellous.
* * *
When I went down to breakfast the following morning, Beryl and Effie were already sitting down with their usual bowls of Greek yogurt and fresh fruit, Anita was patiently waiting for the toaster to popup and Jillian was handing out bits of paper to everyone. My three friends started up immediately, asking questions about the previous evening and how it had gone, but mercifully we were silenced by Jillian, who had something important to tell us.
‘I like to finish these holidays with a little competition. Nothing to worry about so don’t look like that, Susan. It’s all in good fun, totally boney fido, and there will be a certificate for the winner, and the judge’s decision is final. Here’s what I would like you to do. Gaston is going to take us about twenty miles up the coast where there is a little town which is ideal for soaking up the emotion of Santorini. It has a delightful central square with cafés and shops where you can buy souvenirs if you want them. It’s pedestrianised so no worries about traffic, and it shouldn’t be as crowded as at the weekend or later in the year. Obviously your artwork is the best souvenir you could have, but then some of you may not have doneas muchas others.’
I was sure I could feel her eyes boring into the back of my neck at that point, so I concentrated on the coffee machine in front of me and fiddled about with the sugar sachets.
‘I have suggested three categories,’ Jillian continued. ‘A building you like, flowers or an object. We will be there for most of the day, and there are some lovely old buildings and places to sit. We will have a super, chilled day. So, the minibus will be arriving here at just after ten o’clock. Costas tells me Gregor was out at a quiz night yesterday so it’s possible he might be a bit late, but we can be ready just the same, can’t we? And yes, June, I know what you are going to ask me. There are public loos there, very nice ones.’
‘Oh, good,’ June said, with a smile, ‘I always like to know.’
Gregor, looking a bit weary and pale from his quiz night, arrived just before ten thirty by which time Jillian was stamping about looking anything but chilled. She favoured Gregor with one of her best stares, which as usual he ignored and after stashing our bags in the boot and like all polite British travellers assuming our usual seats, we were off.
The little town was situated high in the rocky countryside; on one side the fabulous views over the sea, but further in some cute little cobbled streets bordered by the usual tourist shops and cafés. After a few minutes it opened up into a wide tree-lined square where there was some welcome shade from the morning sun. There were concrete benches and noticeboards with helpful information about bus times and taxi firms. The only vehicle was a lone police car parked at the end and two very handsome policemen leaning on the bonnet and eating ice cream. It all looked delightful. I wondered where they had got the ice cream. But then I noticed they had guns so I didn’t think it was wise to ask.
Never mind. This was definitely the day when we would be inspired to paint something, we were all sure of it.
After a bit of indecision about where we were going to set up our group, we decided to gather in the shade of some of the trees and then of course the hunt was on for something to paint. There were so many things that caught my eye that might have been suitable. A tiny white church with a bell tower, a gorgeous cluster of flower tubs rich with colour and fragrance, and some dinky little shops with racks of postcards and sunhats outside.
‘Greek windows can be so evocative,’ Dennis said thoughtfully as he gazed at one, which actually was absolutely beautiful. Painted white with the typical blue shutters folded back against the walls, and a tumbling profusion of bougainvillea over the top. ‘Who lives here I wonder,’ he said, edging closer until he was resting his hands on the windowsill.
An annoyed-looking woman suddenly appeared inside and glared at him, which answered that question. Dennis gave a shout of shock and stumbled back, almost falling over a waste bin.
‘The edges of those little buildings,’ June said, ‘are unlike anything you might see anywhere else. The shadows, the alleyways leading ever onwards into the town are gorgeous.’
‘And that wonderful blue of the cupolas against the sky. Absolutely magical,’ Susan agreed.
‘I’m going to paint the church,’ Beryl said, looking wistful. ‘The carving on that old door is lovely. Who knows how many scenes of joy and despair it has witnessed? And the bell tower with that single bell. How evocative. I wonder how long it has been there? Ringing out across the town, sounding a warning of invading ships from Greece perhaps, or Venice, or calling the faithful to prayer for many centuries, I expect.’
Effie went over to look at a plaque.
‘It’s been doing that since 2004.’ She sniffed. ‘The original was built in 1920, fell down in the earthquake of 1956 and this one was restored with a grant from the European commission.’
‘You always spoil everything,’ Beryl said, annoyed.
‘I’m just telling you what it says,’ Effie said, wide-eyed.
‘Well, I’m still going to paint it,’ Beryl said, planting herself down on one of the concrete benches.
‘Perhaps I shall too,’ Effie said, ‘and we’ll see who does a better job of it.’
