She walked back into my life as I came out of the bank. I was stuffing a wad of euros in my jeans, there was a smallish rucksack slung over my shoulder and I had a ticket to Athens on the phone.
Sandra, where you been all these years?
She leant into me and steered us towards the pub,
The question is, where are you taking us, Batman?
I stood her a pint and got a swift half for myself. Thirty minutes to go and I knew the risks. Batman? More like a grey moth emerging from decades of blotches and bad haircuts. But just in case she meant what she said, I called her bluff,
Got your passport then?
As a rule...
And she was rooting through a huge knock-off Gucci bag that had been through the wars. A bit like Sandy herself, I was guessing. But it was no bluff,
Phew! I thought I’d lost it!
In date?
Now you gorra take me!
We drank up and legged it for the train.
Departures was full of hairy-legs in Bermudas with solarium tans. Many an eye was caught. When she gave my knee a squeeze under the table, I almost choked,
So... what's become of Dave?
Dave didn't phase her. Her eyebrows did little sideways jumps, counting back through Significant Others,
And yours?
The holiday was not to be divorced from certain precedents,
Had me moments, y'know.
But you weren’t expecting to bring-yer-own.
Her fingers did the walking. I didn’t tick her off,
Which would make me number what?
Excuse me! Her daughter was on the phone. Sandra switched voices and strutted off to the far end of the lounge. While she was gone, I had an urge to go through her “Gucci”. But she kept just in sight, pacing up and down as the planes taxied back and forth across the tarmac. It was like a quarter of an hour before she was back, smiling a tad sheepishly, Sorry, what were you saying?
I tried to copy the way her eyebrows had counted back,
Since Dave, I'd be number three, four, five..?
She laughed, shaking her grey-black curls and poked me in the chest,
Number Six!’
An actual wave of tingles ran up my spine. I'd spent the 60s watching spy series, picturing myself in the swinging world, the dark one with a dishy sidekick in miniskirt and Playtex bra. “Six” was my lucky number.
Soon enough, I would confront that hackneyed myth. She'd been to the bar, insisting it was her round – it was, by the way. Caution cast to the wind, the tray sported pints and large whiskey chasers,
Cheers! I knew we'd make it one day. Her voice dropped, You were always there in the background, y'know? Now it was my arm she squeezed. At least I had been working out. Oh, God! She ejaculated, whiskey in hand, D'you remember that time?
December 24th 1978. I had cringed a thousand times,
No ta!
Her pink cheeks flushed red, and her voice began to tail off even before she spoke,
You... I... We just weren't ready for each...
Of course, there was no sitting snogging on the plane. It was a wonder she got a seat at all. I mean, when we showed up at the airline desk, there'd been a cancellation only minutes before. I reached into my pocket, thinking, Cane the cash - Or commit to plastic? Sandra beat me to it, handing over her Amex card and shooting a line about Air Miles. The airline clerk was almost as impressed as me.
The way she pleaded with groups of passengers to swop seats and let us sit together was barefaced bloody cheek. Sandra Mills desperate for my company? I got wondering if she’d been secretly stalking me for months. Had she been recruited by the competition? Was this all some industrial espionage plot? Anyhow, no one was willing to budge, and we spent half the flight pretending to queue for the lav,
So Sandra, what let's you drop everything and fly to Greece on a whim?
Well, I don’t “just drop everything”. She was rooting through her bag again. It was then I realised the Gucci emblem had worn too well to be a fake. Her fingers were free of tobacco stains, the nails were immaculate. She had good looking teeth, great compared to mine. Her cheeks were pink but not with the burst capillaries of a habitual drinker. Her grey hairs might even have been highlights. She had such a small little bulge below the waistline, like a strapping young marsupial. My eyes and hands were drawn, which I'm pretty sure she noticed. Meantime, I saw she carried a spare bra, two wallets and a large leather bound desk diary - before she pulled out a top of the range, ultra-thin, I-Pad, It's all in here!
You’re a journalist?
A guffaw,
Me so grand? No, I just tidy up people's books. I’m an accountant. Qualified years back. You'd never guess, eh?
No, but... Failing to swallow my surprise, I blurted, Don’t you.. got like... tons of receipts and stuff to lug about?
And I thought YOU were the whizz kid? She tapped the tablet. Everything's scanned into this. She made a mock-sad face, I'll have to put in an hour or so now and then. She gave me a low wink, While you're sleeping it off.
On the taxi ride down to Piraeus, freshened up on duty free Estée Lauder, she chilled right out,
God, I've never been through Athens itself! Can’t we stop here and do the Acropolis?
Tut tut, old girl, that'll have to come later. She half frowned. Look, sorry to put my foot down, but I haven't worked the last twelve months for that. My first aim is to sink a cold tinny on a hot beach, then dive into the azure main.
Which was a little speech that did the trick,
You put your foot down whenever, old boy! The owl Acropolis can wait a day or two.
But what you going to wear? I haven’t brought much, but you’ll be skinny dipping. What d'you say, we find us a nudie beach?
Ugh! Look, it’s forty degrees, for Christ's sake, all I need's a swimsuit, flip flops and a wrap.
There are shops near the ferries.
Which was my big mistake. It hardly occurred to me she'd be off just as fast as she'd showed. The local crowds were out, everybody was after seats on the same line of boats. With a bit of pushing and a lot of luck we bought tickets for the island in question, leaving a bare hour. Only the shops weren’t so near the port as I’d remembered. Despite that, we took the chance and – Murphy's Law – next minute we'd gone our separate ways. I'd only lingered for a moment at an antique stall, and she was nowhere to be seen. I stood looking about me, dumbfounded. Then I was bellowing her name... until people began staring. So I dived through every grotty little rag mart in sight. The minutes were flying by, blood was rushing to my head. Then it dawned on me she was back at the port! I ran like a madman, convinced she was waiting on the boat. I jumped aboard with the hooter blaring out and all the seagulls taking off. But of course, she wasn't there.
The slow boat - that’s all we'd managed to book - was bristling - stem to stern, as they say - with working class Greeks. I think it was the start of their Wakes Week, but it could just as well have been the last ferry crossing the Mersey to New Brighton. The tickets we'd bought – the only ones left - were for the first class saloon; so I had two numbered seats in air conditioned splendour. Only I knew from bitter experience, when things went wrong on Day One, Dipstick, you was in for one disaster after another.
Still, I scoured the hulk before totally giving in to fate. Even then, part of me was tempted to stay out on deck, the easier to toss my stupid self overboard and swim back to Athens. The sea was criss-crossed with faster ferries, catamarans, even a noisy old hydrofoil that cut across our bows. Where was she? She must have got cold feet and given me the slip. The Acropolis had won after all! Ho-hum! Sorry, Sandra, but what else was a guy to think? I ducked into the saloon, picking my way through people on the floor, whole families and backpackers spread out like a scene at a refugee camp. A stern looking woman in black dress - a modern Spartan, I decided - was sitting in one of the Pulmans. I didn’t even bother to point out it wasn’t her place. It was her place, after all.
I’d already checked the bar, leaving with one of those miniature ouzos, which I tipped into my water bottle. I sat in the coolish, if overcrowded, saloon, slowly supping the cloudy liquid, falling in and out of a doze. The boat would lurch and the Greek woman sit up, while I slunk further and further down, a washed-out old beggar.
How did I get this bloody low? A fortnight of harmless shenanigans on a paradise island lay before me. It wasn’t as though the best laid plans of mice & men were now ruled out. Actually, being ahead of the game, everything was already in place. The white-walled studio on the hill overlooking the harbour was booked and paid for. The larder was ready-stocked from an on-line shop I’d done; all that was left was to pick up the key and a box of fresh goodies from the agency. I even had this sexy little motor buggy waiting for me somewhere on the quayside. And if I drew no dice companion-wise, a friend had recommended an app. Well, there was a first time for anything.
However, none of this consoled me in that noisy frigging saloon. I think the designers had deliberately sited it directly over the engine room in order to spite the 'rich folks' in their first class compartment. Money hadn't bought me comfort, never mind love. Not only bereft, I felt like an interloper. This nook of Greece would be plain parochial, like Rhyl in a heat wave. I could picture all the kids out on the beach tomorrow with their buckets and spades, and this loser wandering along in flannels and a straw boater. Not that I own flannels or any kind of hat (I am still cool, dontcha know). But that inner fool of mine was no James Bond, either; no Man in a Suitcase, not even the prudish Number Six. My Spartan neighbour was reading a Dan Brown novel. I couldn't make out the title but I decided that here in Greece Brown was an exotic foreign author. She read intently. I could see her reflection in the window opposite. Off guard, she didn't look so stern. Her brows were seriously knotted, but there was still a touch of girlishness where the hair grazed the back of her neck. When I glanced again, she caught me out. I stuffed the half drunk cloudy water bottle back into my rucksack.
Another four hours would pass before the mid summer sun dipped into the wine dark sea and the ill-chosen island came into view. Every so often, I'd wake and try to cheer myself up. No easy task. Even through the air conditioning of First Class, the sickly vanilla of custard tart would have turned the stomach of a professional pie eater. Eventually I recalled my resolution over the lingo, fishing out the phrase book and resuming where I’d left off the summer before. Kally spera! Eff-har-eestoh! Teek-hahnness? If it wasn't too obvious, perhaps my bluestocking neighbour would offer to help? Enna, dee-oh, tree-ah, tesseruh...
Everyone bailed out of the saloon as the boat rounded a headland and turned in towards port. As predicted, the sun was setting – a tremendous sight from the crowded deck. Still half a kilometre from shore, the warmth of night was closing in. Strings of lights along the promenade twinkled gaily; and the white and blue buildings climbing the hill behind looked picture perfect in the dusk. Despite all this eye-candy, the ouzo long having faded, I was nursing a throbbing head and a dry throat. Worse than that, sobering up brought on a panic attack. My heart was already pounding when we bumped against the quay and everyone lost their balance. In that moment, the Spartan - who had appeared right next to me again – more or less grabbed my elbow. Our eyes met, quite unintentionally, at least on my part. But she quickly pardoned herself and turned away. The sheen of sweat that had appeared on her brow was not on my account. She was scouring the promenade for someone. And there he was, her personal Greek god: an aging Hercules with shiny bald pate and goatee. We were hardly over the gangplank when he had plucked her from the crowd, scooped her up - baggage and all - and conducted her to his scooter. Off she went, as though with one stroke of his Creator's pen, Dan Brown had written her out of my story. For a second, it felt like all adventure and romance was gone for ever out of my life. And it was just then, when the surge of passengers had carried me into the agora of souvenir shops and taverna, that I heard her call my name,
Michael!
Uh?
She's behind ya!
Sandra?
Oh, you are a sight! It's been hours. I couldn't get a signal, not that I even had your stupid number...
I know! But how come you're already here?
I stowed away on that old hydrofoil. It went like a bomb. Giz a kiss, then!
And the rest is her story.
