No pictures, no stuff. Nothing to show who lived here, nor the family he’d had and lost.
The sun finally kissed the sea and orange exploded across the sky, highlighted by dashes of pink. Hannah abandoned her tour, moving instead to the enormous terrace she’d seen when she’d first arrived. No sooner had she stepped onto it than the housekeeper appeared.
‘Miss May, would you like anything to eat or drink?’
Hannah thought longingly of an ice-cold glass of wine and grimaced. ‘A fruit juice?’ she suggested.
‘Very good. And a little snack?’ The housekeeper was lined, her tanned skin marked with the lines of a life well-lived and filled with laughter. Her hair, once dark, had turned almost completely silver, except at her temples, where some inky colour stubbornly clung.
‘I’m not very hungry.’ Hannah wasn’t sure why she said the words apologetically, only it felt a little as if the housekeeper was excited at the prospect of having someone else to feed.
‘Ah, but you are eating for two, no?’ And her eyes twinkled, crinkling at the corners with the force of her smile, and Hannah’s chest squeezed because, for the first time since discovering her pregnancy, someone seemed completely overjoyed with the news.
Her flatmates had been shocked, her boss had been devastated at the possibility of losing someone he’d come to rely on so completely, and Leonidas had been…what? How had he felt? Hannah couldn’t say with certainty, only it wasn’t happiness. Shock. Fear. Worry. Guilt.
‘My appetite hasn’t really been affected,’ she said.
‘Ah, that will come,’ the housekeeper murmured knowingly. ‘May I?’ She gestured to Hannah’s stomach.
Mrs Chrisohoidis lifted her aged hands, with long, slender fingers and short nails, and pressed them to Hannah’s belly and for a moment, out of nowhere, Hannah was hit with a sharp pang of regret—sadness that her own mother wouldn’t get to enjoy this pregnancy with her.
‘It’s a girl?’
Hannah’s expression showed surprise. ‘Yes. How did you know?’
At this, Mrs Chrisohoidis laughed. ‘A guess. I have a fifty per cent chance, no?’
Hannah laughed, too. ‘Yes. Well, you guessed right.’
‘A girl is good. Good for him.’ She looked as though she wanted to say something more, but then shrugged. ‘I bring you some bread.’
Hannah suppressed a smile and turned her attention back to the view, thinking once more of the beautiful coastline of Chrysá Vráchia, of how beautiful that island had been, how perfect everything about that night had seemed.
She’d longed to visit the island from the first time she’d seen footage of it in a movie and had been captivated by the cliffs that were cast of a stone that shimmered gold at sunrise and sunset. The fact she’d been able to book her flights so easily, the fact Leonidas had been there in the bar and she’d looked at him and felt an instant pull of attraction…the fact he’d reciprocated. It had all seemed preordained, right down to the conception of a child despite the fact they’d used protection.
When she heard the glass doors behind her slide open once more, she turned around with an easy smile on her face, expecting to see the housekeeper returning. Only it wasn’t Mrs Chrisohoidis who emerged, carrying a champagne flute filled with orange juice.
‘Leonidas.’ Her smile faltered. Not because she wasn’t happy to see him but because a simmering heat overtook any other thoughts and considerations.
‘I am sorry I left you so long.’
‘It’s fine.’ The last thing she wanted was for him to see her as an inconvenience—a house guest he had to care for. She knew the feeling well. Being foisted upon an unwilling aunt and uncle taught one to recognise those signs with ease. She ignored the prickle of disappointment and panic at finding herself in this situation, yet again.
This wasn’t the same. She was an adult now, making her own decisions, choosing what was best for her child. ‘You don’t need to feel like you have to babysit me,’ she said, a hint of defensiveness creeping into her statement.
His nod showed agreement with her words and, she thought, a little gratitude.
He didn’t want to be saddled with a clinging housemate any more than she intended to be one.
‘I will show you around, after dinner.’
‘I’ve already had a look around,’ she murmured, but her mind was zeroed in on his use of the word ‘dinner’. It had all happened so fast she hadn’t stopped to think about what their marriage would look like. Would it be this? Dinner together? Two people living in this huge house, pretending to be here by choice?
Or polite strangers, trapped in an elevator with one another, having to stay that way until the moment of escape? Except there was no escape here, no one coming to jimmy the doors open and cajole the lift into motion.
This was her life—his life.
‘And I mean what I said. Please don’t feel you have to keep me company, or have dinner with me or anything. I know what this is.’
‘Ne?’ he prompted curiously.
Mrs Chrisohoidis appeared then, carrying not only some bread, but a whole platter, similar to the one they’d shared on the flight, but larger and more elaborate, furnished with many dips, vegetables, fish, cheeses and breads.
‘I make your favourite for dinner.’ She smiled at Leonidas as she placed the platter on a table towards the edge of the terrace.
‘Thank you, Marina.’
They both watched her retreat and then Leonidas gestured towards the table.
‘She’s worked for you a while?’ Hannah eyed the delicious platter as she sat down and found that, to her surprise, she was in fact hungry after all. She reached for an olive, lifting it to her lips, delighting in its fleshy orb and salty flavour.
‘Marina?’ He nodded. ‘For as long as I can remember.’
That intrigued her. ‘Since you were young?’
He nodded.
‘So she worked for your parents?’
‘Yes.’
A closed door. Just like his wife and son.
Hannah leaned against the balcony, her back to the view, her eyes intent on the man she was going to marry. ‘Did you grow up here?’
He regarded her thoughtfully. ‘No.’
‘Where, then?’
‘Everywhere.’ A laconic shrug.
‘I see. So this is also “off limits”?’
Her directness clearly surprised him. He smiled, a tight gesture, and shook his head. ‘No. I simply do not talk about my parents often. Perhaps I’ve forgotten how.’
She could relate to that. Aunt Cathy had hated Hannah talking about her own mother and her father. ‘He was my brother! How do you think it makes me feel to hear you going on about them? Heartbroken, that’s how.’ And nine-year-old Hannah had learned to keep her parents alive in her own mind, her own head, rather than by sharing her memories with anyone else who could mirror them back to her.
Angus had asked about them, but by then she’d been so used to cosseting her memories that it hadn’t come easily to explain what they’d been like.