Margaret Hastings-James

 “Cleavage or hair?” Chloe slid the glossy magazine across the counter to me.

    “Hair – I’d definitely take the hair. That kind of cleavage is easy to fake.”

    “Says you.”

    I took a couple of cloth napkins from behind the bar, rolled them up and packed them in the bottom of my bra.

    “Not bad, but the right one needs some work.” She passed me a cocktail napkin.

    The bartender said something, eyes glued to my breasts.

    “What’d he say?” Despite three years on the Greek island of Mikos, I still had a hard time understanding what people said to me. Give me a couple of drinks though, and I could talk a blue streak.

    “He said yours aren’t bad but hers are better.” Chloe pointed to the magazine.

    “He should know. I bet he could do a thesis on my tits. Ask him what colour my eyes are.” I covered them with my hand.

    “He says who cares?”

    This didn’t surprise me. Cyrus thought he was a real lady killer. He pictured himself as a Greek version of Brad Pitt when in fact he was Richie Sambora on a bad day. I’d never seen him go out on a date.

    You could tell he and my boss, Demetiros, were related: same attitude, same look, same obsession with tits. From the beginning Demented, my nickname for him after the first week on the job, took a shine to me. I liked to think it was my friendly, outgoing personality that had got me in, but it was no doubt the snugly-fitting angora sweater I wore to the interview that cinched the deal. I’ve never worn it again – even though he asks after it fondly from time to time.

    “Teddy!” Demented shouted from the door.

    I took a haul from Chloe’s cigarette and rubbed the smoke from my eyes. I grabbed an order pad and shoved a pencil behind my ear.

    The way out of the restaurant was a minefield of the boss’s old cronies. They were jammed in at the small, inside tables while the long ones outside under the vine-covered trellises were reserved for tourists. The old guys watched me walk out and commented loudly to each other. After three years, I didn’t pay much attention; they were as much a part of the decor as the ring-stained tables and the ring-stained armpits of Demented’s undershirt. The grey undershirt was part of his uniform which included worn black pants with his belly hanging low over the waistband.

    He spent his evenings stationed in the doorway of the taverna harassing unsuspecting tourists into taking a seat outside. He did pretty well too, despite his heavy, massacred English.  

    I squeezed through the doorway, trying not to touch any part of him.  Night had fallen and above the smell of olive oil, garlic and Demented, the cooler night sea air was coming in. I took a deep breath and gazed up at the black star-lit sky. Despite everything – Demented, Cyrus, crappy pay – I never regretted my decision to stay…

 

    My visit to Greece had started out as a small holiday. Well, actually, it was more than that – it was my honeymoon. I’d waited for the groom at the altar for an hour, and when he didn’t show I got extremely drunk and went on the honeymoon alone.

    I’d felt awkward checking into the bridal suite at the famous Aspasia Resort on the isle of Mikos that first evening. But after getting a bottle of complimentary champagne under my belt, and having a long soak in the Jacuzzi, I began to care less.

    Over the next week, I spent days on the beach reading, eating, drinking, and smoking, and nights in bed reading, eating, drinking and smoking. It was a perfect world where no one cared, and least of all me, about the state of my lungs, liver or butt.

    So I was feeling pretty mellow, almost beach-whaleish, when time ran out on the ocean-view bridal suite. I wasn’t ready to give up the luxury of the resort so I got a room on the first floor at the back of the main hotel.

    In the beginning I’d used the groom’s credit card until I suppose he felt he’d paid his dues for jilting me and cancelled it. So my retail therapy spree came to a screeching halt with a memorable card-cutting ceremony performed by Mr. Keith at the Resort’s beauty spa.

 

    “Theodora…” Demented’s voice boomed behind me making me jump. “Table tria – now.”

    “All right, already,” I said, stomping off. “Jesus, it’s not like they’re going risk leaving with you here, is it?”

    “What?” he shouted after me.

    “Nothing.”

    At table tria sat a typical vacationing family at the end of the day, at the end of their rope. The two kids were bitching and complaining at an older lady who sat with her head in her hands. Typically, the man was reading the menu like nothing was going on. Guys seem to have some sort of switch in their heads that tunes out whining kids.

    I looked longingly at Chloe’s section on the other side of the street in a square where couples dined in peace at tables for two. Seated at one of the tables was a man, alone. He was probably mid-twenties and even seated I could tell he had a body to die for. He wore tight jeans, sports jacket, and wind-blown, streaked blond hair.

    Once in awhile we got interesting people slumming it from Aspasia Resort. I missed that place. I sometimes went back to visit. Mr. Keith, or Kitty to close personal friends, and I had become quite attached after the credit-card cutting incident. I think that was the turning point in my life.

    With the credit card gone, I worked my way through my checking account, and from there it was a short step to my savings. Then, throwing all caution to the wind, plus any hope of a comfortable retirement, I cashed in my retirement savings bonds and checked out of the hotel.

I found a small studio apartment attached to an old woman’s house. She had to be the most crotchety woman in Greece, and quite possibly the entire world. Rumour had it her husband dumped her for a young tourist and had left her and the island. The whole world had been paying for it ever since. Despite having the jilted thing in common, it didn’t thaw her any towards me. To tell the truth, on bad-mood days, I saw a lot of myself in her…

    When the money from my bonds ran out, I had to make a decision. Did I want to go home and be known as Poor Jilted Teddy Richmond for the rest of my life or did I want to stay on Mikos and be known as that Strange Foreigner? Given the choice – which I was – I elected to be strange rather than poor. That’s how I ended up spending three years in Demented’s greasy spoon, slinging hash with his American-Greek niece Chloe. 

    And there was Chloe coming out of the restaurant, crossing the street to the square. She’d run a comb through her long black hair, freshened her lipstick, and undone another button on her blouse. She slipped into a Kate Moss runway walk.

    Sighing I raised my voice over the din coming from my table. “Waddle it be?”

    “I want a burger and fries.” The girl chucked her menu across the table at me.

    “Sorry, not on the menu.” I slid the menu back to her with the end of my pencil. I glanced at the square where Chloe was leaning in close with one hand on the table talking to the blond.

    “Excuse me!” the girl said loudly.

    “I’m listening,” I said.

    The man’s cell phone rang and he pounced on it.

    I looked at the girl. She was about fifteen and dressed head to toe in black. She had an eyebrow ring and two nose rings, one of which was attached by a long chain to one of the five earrings on her left ear. The right ear looked naked with only three small studs. God only knew what else she had pierced under those baggy clothes. Her long hair was dyed a dull black and pulled messily into a pony tail. She had enough make-up on to do half the women on the island and had more attitude than my crotchety old landlady.

    “I… want… a… burger… and… fries,” the girl said, like she was talking to some senile old woman.

    “I heard you the first time. Try again.” I pointed to the menu.

    “But I don’t want that Greek crap.”

    I looked at the father. He held up a finger while he finished the call. If he knew how much I hated people who talked on cell phones in restaurants he’d get that finger out of my face. I wanted to slam it shut in his expensive-looking cell phone.

    “Look, why don’t I come back when you’ve all made up your minds and are ready to order something on… the… menu…”

    The older woman smiled wearily at me, but said nothing – obviously all fought out for the day.

    “But I already made up my mind,” the girl said.

    I gritted my teeth, feelings of frustration I once had as a teacher flooded back. I counted to ten and gave the kid one of my killer teacher stares, known to have silenced entire classes in my day. Then taking the pencil from behind my ear and taking charge I said, “Right, four musakas.”

    It’d serve them right. Demented used eggplants so old the purple had faded to blue, potatoes with more eyes than his old cronies, and lambs so old they had to be taken to slaughter in wheelchairs.

    The girl glared at me but decided not to argue. The little boy risked a small smile. He was a cute kid, around five or six with reddish copper hair and blue eyes. He seemed like the only normal one out of the bunch – he had to be adopted.

    The man flipped his phone shut and flashed me a brilliant smile.   

    “Musaka?” His voice was deep and lazy.

    I nodded. He looked sort of familiar. I’d seen that face somewhere before.

    “And what are we drinking?” he asked.

    “On the back.” I tapped the menu with my pencil.

    He turned it over. “Okay. One triple scotch.”

    My mouth must have dropped opened.

    “For Nanny.”

    The plump older woman reddened slightly, but already looked happier.

    “I’ll have a beer,” the girl said.

    We both looked at her and she clamped her mouth shut.

    “Two cokes and I’ll take the beer – whatever you got.”

    I snapped my pad shut and took the scenic route through the courtyard to the restaurant. The blond looked up as I passed and flashed me a wicked grin. He had perfectly straight white teeth. I resisted the urge to run home, wash my hair and change into my one and only little black dress with the drop neckline and spaghetti straps.

    “Does that guy sound as good as he looks?” I asked Chloe when I got inside. “My God, he’s amazing. What did he say to you?”

    “He said he’s a model. A bunch of them are here on assignment. He invited us out for a drink later. Interested?”

    “Are you nuts? Where? When?”

    “He said he’d meet us at The Club with some of his friends after work.” This place was the place to be seen that summer.

    “God, what should I wear? Did he say if any other model-types would be there?”

Chloe didn’t answer.

“Hey, earth to Chloe…” I waved a hand in front of her face. “What else did he say to you?”

    “Who cares?” she said dismissively. “More importantly what did he say to you?”

    “Who?”

    “You mean you don’t know who that is at your table?” Chloe looked at me as if I were crazy.

    “Which table?”

    “Three.”

    “Unless they’ve moved, it’s the family from hell.”

    “You honestly don’t know who that guy is?”

    I looked out the door. The kids were arguing. The nanny was eyeing a bottle of wine on the next table. The man was on his cell phone, again.

    “He sort of looks familiar,” I said, taking Chloe’s cigarette from the ashtray and taking a thoughtful drag.

    Chloe flipped through the pile of magazines at her elbow and produced a dog-eared copy of a sleazy tabloid. She opened it and passed it to me.

    “That’s him?” I said, squinting. The photo was kind of fuzzy. “Nick Chandler.”

    I looked out the door, I looked at the photo, I looked out the door again. “Holy shit, you’re right. That is him.”

    When I’d first come to the island, I kept my eyes peeled for Brad Pitt, Keanu Reeves, or Johnny Depp, but they never showed. Celebrities were known to hang out on the island from time to time. After a couple of disappointing months, I would have even settled for a minor television star or two. In three years, I’d seen nothing – nada – not the faintest glimmer of any celestial body. But now, here was Nick Chandler – the Nick Chandler – sitting at table tria, my table tria  – talk about hitting the jack pot.

    “It says here he just finished a movie in the States called Excess,” Chloe read from the article.

    Nick Chandler did mostly action/adventure movies. But in his last film he’d played a convincing sensitive good guy type. Now, having met him in person and seeing what he was like with his kids, I realized just what a great actor he was. 

    “He’s supposed to be on vacation in Italy with his latest lover,” Chloe read out loud. 

    “I didn’t see any lovers at his table unless he’s into older nannies.” I took a swig of Chloe’s drink and made a face. It was sickly sweet.

    “They say here he’s going out with Carmen Electra.”

    “Which is probably why she’s happily engaged to Rob Patterson. What’s Nick Chandler doing here anyway?” I asked.

    “Looking for some peace and quiet?” Chloe suggested.

    “He should have dropped the kid then. I wonder if she’s his. I wonder if she’s even from this planet.”

    “They’re probably his. He had two kids with a woman who left them for a title and a tiara somewhere in Europe. The ex-wife filed for divorce on the grounds that he had no heart.”

    “My you’re a real fountain of knowledge, aren’t you? How do you know all this stuff?” 

    Chloe patted the stack of magazines next to her.

    “We all know how reliable the National Tattler is,” I said.

    “But, I know they got his history right even if they did get the love interest wrong.”

    “What if they’re right about everything and we’ve been living in Italy all these years without even knowing it.”

    “Mama Mia, I think not. The Italians would never allow someone like dear Uncle Demented in their country.” Chloe picked up another magazine and started flipping through it.

    I watched the ice melting in the drinks on the tray in front of me. Nick Chandler, go figure…

    “So… what did you think of him?” Chloe looked up from the magazine.

    “As far as I could tell, the only difference between him and Demented is a clean shirt and class.”

    “Come on, you’re kidding right?”

    “Believe me, the guy is a typical macho egocentric male.”

    “Wow, you could tell that from just taking his order?”

    “No, but I know the type.”

    “Really? I didn’t know you knew any actor-director-producer types?”

    “I don’t.”

    “Ah…” Chloe nodded her head meaningfully.

    “Okay, okay. Let’s just say it was a first impression based on the fact that his telephone is more important to him than his kids, which is probably why they’re such brats and why the nanny is downing triples.”

    I picked up his beer and putting my thumb over the top gave it a good shake. I put it back on the tray and watched the bubbles die.

    “You really don’t like him, do you?” Chloe said.

    “Not really – I don’t know. Based on what I just saw, no… but then he was so good in Strangers at Dawn. I mean he can’t be all bad, can he?”

    “It was a role, Teddy. Nick Chandler is not Jake Stone.”

    “I know, I know. But remember that love scene?”

    Chloe smiled and nodded, her eyes glowing.

    “Me too,” I said. “Now pass me your lipstick.”

    Chloe laughed. “You’re going after Nick Chandler?”

    I looked down at my cut-off shorts and my wrinkled tank top. Since I’d been on a strict budget, and since I’d worked at the restaurant, I’d managed to keep my weight down. My hair wasn’t bad. I’d grown it to below my shoulders, and with Kitty sneaking me into the salon to touch up the copper auburn color every once in a while it was in pretty good shape. Of course, I was no Carmen Electra but I could hold my own – given the right light…

    “Can’t hurt to give it a try.”

    “Here.” Chloe shoved her whole make-up bag at me. “You might as well fix your eyes while you’re at it.”

    “Why? What’s the matter with them?”

    “Well, unless you’re competing with the daughter for Punk of the Year you might want to tone down the black a bit.”

    I grabbed her compact and focused the little mirror on one eye. I looked like a raccoon from where I’d rubbed the smoke from my eyes earlier.

    “How could you let me go out there like that?” I howled.

    “You left before I could stop you,” Chloe said.

    “Oh God! I can’t believe he saw me looking like this!” I dipped the corner of a napkin in the jug of water on Nick Chandler’s tray and started scrubbing.

    “What do you care anyway? You don’t even like the guy.”

    “So, what’s that got to do with anything?”

    “Theodora!” Demented bellowed from the door way. “Tria! Drinks! Now!”

    One of these days I was going to take the time to teach that man how to make a complete sentence and to conjugate his verbs. His singular use of the imperative was really beginning to get on my nerves.

    “At least the black brings out the green flecks in your eyes,” Chloe said.

    I checked myself in the mirror one last time. My eyes were now not only ringed with black but also red from scrubbing. I gave up and handed Chloe the mirror. Like I stood a chance anyway.

I picked up the tray and a tiny lone ice cube in Nanny’s scotch clinked soulfully as I walked out into the warm night – and into Nick Chandler’s life …

To find out how the story ends you can order the book from the links on the Happenings page.  Amazon.com will say that they are out of stock but they will ship it. Once enough people order it they will have it in stock. If you go into Chapters personally you need to tell them that it is a book they have on consignment because they won’t find it on their computers. If enough people go into Chapters asking for the book they will order it directly from the distributor, and if enough of you ask they will actually order it in and carry it on their shelves and in their computers – oh, happy day!

P.S.   If anyone happens to know Oprah let me know!!!