Dancing in the Dark by Maureen Lee

Author:Maureen Lee [Lee, Maureen]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

FIFTEEN

A seasoned traveller, Fergus guides us confidently through the journey. The flight to Corfu is free of snags, everything happens as it is supposed to; I don’t have to worry about anything at all. It’s a welcome change from most of my trips abroad. We take a taxi to the house that Fergus has borrowed from his university friend and are greeted by an ancient woman who establishes that her name is Maria by repeating the word several times and gesturing at her black-swathed bosom. She speaks rapidly in Greek, a language I don’t know, Greece being one of the few countries where Luna never alighted. Luckily, Fergus seems to be fluent. The two of them chat away as Maria pulls open cupboards, demonstrates stoves, shows us where the spare canisters of Calor Gas are stored and how the washing machine works. Opening the big double refrigerator, she points at the contents and then at me. She pulls out a covered bowl and bats at her chest again, indicating that it’s for me, that she made it herself. I smile and nod while Fergus murmurs gratitude.

She ushers us upstairs and flourishes at the view, the linen cupboard, the bathrooms. She leads us into what is obviously the master bedroom and makes gestures at the huge bed. Now is not the time to indicate that we won’t be sharing it.

Downstairs, she shows us the garage where there’s an old car, a motor-scooter, bikes. She mimes someone on a bicycle, arms pumping, legs stamping so vigorously I almost see the wind in her sparse grey hair. She points at Fergus, throws back her head and cackles, showing us brown teeth spaced haphazardly in her gums.

‘So, what do we think?’ Fergus asks, when she has finally gone, walking away up the stony track towards the road above the house.

‘That we’re very lucky indeed,’ I say. ‘That your friend must be exceptionally nice to let us have this place.’

‘I’m in a state of total guilt. Ian’s been incredibly generous, and I’ve been thinking the most uncharitable thoughts about him.’

‘Who is he?’

‘Some financial wizard I knew at university. A walking cliché. Always wanted to write the Great English Novel but instead took the easy glide into money-making, and ever since has felt that he betrayed his genius.’

‘He knows I’m here, does he?’

‘Yes, but I didn’t mention your name.’

Contentment falls over me. From Fergus’s description, I’d expected something between a castle in Spain and a piece of Hollywood schmaltz and it is undoubtedly very luxurious. Nonetheless, there’s a comfortable feel about the place, as though it’s a genuine home-from-home. Ancient straw hats hang from hooks on the wall of the kitchen, there are ashes in the hearth where the scent of olivewood still lingers. I can imagine Fergus’s friend and his family walking in for the first time each year, stepping out of their stiff English selves, taking on the relaxed personae that people do when they’re away from the pressure of daily living.

I choose a bedroom.

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