My Big Fat Christmas Wedding (2 page)

‘This belonged to my great aunt Alexis. She had no children and considered me her own grandson. When I was a little boy, she gave this to Mama and told me to one day give it to the woman who captured my heart.’ A smile crossed his face. ‘Of course, at the time I was more interested in capturing carp.’ He squeezed my fingers and his face kind of scrunched up. ‘I…I know it’s not long after Henrik’s proposal. And Greece…the economy… So if you need time to think – I would understand if you don’t see your future in Kos.’

My heart pounded and I wanted to stand upright and sing! Niko and me married? A tear trickled down my cheek. I couldn’t have felt more different to when my practical, down-to-earth ex-boyfriend had proposed in the summer – which was odd. Up until my trip here, I’d agreed with Henrik that slushy declarations of love were for teenagers or the pastel-covered beach reads that I ironically liked to read. But there was something about Niko’s seductive words that always softened my logical, pragmatic part. And as for the country’s difficulties, I felt nothing but compassion for the Greek people.

‘No.’

His shoulders dropped.

‘No, no, I don’t need time to think!’

His eyes sparked and he pulled me towards him, his warm mouth once again owning mine. I breathed in his natural aroma, a kind of musky, leather masculine scent. My desire for him became more urgent, as our bodies pressed together. Gently, he pushed me away, eyes dancing, cheeks flushed. He took the ring out of the box and hesitated for a moment. Of course – over here wedding rings didn’t go on the left-hand finger, but the right.

More tears flowing, I laughed and offered him my right hand.

‘We’re going to have to compromise,’ I said. ‘Won’t I have to convert to your religion? And then there is the reception venue to choose. Above all else, I don’t want an over-the-top wedding.’

Niko’s infectious chuckles filled the balmy evening air. ‘Good luck with telling Mama and Grandma. We’d better set an early date, if you don’t want arrangements to snowball.’

Snowball. Great word. Like so many of the locals, Niko spoke good English, despite sometimes still misunderstanding the basics. Whereas Greek, to me, might as well have been like learning cat or dog, and don’t even get me started on its written alphabet.

I clapped my hands. ‘Then talking of snow, what about a Christmas wedding? It would cheer up those quiet winter months you talk of.’

In response, Niko – my husband-to-be – gave me a kiss hot enough to turn the sturdiest of snowmen into a puddle.

Chapter One

Imagine this – like a Disney princess, I’ll actually wear a crown at my wedding. Not that I aspire to be swept off my feet by some prince on a white steed. No. I’m a twenty-first century woman who has the tools to write her own happy ending. That’s what I’d been brought up to believe, anyway. But still – I couldn’t help but feel excited about my very own fairy tale ceremony, set on a Greek island, with a lean, lush, loyal fisherman hero fiancé. Mmm, talk about my very own Mr Incredible.

‘
Ya
sou
, Pippitsa! Day-dreaming again?’ Sophia’s heart-shaped face broke into a smile as she entered the gleaming silver kitchen. She ran a hand over her greying hair, scraped back in a bun. ‘My Niko is the same. You two honey puffs are like love-struck teenagers this morning.’

With a wink, Sophia proceeded to tidy the cutlery drawer, whistling along to the Christmas CD. Traditional Greek carols played by cheerful recorders and glockenspiels rang out. Sophia loved the festive season and had been counting down to today, the first of December, so that she could claim a tenuous legitimacy for starting the celebrations.

Gently my fingertips rubbed butter into flour. ‘I can’t help it. Our wedding month is finally here! We have lots to think about with only four weeks to the ceremony.’ I gave a wry smile. ‘Almost as much as you and Grandma.’

Sophia chuckled. ‘Do not begrudge us. A wedding is one of the greatest occasions for any family. Grandma has loved organising the flowers and together with Georgios, I think we have created the perfect menu for the reception.’

My chest glowed. Yes, Niko’s dad had been practising recipes for weeks. With his perspiring bald head and knitted-together bushy eyebrows, he’d slaved over cheese and honey pies, moussaka and special sourdough breads with coins hidden inside. And Grandma had cleverly designed inexpensive decorations for the church and reception that would take place here at Taxos Taverna, incorporating her namesake bloom, Iris. What’s more…ah. Forgive me. Temporarily I’d forgotten my good resolutions not to become a wedding bore.

Whilst I added feta cheese, sundried tomatoes and oregano to my dough mix, a herby fragrance rose up from the bowl. My mouth salivated at the prospect of butter melting over halves of warm savoury scones. I gazed at Sophia and took in the pronounced circles under her eyes; how her once curvy stomach looked flatter.

‘Just remember what we agreed with my mum and dad…if the catering bills are steeper than expected then we’ll need to inform them and—’

Sophia’s body stiffened. ‘Dear Pippa. All is fine,’ she replied, in a bright voice. ‘Across the island, our family has pulled together. Your wedding feast will be one to remember.’

But her face dropped slightly as she poured herself a coffee before walking left, back into the family’s taverna. Turn right, and you entered Pippa’s Pantry, the afternoon teashop. I know. Me fulfilling a childhood dream by managing a quaint café. How lucky was I?

Kneading the dough could wait a few minutes. I headed into the taverna and sat down opposite my mother-in-law to be. I surveyed the ochre walls, which had been newly re-painted, and the mahogany beams. Thank goodness Georgios’ makeover, in time for the wedding, hadn’t included straightening the adorable wonky shelves bearing plant pots, plates and various string instruments.

I cleared my throat. A big celebration was something the Sotiropoulos family – that any Greek family – could ill afford, in these economically difficult times. Yet Sophia and Georgios had insisted on splitting all the bills with me and my parents. It made no sense. We could have easily paid for everything, had it not been for that stubborn, Greek pride.

I sighed. Yes, the pride that nevertheless made me love my extended family to bits.

‘How is the dress?’ asked Sophia, as I put my elbows on the table. ‘What luck that our local baker is also an excellent seamstress.’

Dear, talented Pandora, the most fashionable woman in this little village, with her Italian-cut trousers and stylish short hair – and my matron of honour. As children, Niko and I would often visit her cake shop where she’d give us a glass of milk and egg biscuits or moist slices of fresh baklava.

‘Pandora’s lace work is exquisite.’

‘And what does your mother think to its design?’ Sophie sipped her coffee, a twinkle in her tired eyes

We both grinned. My parents had spent many summers, on a break from their executive lifestyles, holidaying in their Taxos villa, and were good friends with Georgios and Sophia.

‘As you know, Mum and Dad got married in a registry office.’ I chuckled. ‘She tries hard, but is always bemused by the fuss for traditional English weddings, let alone a floral, dance-filled Greek affair.’

In a way this was a relief as Mum not being here meant one less opinion to consider. She was the opposite to Niko’s extended family, who had visited for our engagement party, sharing extravagant ideas about dresses, food and hair styles.

‘I wonder what my parents will think to the cake,’ I said, pleased to see Sophia’s eyes light up further. After Grandma’s recent illness, I hadn’t the heart to reject her unusual idea of a three-tiered blue and white wedding sponge, in the shape of a domed Greek church, with green and black olive marzipan branches draped around the bottom.

‘And that’s as far as Sophia and I got discussing the wedding,’ I said to Niko, several hours later. ‘The cleaning agency rang and needed her quick-smart at the airport.’ We sat cuddled together on the beach, in our coats, watching the moon disappear behind a cloud. I’d mulled over the family’s state of finances all afternoon and come up with an idea. ‘Sophia looked shattered as it was, without having to go into Kos Town.’ I glanced sideways at Niko, his curly hair shimmying in the breezy air. He leant forward and brushed my lips with his. Heart thumping, I closed my eyes, waiting for more, but he pulled away.

‘I worry too. And Papa works hard, taking on extra bar work. Hopefully this is the last winter Taxos will be as dead as Achilles. Once the Marine Museum is set up and the villagers have established their new businesses, surely our summer profits should rise enough to see us through the cold months?’

This was the plan – that next year, tourists still chose Greece as a holiday destination. Yet the huge rise in VAT and its effect on restaurant bills meant bad news for tourists and the village’s taverna owners, including Niko’s parents.

‘At least the museum will attract school excursions all year round.’

Niko nodded. ‘And we can but hope the flood of Syrian refugees arriving in Kos becomes a trickle.’.’

‘Stavros certainly hopes so.’ I’d bumped into the town mayor last week and all he could talk of was clean-up operations. But we both agreed - you can’t blame people for running to save their lives.’

‘True. Even though the crossing to here from Turkey is so treacherous.’

‘Their plight puts our financial problems with the wedding into perspective,’ I muttered. ‘Talking of which…would your parents consider…you see, Mum and Dad have just sold some shares.’

Cheeks hot, I gazed out at the waves, a dark denim colour through the moonlight. The Santa beard froth of breakers momentarily crawled up the beach, only to be dragged backwards.

Niko squeezed my arm before picking up a pebble which he tossed across the sand. I squinted through the darkness. It slid next to a large whelk shell.

‘We okay, Pippa. No worry about money. I didn’t like to say anything, as you’re so modest, but the villagers are helping out as well – because of everything you did, last summer.’

‘But it was nothing. Taxos is turning its own future around because of the community spirit.’

‘Pippa!’ He stood up and pulled me to my feet. My stomach flipped as his hands closed firmly around my hips. An enticing patch of chest became visible behind his open coat and shirt buttons.

‘Nothing? Let me see… You conquered your ex-boyfriend’s soulless development plans to turn this village into just another tourist resort; you inspired the villagers to set up their own businesses instead, offering services such as cycle tours and baking classes; you helped close the deal of a big Marine Museum being built in Taxos, to secure a degree of trade all year round. And you say nothing?’ He shook his head. ‘If you believe that then you live in cloud canary land.’

‘Cuckoo,’ I mumbled, cheeks hotter than ever.

‘Huh?’

‘It’s cloud cuckoo land.’

Niko’s eyes danced. ‘Don’t change the subject, my little fig. Face it. You are still the villagers’ hero. So, the Dellises are making special cheese for the wedding. Demetrios fires special bowls in his kiln, for the wedding breakfast…’ Niko listed further examples of the villagers’ generosity, his thumbs gently massaging the curve of my lower back, now and then sliding under the waistband of my jeans.

He took my hand and we strolled along the beach, heading south towards our favourite fig tree. It stood by a disused shed, just in front of Caretta Cove where its namesake, the Loggerhead turtle, used to nest.

‘All is good. Wedding under control. My cousins bring food. Plus Uncle Christos has saved up several bottles of his homemade ouzo. Everything is in foot.’

Chest aglow, I didn’t have the heart to tell him it was “in hand”.

But still. Sophia and Georgios struggled. Plus I’d noticed lately how all the villagers felt the strain – including Niko. Over recent weeks I’d sensed his intense frustration at us having to live with his parents. Since he’d put that ring on my finger, he spoke non-stop of our future – a home of our own; having kids.

‘At one time fishermen were kings in Kos,’ he once said. ‘And now they scrabble for change to pay their bills.’

Something needed doing to bring in extra income. We sat down under the tree which gave us little shelter without its large summer fragrant leaves and fleshy fruit. I shivered and looked out onto the coal-coloured horizon.

‘Tell me,’ he said.

I turned to him. ‘What?’

‘I always know when you have something to say. You suck your lips inwards and a look of concentration comes over your face.’

Immediately I relaxed my mouth and returned his grin. He shuffled to face me directly, like a child waiting for the start of a nativity play.

‘Okay. I’ve been thinking of how to bring more money into everyone’s pockets over the coming month. The Christmas fasting period is from the thirteenth to the twenty-fifth of December, right?’

Niko nodded.

‘And our wedding is on Friday the twenty-ninth. I suggest from the Tuesday the twenty-sixth, directly after Christmas Day, up to our wedding, we hold…a Christmas market!’

Nothing.

‘Niko! You could look more enthusiastic.’

His face broke into a half-hearted smile. ‘Sorry.’ He shrugged. ‘But Kos Town holds a festive market every year.’

‘I know – remember that time I came over here in December, with Mum and Dad? It was our first Christmas without Granddad and Mum wanted to get away…’

Niko shrugged and rubbed the back of his neck.

‘I can still picture the schoolchildren dancing in Santa outfits, the band and stalls filled with pottery items, festive food and baubles.’ It was also why I understood the Greeks’ different Christmas traditions, like exchanging gifts on the first of January instead of the twenty-fifth of December.

‘But why would shoppers come all the way to little Taxos, when they have everything they need in the island’s capital?’

‘For a start, they don’t have an afternoon teashop. Just think of the Christmas scones I could make, flavoured with cloves and zingy orange – or savoury sage and onion stuffing, to give my part of the market an English flavour. Also, let’s set up a traditional English Santa’s grotto, in Pippa’s Pantry.’