The Butterfly Storm (9 page)

I can’t believe she’s just said that. Actually, I take that back. I can believe it, that’s the trouble.
This is everything I’m trying so hard to fight against. She glances in the dressing table mirror before
handing us the glasses of wine. Her dyed blonde hair is sprayed so rigidly that a hair wouldn’t move out
of place even if she went and stood in the rain.

‘Takis said to cut the cake without you. I said, no, I want all my family with me.’ Her eyes rest on
me. ‘Sophie, what’s wrong?’

‘Mama, not now,’ Alekos says. ‘Sophie had a phone call from England…’

‘Aleko, leave it.’

He glances at me then back to Despina. ‘We’ll only be a minute.’

‘You’ve been crying,’ she says, ignoring Alekos and peering at me.

‘I’m fine.’

She clicks her tongue and shakes her head. ‘Sophie, I know you’re not…’

‘I’m fine, really,’ I say. Alekos tenses next to me. Let him. It’s pathetic. Why can’t he just face up to
her and say ‘get the hell out of our room.’ I could scream. Despina opens her mouth to speak again and
then closes it. With a nod she backs out of the room and shuts the door with a click. I put the wine
glass down on the dressing table. There’s a lengthy pause before her footsteps clip clop down the
hall.

‘This is exactly what I’m talking about. No space!’ I fling my hands into the air. ‘Your Mum walks
in here, thinking we’re having sex and doesn’t see anything wrong in that.’

‘It’s only because…’

‘I know, she wants more grandchildren. There might as well be no walls in this place.’

‘I can’t change my family,’ he says.

‘I’m not asking you to.’

Still grasping the glass of wine, he steps towards me. ‘It’s going to be okay. I promise.’

‘Go join the party. I need to find a flight for tomorrow.’

‘I’ll talk to her. About coming with you.’ He kisses my forehead before retreating from the
room.

All I can see through the window are rain clouds smothering the moon and stars like a blanket.
Everything I want from life feels as if it’s escaping through my fingers. I want to look to the future but
once I get on that plane tomorrow, I’ll have to revisit my past.

It’s no fun being hungover at 35,000 feet in the air. I’m sure the lady next to me can smell the alcohol
on my breath; she probably thinks I’m a typical drunken English-woman. I sense her disgust when we
hit turbulence and I reach for the sick bag. I know she’s surprised when she asks if I’m okay and I reply
in Greek: ‘I’ve been better, thank you.’

‘You speak Greek very well,’ she says in perfect English.

I breathe deeply for a moment before tucking the sick bag back in the pocket next to the in-flight
magazine. ‘I’ve lived in Greece for four years,’ I say.

It’s difficult to tell her age. Her hair is black and short and her cheeks round. A smart trouser suit
disguises her plumpness. She smells expensive. A rich fragrance lingers on her skin. I’m cheap in
comparison, my cardigan stale with last night’s smoke. I rub my eyes and gaze out of the
window.

‘It was a late night for you?’ the woman asks.

‘A birthday party. Too much homemade
chipero
. I was meant to be working not travelling today.’
My hair sticks to my neck. I lean against the headrest and close my eyes. If I’d known last night that
I’d be flying within twenty-four hours, I’d have eaten more and drunk less. Someone behind me sneezes.
I shuffle in my seat, unable to get comfortable.

‘Are you staying long in England?’

It takes a moment to work out that the Greek lady is talking to me again. I open my eyes. ‘For a
week or two.’ I lean forward and twist my tangled hair into a ponytail. ‘I have a lot to sort out.’ The
muscles in my thighs are tense; squashed in the window seat I feel trapped. I fiddle with the air
conditioning above until a trickle of air filters out. Far below, through the oval window, is an endless
patchwork of fields and forest.

‘My name’s Rula,’ she says.

‘Sophie.’

‘Ah, a Greek name.’ She has smiling brown eyes. ‘Your parents chose a good, strong
name.’

‘Luckily my Mum decided to choose the sensible name on her list.’

‘There were other names?’

‘Blossom... Cher...’

Rula raises a plucked eyebrow. ‘The singer Cher?’

‘Oh yeah, Mum was a huge fan.’

‘But your father liked Sophie?’

‘I’ve never met my father.’

‘I’m sorry.’ She looks at me differently now, a soft, motherly look. Her black eyebrows arch and fine
lines crease between them. Her hand reaches for the butterfly brooch studded with emerald and
turquoise stones pinned on her blouse.

‘Don’t be,’ I say. I stretch my legs. ‘Who are you visiting?’

‘My daughter and her family in Oxford.’ Her accent is faint and I realise how good it is to have a
conversation in English with someone besides Alekos. I imagine she’d make a good mother-in-law. She
leans towards me. ‘Are you visiting your mother?’

I nod. ‘I haven’t seen her since I moved to Greece.’

‘She must miss you.’

I shrug. ‘I’ve missed her.’

Rula has perfectly manicured nails. She plays with her diamond wedding ring. I tuck my ring-less
hand beneath my cardigan.

‘Ah finally, dinner,’ Rula says.

A smiling air hostess passes trays to us. ‘Tea?
Kafe
?’ she asks with a thick Greek accent.

‘
Kafe
,’ I say. A strong cup of coffee is just what I need. My brain pounds against my skull. The
dryness of the cabin makes my eyes ache. Even after four years immersed in Greek life I haven’t
mastered the art of sophistication. Rula looks as if she was born sophisticated: her hair neatly sculpted,
red lipstick lip-lined into place. Mum always called me her redheaded wild child. I had no
hope.

‘You have a husband in Greece?’

‘Boyfriend,’ I say.

‘He didn’t want to come with you?’

‘His mother wouldn’t let him.’

‘Oh.’

I release the steam from the foil-lidded tray and poke my plastic fork into what looks like chicken in
a cream sauce with over-cooked potatoes and green beans.

Rula places her hand on my arm. ‘I’m sure your boyfriend will be longing for you to come
home.’

‘He’ll be too busy to miss me.’

I enjoy Rula’s company, her ability to listen and the comforting familiarity of her accent during our
no-man’s land conversation across Europe.

Standing in the middle of Heathrow arrivals, we’re strangers again. Rula’s happiness to
be here only magnifies my uncertainty. After collecting her luggage she kisses me on both
cheeks.

‘I hope things work out for you,’ she says.

I lean on my empty luggage trolley and watch her retreat, eager to find her daughter and family.
Four years ago I couldn’t wait to leave, to get on a plane and fly to the excitement of a new life in
Greece. Now I feel lost in a country I used to call home.

I find my mobile at the bottom of my bag and phone Alekos. It rings and rings. Suitcases pass by in
front of me. I glance at my watch. Just gone 7pm; 9pm in Greece. Alekos will be taking orders in the
restaurant, serving drinks – even cooking if Despina lets him.

The ringing stops. There’s fumbling, then Alekos’ voice ‘
Ela
.’

‘It’s me.’

‘Hey you,’ he says. ‘Good journey?’

‘Long.’

‘How are you feeling?’

‘Better than first thing this morning.’

I hear him stifle a yawn.

‘You okay?’ I ask.

‘Busy night.’ He pauses. I can hear the clatter of knives and forks in the background and a muddle
of loud voices.

‘You know what’s really strange,’ I say, looking at the mass of strangers’ faces surrounding me.
‘This is where I phoned you the first time, as soon as I got off the plane from Cephalonia. I remember
the minute I landed I couldn’t stand being here.’

‘And now?’

‘I don’t know, it’s different.’

In the background Despina shouts and Alekos says, ‘I’ve got to go. Phone me when you get to the
hotel.’

‘It’ll be late. I’ve got to change coaches in London.’

‘Phone me, whatever time.’

After retrieving my suitcase I find myself in an organised queue for the first time in four years. No elbows
dig into my ribs, no weather-beaten old lady in widow’s black viciously steps on my toes. Instead, I
wait patiently for my coach ticket amongst an impatient queue. I bite my tongue when the
couple in front give the lad serving them grief over the booking fee. After weeks turned into
months and months into years I’ve forgotten what annoyed me about this country to begin
with.

It’s cold on the coach and it doesn’t help that I’m tired. I’m used to buses that resemble airless
coffins with windows. Public transport that cooks you alive. No fifty-seated twelve-standing rule.
In Greece everyone’s squashed together like paperbacks on a shelf. And it’s wonderfully
noisy. School kids shout to the driver to let their friends on, and when you think there’s
really no more room, another kid is squeezed in, accompanied by the tut tut of old ladies’
tongues.

The man next to me snores. His stomach spills over his trousers. One leg sticks out into the
aisle, the other edges into my space. His head droops to one side, mouth open, worryingly
close to my shoulder. He wakes himself up with a snort. I want to be home, snuggled up in
bed with Alekos, not making patterns with my breath on the smeared glass of a coach
window.

An orange glow stains the horizon. The motorway narrows and the glow becomes streetlights, then
a flashing billboard plugging the latest album from a band I’ve never heard of. I realise
we’re driving on the wrong side of the road, crawling towards the heart of London. I’m
wide-eyed, like a child, my nose pressed against the cold glass taking it all in. I should try and
sleep but I can’t yet, not until darkness descends once more, after the hectic blur of the
city.

It is late by the time I reach the hotel in Norwich. I feel sick from dozing with my head knocking
against the coach window. Gone midnight and the city sleeps. Only lone travellers, taxi drivers and
drunks are awake. The taxi journey from the coach station to the Travelodge wakes me up, cobwebs of
sleep dispersed by the driver’s chatter.

In a daze I check-in, find my room, unpack my suitcase and clean my teeth. In the bathroom mirror
I notice rings of mascara round my eyes. My tanned face looks diluted from the journey, my freckles
pale. I don’t bother removing what’s left of my make-up.

I lie beneath the duvet, in the middle of the double bed, and wake Alekos up. His phone rings for a
long time before he answers. ‘It’s gone three,’ he says.

‘I told you it’d be late.’

‘I’m glad you rang.’ I hear him shuffle about in bed. ‘Is it raining there?’

‘No, it’s muggy, it’s horrible.’ I play with the edge of the duvet cover. ‘I’m thousands of miles away
and the first thing you ask about is the weather? How about what I’m wearing?’

‘What are you wearing?’

‘Shorts and a vest top… that’s not exactly sexy, is it?’

‘You make anything sexy.’

Silence. I yawn. ‘I’m so tired, but I’m not sleepy. Does that make sense?’

‘It’s the middle of the night, Sophie, nothing makes sense.’

‘It’s been a long day.’

‘I ended up cooking tonight.’

‘How did it go?’

‘No one complained.’

It’s hot beneath the duvet. I throw it off but feel exposed with only Alekos’ voice for company and
not his arms around me.

‘What time are you going to the hospital tomorrow?’ he asks.

‘About eleven.’

A gap in the curtains throws an orange glow from a streetlight on to the bare wall opposite.

‘What did you eat tonight?’

‘Nothing since the plane.’

In our bedroom Alekos can see dark sky through curtain-less windows. At night moonlight paints
the walls.

‘You should have eaten something.’

‘You sound like your mother,’ I say, wriggling my head deeper into the pillow. ‘Actually, you sound
like mine.’

‘Don’t all mothers sound the same?’

‘No, Leila Keech is one of a kind.’

‘So what are you going to say when you see her tomorrow?’

‘I don’t know, I’ve got a feeling she’s going to tell me to piss off back to Greece.’

‘I’ll be here if she does.’

‘That’s the trouble; you’re there and not here with me. Tomorrow’s when I need you.’ My words are
met with silence. Seconds tick away. My eyelids feel heavy. ‘I’m worried she’s not going
to want me here at all.’ I yawn again. My eyes water, the room’s a blur. My head wants
sleep.

‘Then make her change her mind,’ he says. ‘You’re good at changing your own mind.’

‘About what?’ I frown, then realise where he’s steering the conversation. ‘I’m not talking about that
now.’

‘When then?’

‘Aleko, it’s late, I’ve been travelling all day...’

‘Now who’s the one making excuses.’

It’s easier to stop an unwanted conversation when there’s no one looking you in the eye. All I have
to do is press end call.

‘Whatever happens I’m going to stay for a while. Can we say goodnight now?’

‘Fine. Goodnight.’

‘I miss you,’ I say too late.

‘Take the lift to the third floor,’ the hospital receptionist says while holding a phone to her
ear. ‘Bear right, take the second corridor on your left, go right down to the end, turn left
and the ward’s the last one on the left. If you reach Paediatrics you’ve gone the wrong
way.’

Gathered next to the lifts is a lady in a wheelchair with a nurse, and parents with a gaggle of kids. I
take the stairs instead. I reach the third floor and the receptionist’s directions become meaningless. At
least the Paediatric ward is cheerful; the bare walls reserved for the rest of the hospital are splashed
with colour from children’s drawings and the curtains framing the ward windows are filled with smiling
yellow bears.