A Week In Greece Chapter 2
It All Started One Friday Evening The motorway stretched ahead like a strip of wet tarmac misery. I was doing eighty in the outside lane, late, cold, and cursing German engineering. The so-called state-of-the-art climate control in my car had decided it was summer. The digital clock, linked to satellites and probably the Reichstag, had told it so. Therefore, the car flatly refused to produce anything other than arctic blasts. Every time I hit the boost button I was rewarded with a gust of icy air. I swear I could hear the onboard voice system muttering, It is summer. You will not have hot air. But I live in England with English summers!” The phone rang. I didn’t need to check who it was. Sam. And I knew the opening line. “Where the hell are you, Harold?” Where was I? Good question. Somewhere in the unlit stretch of the M4 that time — and the Department of Transport — forgot. No signs. No street lights. Just darkness. If I picked up the call, she’d ask where I was. If I answered honestly — I don’t know — it would trigger World War Three. Safer to let it ring. And of course, I was late. We were expected at John and Sandra’s for dinner. Not exactly my idea of Friday-night heaven. We’d met them the day we moved house. Correction: they’d arrived. I was halfway upstairs with a tea chest that felt as if it contained the crown jewels, when the doorbell went. “Can you get that? I’m busy,” Sam called from the kitchen. Naturally. She was deciding where her milk jug would look most at home, while I was risking a double hernia. What I wanted to shout was: Yes, my darling, let me just balance this chest with one foot, hop downstairs, and answer the door with my free hand. What I actually said was: “OK, dear.” Survival instinct. I wedged the chest on the landing and edged round it like a tightrope walker. The bell rang again. My concentration slipped, the chest tipped, and half its contents cascaded down the stairs. “I didn’t know we owned five teapots,” I muttered, watching porcelain smash. “We use teabags in mugs!” The bell rang again. “Are you going to get that or do I have to do everything myself?” Sam shouted. Her milk jug placement clearly wasn’t going well. The bell had now reached manic level. I shouted back, “OK, I’m coming!” just as my foot landed on one of the intact teapots. Crack. Pain shot through my ankle. Pottery flew. The teapot spout ricocheted into the lounge, narrowly missing the cat — which, until that moment, had been sulking after its brutal incarceration in a travel cage. Convinced it was under attack, the animal shot across the room, bounced off the wallpaper, scrambled up the new velvet curtains, and perched triumphantly on the valance. Sam had paid a small fortune for those curtains. They now bore a unique paw-print pattern in fresh white gloss. I should have called her in, of course. She fancies herself a cross between a witch and a chemist — “New Age,” she calls it — and could probably have concocted a potion from bat wings and egg shells to clean the mess. Instead, I shut the lounge door and told myself she’d blame me anyway. Meanwhile, the bell had entered Beethoven’s Fifth. I stumbled downstairs, ankle throbbing, bloodied teapot fragments crunching underfoot, and finally flung the door open. “Yes, what the hell do you want?” A beaming woman pushed forward. “Hello! I’m Sandra, this is John. We’re your neighbours.” Before I could reply, John extended a hand. “Don’t worry, old man. We come in peace.” Sandra brayed like a donkey. I blinked, wondering if we’d moved next to a sanctuary. “We’ve given up hitting people,” John added cheerfully. “Except at work.” Sandra brayed again. “Oh, John, you’re a tease.” She sailed past me into the hall. “Are you married? Is your wife in? Pets?” At which point the cat saw its chance, bolted between John’s legs, and vanished into the front garden. “Don’t tell me you’ve let the cat out!” Sam’s voice rang from the kitchen. She appeared, mid-tirade, only to transform instantly into Lady of the Manor. Her voice rose two octaves. “Oh, hello! I’m Samantha. You’ve met Harold.” Sandra and John smiled sweetly. Perfect infiltration. Within minutes they were installed in the kitchen, demanding coffee, while Sam shot me a look sharp enough to slice marble. The cat, meanwhile, had other ideas. It re-entered via my trousers. Claws out. I screamed, staggered, and ended nose-first on the door frame. Blood everywhere. “Harold, are you all right?” Sam asked sweetly, as I dripped onto the laminate floor. “Fine,” I lied. “Put your hand under your nose,” John advised. “Blood ruins oak laminate.” I staggered to the downstairs cloakroom, shoved tissue up my nose, and prayed for deliverance. When I finally emerged, our new neighbours were still there. Two hours later, they left — after a full inventory of the house and half our marriage. And that was only the beginning, he said. This time, I believed him.
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