The Fury(12)

Agathi was left alone with Babis—which was uncomfortable, of course. But she stood her ground. What a pompous arse that man was! Obsequious to Lana, groveling, practically crawling on the floor. And, in the same breath, he’d hiss at his staff, in Greek, dictatorial and contemptuous, as if they were dirt.

Agathi, he loathed above all. To him, she would always be the waitress at his restaurant. He never forgave her for what happened that summer—the first time Otto and Lana appeared for lunch at Yialos, on the hunt for a babysitter; and fate decreed Agathi serve their table. Lana took an instant shine to Agathi. They hired her on the spot, and she became indispensable to them. When their visit came to an end, they asked if she would like to live with them, as a nanny, in Los Angeles. She said yes without even a second thought.

You might think it was the allure of Hollywood that made Agathi so quick to accept—but you’d be wrong. She didn’t care where she went, as long as she was with Lana. She was so completely under Lana’s spell, in those days. She would have gone to Timbuktu, if Lana asked her.

So, Agathi moved to LA with the family, and then London. And she graduated, as Leo grew older, from nanny to cook, housekeeper, assistant, and—was she flattering herself here?—Lana’s confidante, and best friend? Perhaps this was overstepping the mark slightly; but not much. In a practical, day-to-day sense, Agathi was closer to her than anyone else.

Alone in the kitchen with Babis, Agathi took wicked pleasure in slowly, painstakingly going through the long grocery list, item by item by item—insisting he check everything was there. He found this excruciating; and there was much heavy sighing and tapping of feet. When Agathi felt she had tortured him enough, she released him. Then she began to put away all the groceries and plan the next few meals.

As she poured herself a cup of tea, the back door opened.

Nikos was standing there, in the shadow of the doorway. He held a dagger and a fierce-looking hook in one hand. In his other hand, he had a bag of wet black spiky sea urchins.

Agathi glared at him. “What do you want?” she said in Greek.

“Here.” Nikos held out the sea urchins. “For her.”

“Oh.” Agathi took the bag.

“You know how to clean them?”

“I know.”

Nikos lingered for a moment. He seemed to be trying to peer over her shoulder, to see who else might be in the kitchen.

Agathi frowned. “Want anything else?”

Nikos shook his head.

“Then I have work to do.” She firmly shut the door in his face.

She dumped the bag of urchins on the counter. She looked at them for a moment. Eaten raw, they were a local delicacy, and Lana loved them. It was kind enough of Nikos, yes; and Agathi didn’t begrudge the extra effort it would take to prepare them. But this gesture of his bothered her. Something about it made her nervous.

There was something odd, she thought, about the way he looked at Lana. Agathi had noticed it earlier, when Nikos greeted them at the jetty. Lana hadn’t noticed.

But Agathi had. And she didn’t like it one bit.





9





Nikos walked away from the back door.

He was thinking how strange it felt, after months of solitude, to be around other people again.

It felt, in some ways, almost like an invasion—as if his island were under siege. His island. How absurd to think of this island as his own. But he couldn’t help it.

Nikos had lived a solitary existence on Aura for almost twenty-five years now. He was practically self-sufficient, hunting and growing whatever he needed. He had a vegetable plot at the back of his cottage, some chickens—and an abundance of fish in the sea. He only went back to Mykonos for essentials these days; like tobacco, beer, ouzo. Sex, he did without.

If occasionally he felt lonely, in need of human company—for other voices and laughter—he’d visit the tavern frequented by the locals. It was on the other side of town from Mykonos port; away from the billionaires and their yachts. Nikos would sit alone at the bar, drinking a beer. He wouldn’t talk but he’d listen, keeping one ear on local gossip. The other drinkers, apart from acknowledging him with a nod, mainly left him alone. They sensed Nikos was different now—his decades of isolation had turned him into an outsider.

He would listen to them gossiping about Lana, the old men, sitting at their small tables with their backgammon sets and dainty glasses of ouzo. Many of them remembered Otto; and, rather quaintly, referred to Lana, in Greek, as “the screen siren.” They were intrigued by this reclusive American movie star who owned that haunted island—a property, it must be said, that had brought her precious little happiness; and much grief.

That island is cursed, someone said. Mark my words. It will happen again. Before long, this new husband will go the way of the old one.

He has no money, said someone else—the husband is a kept man, paid for by his wife.

Well, she’s rich enough, said another. I wish mine paid for me.

This got a laugh.

How true this was about Jason, Nikos didn’t know—nor care. He appreciated Jason’s predicament. Who could compete with such wealth as Lana possessed? All Nikos had to offer her was his bare hands. But at least he was a real man—not a fake one, like Jason.

Nikos had disliked Jason on sight. Nikos remembered the first time Jason visited Aura, bad-tempered, in a suit and sunglasses, inspecting the island with a proprietorial air.