is. What's wrong with the old sort?
"I was telling Georgios earlier that I think it's a great idea. The island could do with one. He thinks it's a brilliant plan too and wants me to come over for a drink later to discuss it."
"I bet he does," says Terry, voicing what I'm thinking too.
"Don't be stupid," replies Lucy, "he's married."
"Yes, but his better half is in Athens this week visiting her mother. Maybe suggest you should pop round when she's back?"
"Not everyone thinks like you boys do," says Lucy.
At that moment Antoinette's new barman wanders by. Lucy's head turns 180 degrees as he does so to follow his path.
"Who's that?" she asks.
"Antoinette's helper for the season," I say. "Looks a bit smooth to me," I add. "Anyway, if you've finished drooling over Jean-Paul or whatever his name is, perhaps you can fill me in on what's so important about Helen."
"What, oh yes, right," says Lucy reluctantly coming back to the present. She explains that Helen and she always meet once a week for coffee and a catch up. Thursday at noon, without fail apparently. Never once in the last 12 months has Helen failed to turn up without letting Lucy know beforehand.
"I'm teaching her about the internet. Social media, that type of thing. Helen thinks she has missed out and now that she's retired, she wants to get up to date. I've also been showing her how to build a web site."
"But this Thursday she never showed?" I ask.
"No, not a whisper. We usually meet at Fegaries, the cafe in the corner of the square. After a couple of coffees, we go back to my office and I give her a lesson for an hour or so. Afterwards we have lunch somewhere, Stavros' or Ericos'. Helen always pays as a thank you for the lesson. She's getting quite knowledgeable now."
I realise that I know virtually nothing about Helen. There is a soft divide here between the house dwellers and those that live on boats. The house dwellers are friendly enough to us but there is an invisible line that doesn't get crossed. Perhaps it operates both ways. I'm not invited round for dinner, and nor does Terry as far as I know. Equally we don't invite people to our boats which are private. The house dwellers have a different set of concerns that they talk to each other about. The cost of building being the main one, followed by the cost of maintaining and living in Greece. Put two house dwellers together and it won't take long for them to start moaning about the cost of filling their swimming pools. Shortly afterwards they will move onto the subject of the supposed failings of the utility companies or the local council. For us yachties these things are of no interest. We worry about the weather mainly. As long as I've got access to fresh water, cheap beer and the odd jazz CD or two, I'm happy. Well as happy as I get anyway.
"So, what do you know about Helen?" I ask Lucy.
"Not much really," she replies. "I think that she moved here from England after her husband died. He had some sort of business I'm guessing. She doesn't talk about her past very much."
"Join the club," I mutter, "Family?"
"She never mentions them."
"Photos on the mantelpiece?"
"I've never been to the house actually. Helen's always saying that I must go up sometime but the invite never quite materialised."
"Join the club." I mutter.
"I invite you round all the time." Lucy sounds defensive.
"You do," I concede, "especially if you've a job you need doing." I smile at her in a way that I hope compensates for the barbed nature of my comment. Lucy decides to ignore me and carries on.
"I've rung the bell a couple of times when I've passed by the house, but Helen never heard me, and you can't get into the house if she doesn't open the electric gate."
"So, no word at all?"
"Not a sausage. I've left about five messages on her phone and sent her a couple of emails. I've tried whatsapping her, face timing and facebooking her too."
"You've what?" I ask.
"Just how old are you?" Lucy says by way of reply.
"He's sixty-three," Terry pipes up.
It was obviously a mistake to tell him my age. I make a point of giving people as little personal information as possible. Why are people so obsessed with knowing everything about you? Where are you from? What did you do in England? Why don't your family ever visit? Where have you been? How do you manage for money? Aren't you lonely? Have you been married? Mind your own fucking business, I say. Helen sounds like she's a chip off the old block. Terry moves back to our table having polished off the egg yolk with a piece of bread. He leaves the cats to lick the plate.
"That's better," he says, "just need a beer to wash it down. Billy!" he calls out to our host for a refill. Billy will automatically bring one for me too even though my current bottle is only half empty. We seem to be speeding up, and it's still only half three. The afternoon sun is dancing on the water. The wind is beginning to pick up a little from the north west and the sun umbrella above us blows a little.
"I'm betting she's gone off to see family," suggests Terry. "They've probably flown in to Aktion and they've got a holiday house somewhere which she's staying at too. Probably sitting by the pool sipping cocktails as we speak."
"She would definitely have told me," replies Lucy, "and why isn't she replying to my messages?"
"Not everyone is connected at the hip to the internet world," I offer. "Not everyone is sitting at a desk just waiting for someone to send them an email so they can instantly reply. Not everyone wants to broadcast to the world their every move. Not everyone believes that anyone else is, or should be, remotely interested in whether they are in a relationship, or having a sodding coffee in the High Street with Tom, Dick or bleedin' Bob. Some of us are too busy living."
"Bloody hell," Terry says, "that's the longest rant you've had today. The beer is obviously working a treat. Cheers mate." He proffers his bottle to mine and we chink them together.
"Excuse me I'm sure," says Lucy, "well, do you think you could fit a quick scout around Helen's into your busy schedule Mr Trump?"
"Fuck off." A couple at the furthest table turn around. "Sorry," I say holding up my hand by way of apology. "I need some cake," I say, as though that will soak up the alcohol now flowing freely through my veins.
"I'll buy you a piece of cake if you come up with me to the house," says Lucy.
"Chocolate?"
"Chocolate."
"Just a look?"
"Just a look."
"I'm a fool to myself but go on then. Anything for a piece of Pavlos's chocolate cake."
"I'll pop in and buy it," says Lucy, "I need to powder my nose anyway."
"You're not actually going to get involved in this are you?" asks Terry once Lucy disappears inside.
"Involved in what?" I ask. "Like you say the woman is probably on the mainland pissed as a fart with
