Marianna said briskly. ‘And you will wear a pretty party dress.’
‘A party dress?’ Charlotte’s mind stalled for a moment, and then she remembered the fabulous designer dresses still languishing at the bottom of her suitcase. ‘Will everyone be dressed up?’ she asked dubiously, hoping to avoid the toe-curling possibility that she might be overdressed if she wore one of them.
‘Of course,’ Marianna declared passionately. ‘Tonight is a special night—a panagiria. There will be traditional folk music, good food, and dancing. Everyone will be wearing their best clothes.’
‘Everyone—’ Charlotte bit the word back guiltily. Of course he wouldn’t be there. It was crazy to expect the hard man of the island to grace such an event with his presence. He might have felt at home yelling the odds at a boxing match, or even stripped to the waist taking part—She quickly pulled the shutters down on that disturbing thought. No, the occasion Marianna had just described would not appeal to the steely individual she had encountered on the beach.
Feeling reassured, Charlotte agreed with a smile. ‘I’ll be ready for you at nine o’clock,’ she promised Marianna, already looking forward to her first night out on the island.
‘There’s just one more thing,’ Marianna added haltingly.
‘And what’s that?’ Charlotte prompted with surprise. It wasn’t like Marianna to be anything other than forthcoming.
‘It would be better if you left your camera behind. The men don’t like it.’ Marianna gave an open-armed shrug.
‘The men don’t like it?’ Charlotte repeated, wrinkling her brow, not sure whether to laugh or not.
‘It’s better to conform.’
‘Do you conform?’ Charlotte said, still uncertain of her ground. Up to now she would have suspected that a strong character like Marianna would set the rules, rather than have them imposed upon her.
‘Yes,’ Marianna said with some emphasis. ‘It is not for me or for anyone to upset centuries of tradition.’
Consider yourself reprimanded, Charlotte thought. The one thing she didn’t want to do was cause offence. ‘I’m sorry—you’re quite right,’ she said quickly. ‘I won’t take anyone’s photograph without asking their permission first—’
‘No,’ Marianna said firmly, holding up her hand. ‘It would be better if you did not bring your camera at all. People can be…’
‘Yes?’ Charlotte pressed when the older woman fell silent.
Marianna only shrugged. ‘It would be better if you did not bring your camera,’ she repeated doggedly.
‘In that case, I won’t,’ Charlotte promised. Maybe that was what was wrong with the fisherman on the beach—he had suspected there was someone taking photographs. Marianna’s reference to centuries of tradition made Charlotte wonder if there was some superstition-based prejudice on Iskos that forbade the use of photography. ‘See you at nine,’ she said, returning to the present as she waved Marianna off with a smile.
Charlotte felt a rush of excitement as she contemplated the evening ahead. Her glance flew to the opposite side of the shore. She could just make out the white tops of the outdoor tables at the taverna, waiting for their traditional blue and white checked tablecloths to decorate the Formica surfaces.
There was no sign of the fisherman or his boat, and she turned her attention instead to the wooden jetty extending out on stilts into the sea. It was lit by twinkling lights at night, and from her eyrie on top of the cliff she had often thought it the most romantic place on earth. On several occasions haunting music had floated up to her in waves, and she had just been able to make out couples dancing close together, watch the tiny figures forming into a line to dance the kalamatiana, the traditional dance of Greece. And now, tonight, in just a few hours, she would be there!
Without a partner, Charlotte remembered wryly. But she was looking forward to all the good food Marianna had mentioned. Just the thought of the freshly caught fish and delectable mezedhes, the hors d’oeuvres of Greece, was enough to make her mouth water. And, who knew? She might even be invited to dance.
She would write all day, Charlotte decided, remembering the article still awaiting her attention. But then, as a reward, she would dance all night…
She hadn’t realised there was quite so much Lycra in the designer dresses, and with just half an hour to go before Marianna arrived Charlotte was still trying to make up her mind which one to wear. Would it be the skin-tight red dress with the plunging neckline, or the backless eau-de-nil number?
From the front at least the pale green dress looked quite respectable—except that it made her breasts look like melons and her backside—Thankfully, her head refused to go any further round to get a proper look, so she was going to overlook that problem. But at least the shade was subtle, Charlotte told herself, and she made her final decision.
If she draped a shawl around her shoulders she would be pretty well covered up. And it was either that or shorts and a tee-shirt—and Marianna had stipulated party dress. She couldn’t disappoint, could she? Charlotte mused, reverently lifting out the dainty Jimmy Choos her chums had insisted she pack along with the dresses. Irresistible! Charlotte held up the sandals to admire them. Goodbye flat sandals, hello stiletto heaven. She eased her slim, tanned feet beneath the fragile, beaded straps.
She was beginning to feel like Cinderella, Charlotte realised as she gathered up her long sun-streaked hair. Holding it with a discreet tortoiseshell clip, she dragged down a few tendrils to soften the effect.
Finally she attended to her freckles, using make-up with an unusually heavy hand. They certainly disappeared, but under a thick coating of foundation that left her face looking like a mask, so then she had to add some rouge to lift the effect.
The transformation was startling, to say the least. And it wasn’t quite what she was used to. She could always hide behind the shawl, Charlotte consoled herself. But the slash of bright red lipstick helped to boost her confidence, as did the layers of black mascara she’d applied to her lashes. But there wasn’t much of her old self left by the time she had finished, she realised, pulling a face at herself in the mirror. But as this was ‘new’ Charlotte—the one with all the confidence—that was good, wasn’t it?
Marianna arrived on the dot of nine, dressed in her finest black regalia, consisting of a voluminous ankle-length skirt, sensible shoes, and an all-concealing top, with the ubiquitous headscarf arranged to allow just a peep of sleek, centrally parted steel-grey hair.
‘Ready?’ Her thoughts on Charlotte’s appearance were revealed by a drawing together of her brows and a click of her tongue. ‘This is your party dress?’ she demanded uncertainly, giving Charlotte’s outfit a comprehensive perusal.
‘This is it,’ Charlotte agreed with an air of finality. She just couldn’t face the rigmarole of starting over again, trying to decide what to wear.
‘Then we go,’ Marianna said with a shrug, drawing the soft cream-coloured shawl down over Charlotte’s naked back and securing it a little closer around her neck.
ANY
