The popularity of the nightclub never waned. It did not depend on sunshine, and there were more than enough wealthy businessmen in Cyprus wanting whisky and entertainment. Markos found new and better acts all the time and kept the fine brands coming in.
The well-heeled came midweek and the politicians mostly at weekends. They all stayed until dawn. Their host not only knew them by name but also who needed to be given tables where. He read several newspapers a day and was aware of any rivalry or animosity among the clientele. If his tact had not been exemplary, many of them would have reluctantly gone elsewhere. The Clair de Lune was the place to be.
Markos’ confidence swelled as his nightclub became key to his boss’s own ambitions. He basked in the praise and respect his clients, colleagues and even competitors gave him. Everyone, in fact, except Aphroditi Papacosta seemed to recognise his talent. To celebrate the first successful quarter since the opening, he treated himself to three new hand-tailored suits, all of them with the wider lapels that were the latest fashion, and gentle flares shaped to conceal his heeled boots. The elegant cut of the suits accentuated his slimness and made him look taller.
When he got to work late each afternoon to ensure that everything was in place in the nightclub, Aphroditi Papacosta was usually arriving at The Sunrise too. One day in December, they came face to face at the entrance. The doorman held open the door and Markos naturally stood aside to let Aphroditi pass. He noticed, as always, how she smiled at the hotel manager with both eyes and mouth.
Something altered when she looked at Markos. Her lips moved, but the subtle creases around her eyes seemed to have disappeared. Her eyes were empty.
‘Good evening,’ she said politely.
‘Good evening, Kyria Papacosta,’ he replied. ‘Ti kanete? How are you?’
It was absurd to use such formal language, but even after all this time she had not invited him to call her by her first name, and on this occasion, just as on many others, she did not even bother to reply.
Savvas was crossing the reception area to greet his wife. As happened on the days when he did not collect her from their apartment, she was a little late. Some guests were already gathered in the bar, and she should have been there beforehand.
‘Markos! All well?’ asked Savvas.
Without waiting for an answer, he turned away, taking Aphroditi’s arm and steering her abruptly towards the terrace bar. Markos saw Aphroditi pull away, but he had already left a mark, like a bangle.
Markos went down into the Clair de Lune to make sure that glasses gleamed, bottles were lined up in the right order and bar stools were equidistant from each other. This purple underworld was his to arrange. He brushed his hand across the arm of one of the velvet chairs to move the pile in the right direction, and then pushed a little stack of cocktail napkins more centrally on to the bar. They were printed with ‘Clair de Lune’.
When he was happy that everything was in order, he went up to the main bar in case he could be of use. He knew Savvas appreciated him being there.
It was busy that night. The hotel was laying on a gala dinner for the feast of Agios Nikolaos. Markos was walking past a crowd of guests on his way towards the bar when an arm reached out like a road barrier to halt him. He recognised the ornate bracelet modelled on an ancient design and the sapphire ring that matched it. It was Aphroditi who had stuck out her hand to give him an empty glass.
It was a peremptory gesture. He had no choice but to take it before continuing on his way. It was a silent exchange of contempt and resentful servitude.
Markos greeted the bar staff and then walked to the other side of the terrace to talk to some new guests. The air was still balmy enough for them to be outside. First of all he would say something to make them laugh, then he would enthral them with his description of the cabaret for that evening, before moving on to another group. By the time dinner was served, he knew that all the tables in the Clair de Lune would be full that night.
Aphroditi was always conscious of Markos Georgiou’s whereabouts in the room. Wherever there was laughter, he was at the centre of it.
At the end of the year, Savvas reported that the profits of the hotel were double what he had anticipated. The main source of this income came from the success of the nightclub.
‘Of all the staff we have, that man is our greatest asset,’ he said to his wife.
Aphroditi listened silently, forcing a smile.
By the time January came, there were just a few residential guests, but the restaurant and bar continued to be popular and the Clair de Lune never shut its doors before four in the morning. Even though there were a few pieces of upholstered furniture that needed ordering, Aphroditi essentially felt redundant. Her role had run its course.
When she rang her parents one weekend, nobody picked up the phone. She knew immediately that something was very wrong. The Markides never went out on a Sunday evening. Several hours later, the phone rang in the apartment. It was her mother.
‘Your father’s in hospital,’ she said. ‘Can you come?’
Aphroditi could scarcely understand what her mother was saying. The words ‘tests’ and ‘weight loss’ were almost lost in her muffled sobs.
She got the first available flight to London, but it was Tuesday by the time she arrived.
The tests to which Artemis referred had confirmed that Trifonas Markides’ lung cancer, caused by his sixty-a-day habit, was inoperable. His condition deteriorated very rapidly.
When she arrived at the hospital from Heathrow, Aphroditi found her mother holding her father’s cold hands. He had died an hour before.
Both mother and daughter were initially paralysed by shock, but they were soon lost in the twin mires of grief and paperwork. Both of them knew how things were done in Cyprus, but here they were adrift. There was so much to organise, so many formalities, and the complexities of a UK funeral to be arranged. Trifonas Markides had plenty of friends in the Greek community close by, and they rallied round, wives bustling and making food, husbands giving sound and practical advice.
Savvas arrived thirty-six hours later.
‘Darling, I am so sorry,’ he said uselessly.
Sorry for what? she wondered. For keeping her away from her father until it was too late? For that she would never forgive him.
Mother and daughter continued to weep, their mourning full of real anguish. Savvas was excluded from their circle of sorrow.
During the weeks that followed the death and the funeral, Savvas came and went several times, leaving Aphroditi with her mother. Whenever he left Cyprus, he was confident that The Sunrise was in good hands. Markos Georgiou knew exactly how he liked things to be run, even better than Costas Frangos.
When the forty-day memorial service was over, it was time for the reading of the will. Trifonas Markides had left enough for his wife to live a comfortable lifestyle. There was a small legacy for each of his three surviving sisters, who lived in Cyprus, and his shares in The Sunrise were left to his daughter. There were no additional sums.
‘But what about all his other financial interests?’
‘Savvas, don’t get upset about it,’ Aphroditi said, in an attempt to mollify him. ‘He invested so much in our business. Maybe he really didn’t have much more than that.’ She was more preoccupied with the human loss than with any gains they might have made.
‘He still had the export business. I am sure he did. There are containers down at the dockside with the name Markides on the side,’ Savvas said, losing the struggle to hide his disappointment and disbelief.
With The Sunrise fully booked for the coming summer, he had already had some long phone calls with his father-in-law about totally redeveloping The Paradise Beach. Trifonas Markides had promised that he would be behind it. A hotel that would rival theirs was already under construction, and Savvas knew with a sickness in his stomach that they were going to be left behind. What had happened with the legacy was inexplicable.
Aphroditi could see how her husband felt
. A black mood lay over him like a pall.
For now her attention must be on her mother, and she naturally suggested that Artemis should return with them to live in Cyprus. In reality, neither she nor Savvas did much to persuade her, knowing that she would bring her commitment to grief along with her. It was out of the question, given that Trifonas Markides was now buried in Southgate. His wife wanted to stay close to observe the memorial rites, and in any case her feelings for Cyprus had not changed.
When Aphroditi finally arrived back in Cyprus a few days after the forty-day service for her father, she could see that Costas Frangos had managed all the day-to-day issues perfectly competently, but it was clear that it was Markos Georgiou who had really kept everything running, as Savvas was keen to point out to her.
‘We are so lucky to have someone like that,’ he said. ‘He is exceptional. He has such a firm hold on the financial workings of this place. The staff like him, the clients like him—’
‘And Frau Bruchmeyer worships him,’ interjected Aphroditi. ‘Sometimes I think he leads her on …’
‘Aphroditi! Of course he doesn’t! Don’t say things like that!’
Aphroditi found it intensely annoying that her husband would never hear a word against the man who had now effectively assumed the role of second-in-command.
Buried beneath her grief was a deep resentment against Savvas for keeping her from her dying father. Her emotions were dominated by an all-pervading sense of anger that she had not been able to say goodbye.
Chapter Eight
FOLLOWING HIS FATHER-IN-LAW’S death, Savvas decided that if they could not build a new hotel, they should improve on the old. Apart from anything, it would provide a distraction for his grieving wife. He reluctantly met with his architect to see if they could modify the exterior of The Paradise Beach to make it more up-to-date.
Aphroditi began work on refurbishing the interiors, busying herself for some months on the project and glad to have something to occupy her.
One Friday at the end of March she was on her way to meet a fabric wholesaler, whose offices were situated in the middle of Famagusta.
It was a beautiful, clear-sky morning and cafés in the main square were full of people drinking coffee and enjoying the balmy air. The orange trees that lined the streets leading to the square were heavy with white blossom and the atmosphere was filled with sweet scent. One of the city’s main annual cultural events, the Orange Festival, was about to take place, and she passed a group of people making preparations. They were constructing a huge ship out of the fruit to be paraded through the streets in celebration of the fact that it brought so much prosperity and good health to the city.
Aphroditi browsed in the shop windows as she passed by. She had her favourites, but there were always new ones opening and fashions seemed to change every day. Next winter she might start to wear the flared trousers, the catsuits even, that many of the mannequins seemed to model, but for now she would stick to dresses. There was so much variety, in shape and colour, and a new fashion for floral.
As she came out of a shop, Aphroditi saw a familiar face. Markos Georgiou. He was sitting at a café table with a young woman and they were smiling and talking animatedly. Aphroditi had never seen her husband’s major-domo outside the environment of the hotel and had never thought of him having a personal life. First of all, she took in that he was not wearing a jacket. She had rarely seen him just in shirtsleeves, such was the formality of hotel protocol for their staff, and he was rocking back slightly in his seat, more relaxed than she had ever seen him. The woman was radiant. She had long dark hair, loose around her shoulders, and a wide smile that, like Markos’, showed a row of perfect white teeth. Aphroditi thought of her husband’s, slightly stained with nicotine.
The pair were noticeably at ease with one another, perhaps more so than many of the other couples at neighbouring tables, between whom the rapport seemed not so intimate. They looked very compatible, and Aphroditi felt a stab of envy at the sight of such companionship.
Markos got up when he saw Aphroditi. He too was conscious that they had never met outside the hotels. After so many years, it was strange. He was impeccably polite as ever and kept to the formal address he normally used with her:
‘Good morning, Kyria Papacosta,’ he said. ‘Can I introduce you …?’
Aphroditi put her hand out and quickly noticed that the other woman was struggling to get to her feet.
‘Oh, please don’t get up. I didn’t realise …!’
The young woman was heavily pregnant and her belly bumped into the edge of the table as she tried to rise. She sat down again.
‘How many …?’
‘Almost eight,’ she replied, her expression beaming. She was quite literally in bloom.
‘How exciting,’ Aphroditi said. ‘Just a month away! Well, good luck. Markos will keep us informed, won’t you, Markos?’
She turned to her husband’s right-hand man and he nodded. It was strange. Perhaps because of the charm he exuded towards female guests in the hotel, she had assumed he was single.
Aphroditi walked away. She had no wish to make further conversation with Markos. It was awkward at the best of times and she could not feign a pleasure she did not feel.
Moments after she had left, the couple were joined by another man.
Aphroditi found herself thinking of the encounter all the way to her meeting and well beyond it into the afternoon. For some reason it was disconcerting to have discovered that Markos had a wife, and even more that he was about to be a father. Exactly why it bothered her she could not explain to herself. In the past year she had begun to hope for a child and month by month had been disappointed. Perhaps this was something to do with her reaction.
The following morning, the phone rang in their apartment. Savvas had left for a meeting at The Sunrise a few hours earlier. It was a man’s voice at the end of the line. British. Aphroditi found herself shaking. Something must have happened to her mother.
‘Mrs Papacosta?’
‘Yes,’ she said, sinking into the nearest chair. Her legs could not support her. ‘Speaking.’
‘It’s George Matthews here. Matthews and Tenby Solicitors.’
There was a silence on the line. Neither of them knew if the connection had broken, as often happened.
‘We met a few months ago when your father’s will was read.’
Aphroditi needed no reminder.
‘Some other papers have come into our hands … Are you still there, Mrs Papacosta?’
‘Yes,’ she replied softly, realising that the call did not seem to be about her mother’s health.
‘It seems that your father had made changes to the ownership of his companies some time before he died. He transferred everything into your name.’
‘But the will …?’
‘This was outside of the will.’
It took Aphroditi a few seconds to take it in. Her father was canny with money and would have known how to maximise her inheritance.
‘Your mother must have known and approved of this,’ the solicitor continued.
There was a long silence from Aphroditi. She realised now that he might even have known he was dying the last time she saw him.
‘Mrs Papacosta …?’
‘I’m still here … Thanks for letting me know.’
‘Would you like any more information?’
‘Not at this moment, thank you. Not right now.’
Aphroditi wanted to tell Savvas. This news would have an enormous effect on their future. It was exactly what her husband had hoped for.
By the time George Matthews realised that the line really had gone dead, Aphroditi was already in the lift going down to street level.
She accelerated hard along the straight road to the hotel, turned through the iron gates and pulled up next to her husband’s car. With a racing heart, she ran towards the entrance.
The angle of the sun on the highly polished glass meant that she saw her own reflection clea
rly but everything inside was dark. She burst into the foyer and ran straight into Markos, who was on his way out. Her bag went flying, its contents skittering across the floor in a dozen directions.
Markos had never seen his boss’s wife moving at any speed greater than a dignified walk. Nor had he ever seen her look less than perfectly coiffed and groomed.
Several members of staff were instantly on their hands and knees, retrieving her possessions from under furniture and in the plants.
She had not fallen, but her irritation was unconcealed. She snatched her car keys from Markos’ hand.
‘Why the hell don’t you look where you are going?’ she said.
He stood silently to one side. He could do nothing but let the injustice pass. Markos had kept count of the number of times she had dismissed him in this way and added this occasion to the score.
Aphroditi made for the door marked ‘Staff Only’ in the far corner of the reception area and walked in without knocking.
‘Savvas, I have to talk to you.’
Savvas was surprised to see his wife. She looked unusually flushed, untidy almost, but she was smiling. He got up from his desk and asked Costas Frangos to come back in an hour.
Even before they were alone, Aphroditi began to tell him what had happened.
‘We won’t need this fabric any more!’ she announced triumphantly, pulling a sample from her bag. ‘We’re not going to refurbish. We’re going to rebuild!’
‘What do you mean?’ Savvas asked.
Soon Aphroditi had explained.
‘So our dream is going to come true!’ he exclaimed.
Savvas had kept the plans for his next project locked in the bottom drawer of his desk, and now rolled the blueprint out on to his desk. For the first time in ages, he smiled at his wife.
‘There’s nothing stopping us now,’ said Aphroditi.
‘Let’s call the lawyer again. We need to free up that money as soon as we can. I can get a loan to cover us until then.’
‘My father would be happy with that, I think,’ responded Aphroditi.
The temperature between them had warmed a little for the first time since the death of Trifonas Markides.