Hi guys. I have started work on a new novel of a very different kind. While this one is a riddle wrapped in a riveting mystery, it's not about murder or mayhem, at least not in a physical sense. Instead it is about a woman's journey to a small Greek Island where she is in search of a missing diary.
Why? What is in this elusive diary? And why has she deserted her post as Editor of a glossy Sydney women's magazine to travel halfway across the world to find it?
I hope you enjoy this first, tantalising taste... Don't forget to post any comments and look for my other writing at: http://freequickreads.blogspot.com.au/view/magazine
Or: www.amazon.com
www.smashwords.com
Happy reading!
xo Christina
Greek Expectations
by Christina Larmer
© Larmer Media
CHAPTER 1
“I wish I could take my heart and plaster up the edges where cracks are
starting to form, to smother it in putty and place it back again.”
SOLINA
Fog gathered like cotton
wool, loosened into stringy wisps on the shores of Sarisi Bay and the fishermen
ignored it like they might their wives at home, and simply went about their
business, checking sails, freeing ropes, rolling one for the road. A whistle, a
coo-ee and in waves they set off, first one boat, then another, then two more,
each slicing through the silence until the fog rejoined to gobble them whole
with only the faint scent of their cheap tobacco left to remind us they were
even there.
From the esplanade, Solina
watched them without really taking them in, as though a passing image in the
movie of someone else’s life. Even as the tobacco dissipated, she watched, her
hands thrust determinedly into her too-thin coat, its pockets so high up she
had to bend her elbows to keep them from the cold. This coat had caused a stir
in the office when first she’d worn it. A black, wool coat with shearling trim.
So luxurious, so now. And now so
inappropriate. What she needed was a thick parka, with lambswool lining,
perhaps. And a hood. Instead, she had a flimsy cotton beanie offering little
comfort to ice-cold hair that had become limp with dew.
Still, the chill was not
entirely unwelcome. It numbed her a little, matching her mood. Beneath the coat the edge of her black
pleated skirt caught in her flat-heeled boots and she noticed for the first
time in hours that her feet had ceased to ache. They were numb, too (at least
she’d thought to leave the stilettos behind). She made no effort to move,
though, just stared out to sea surprised by its oily darkness and the smoke
that her breath was now making, clouding up her view. Something else replaced
it. A memory from a long time ago: a blonde and a brunette, giggling as they
gulp in the crisp air between two long fingers pushed against red lips. Their
fingers move away swiftly as they exhale, their lips upturned Hollywood-style
into the sky and they watch as the condensation conjures up imaginary cigarette
smoke before their eyes.
A dog’s howl snapped her
lips shut and she glanced around. Releasing one hand from its warm cubby hole,
she scooped up her Louis Vuitton bag and returned to the road, hesitating only
briefly before turning away from town and towards Coso Point. Her feet felt
warmer now and were beginning to throb again, yet she walked on regardless. It
was a good half-hour’s walk to the top, but she had prepared herself for the
climb and stopped every 10 minutes or so, resting on her bag and staring at the
road ahead before switching it to the other hand and continuing on.
Questions began to creep
up on her as she walked. What was she
doing here? What if it’s not there? But this is Greece, she told herself.
Things don’t get pulled down when their use-by date is up. She jiggled her head
a little as though shaking some thought away and pressed on. And then it came
into view, a thick black blot upon the horizon, and she almost managed a smile.
By the time Solina reached the castle her head was throbbing harder than her
feet, her nose dribbling freely, her coat off and strewn across one shoulder.
She was sweating and panting and weary to the core, and whatever joy she may
have had in reaching it was swiftly destroyed by the darkness.
Where was the welcoming light?
Through dark slats in the
locked gate she could see the front door was closed, a thickly scribbled sign
plastered to one side, illegible to her eyes. She searched for a buzzer, a door
bell, anything. Then slid down the rock wall to join her bag on the cold
cobbled road.
EVE
The young woman scowled at
the phone. It hadn’t stopped ringing all morning. She answered it with a curt,
“Eve magazine, Solina Malone’s phone.” She knew it wasn’t how her boss liked
her to answer it, but then Solina hadn’t been spotted for two days and
reprimanding her for her phone manner seemed a non-issue in the light of
things.
“It’s bloody deadline week for Christ’s sake,” howled
the publisher at the other end. “Don’t tell me she still isn’t in?”
“Sorry, Cray, not a peep.”
“Where the hell is she?”
“I’m not—”
“Did you call her at home?”
“Yes, sir, not answering.”
“Well, did you think to go over there? Make sure she
hasn’t gassed herself or something?”
Kiara thought about this
for a moment. It hadn’t occurred to her, and she cheered a little at the
thought.
“No, sir but that’s a great idea, I’m onto it.”
“Good,” the older man growled. “And, er, what’s your name
again?
“Kiara, sir,”
“Good, Kiara, well let me know how you go. This is absurd..
Completely un-fucking-professional.”
“Oh I agree, sir, we’re all—”
“Solina and I are due at a Revlon lunch at one,” he
interrupted, “and if she’s not found by then we can kiss the account goodbye.”
And with that he was gone.
Kiara smiled. It was the
longest conversation she’d ever had with the Eve publisher, the formidable Cray
Jackson and, despite the tone, she had thoroughly enjoyed it. He was a large
man with a bald head, a peppery moustache and a red mottled nose that suggested
one too many boozy corporate lunches in his time. But the power he wielded — he
published 16 titles in all — somehow endowed him with a certain rugged
handsomeness that Kiara knew earned him a constant stream of flirtatious
females, from the editors down. He was even rumoured to have slept with a few,
despite a young blonde trophy at home, but Kiara doubted Solina had ever come
close to bedding this man. He was out of her league.
Kiara stood up. She needed
to get to Solina’s house, Cray was relying on her. The very thought made her
heart swell, as though he had personally invited her to come on up to the
seventh floor to swap a little tete-a-tete with the big boys. Perhaps he’ll
remember my name now, she thought grabbing her handbag.
Glancing around, Kiara
realised that the entire office was staring at her and she thought that she
would burst. It was amazing the power that had suddenly shifted to her
shoulders in a matter of one day. It was as though she, the measly editorial
assistant, held the key to the case of the missing editor.
That’s when Alex Jones
decided to pounce. The deputy editor leapt from her desk and dashed towards
her.
“Cray hassling you?” she said. Kiara nodded. Alex drew her
into Solina’s office and closed the door. “What are we going to do?”
“Looks like I’d better take a trip to Solina’s place,” she
said.
“Exactly what I was going to suggest,” Alex said. “Just
switch your phone to er,” she glanced around the office outside, “to Melissa’s.
She can cover your calls.” She flung the door open and called out. “Mel, you’re
on phone duty. But if Cray calls - or Solina for that matter - put them
straight through to me, you hear? No-one else.”
A young redhead waved from the other end of the office.
“What about any calls that come in for Solina? Do you want to take them?”
“Bugger that!” Alex replied. “Just take a message. It’s
pretty basic stuff, Melissa, I’m sure you can handle it.” She turned back to
Kiara. “OK, get going, but don’t take too long. And If you find her call me,
OK? Not Cray. Me first. I’m in charge now.”
Kiara smiled stiffly and
leant across her to Solina’s phone. She punched in a few numbers, diverting the
line to the feature writer’s, and then picked up her bag again. Typical, she
thought. It hadn’t taken long for her power to be usurped.
Solina’s house was
actually a hundred-year-old semi-detached in the upmarket suburb of Balmain. It
had been freshly renovated with an ornate garden planted at the front, but none
of that changed the fact that it was a pokey, drafty place. Not even its
million-dollar price tag could change that. Kiara had been there several times
before, usually on weekends or very late at night, to deliver film for proofing
or the latest Eve cover for approval. But she had never been here during the
cold hard light of a working day. It had never been necessary. Until yesterday,
Solina hadn’t taken so much as a sick day. In three long years.
Kiara hammered at the
door, rang the doorbell long and hard, then smudged her nose up to the windows.
But no movement could be detected inside. Yesterday’s mail was still in the
box, soggy from the overnight rain, and she didn’t bother retrieving it and
slipping it under the door. She just turned on her heel and left, barely
concealing a smile.
ARTEMIS
Artemis Xydis was in a
good mood. It was his favourite hour, 5 am, and even the early risers of Sarisi
were only just beginning to twist and turn in their beds, one last dream before
reality rushes in. He has been up since 4.30 am, watching the fishermen depart,
dragging on his own rollie, a cup of thick black coffee sparking up the brain
cells. He would be joining them soon, but he was in no hurry. His livelihood
does not depend on it.
In the bedroom beyond, the
sheets were rumpled, the mattress dipping and diving where fervent limbs had
beaten it out of shape. Rosa had dropped by again. His mood darkened. He liked
her well enough, but he was glad she was somebody else’s wife. He slurped another
long sip of coffee, revelling in the aroma, the warmth of it in his belly, the
comfort of a good cup. He considered sparking the Atomic up again as he stumped
out his smoke and stood up. That’s when he saw her, a slight silhouette against
the silvery sea.
He stepped back quickly
into the shadows of the balcony even though she had not looked round, could not
possibly have seen him. But there was something about her stance that warned
him off. It was a private moment. He felt like an intruder. Yet he continued to
watch, curiousity getting the better of him. And he squinted his eyes, as
though that would somehow sharpen his focus.
He could tell she was not
a local, not even Greek. The coat, the stance, the way her shoulders were
hunched like a fortress around her neck, all told him she was a stranger here,
and an uncomfortable one at that. He stepped forward slightly to get a better
view. It was early for tourist season. Had she steered off track? Then suddenly
she turned directly towards him and for a second he thought he had been
spotted, but she looked away easily, her face caught momentarily in the amber
street light. Her lips were shut, her jaw clenched tight, her large eyes
darting quickly along the street. He watched as she bent down to collect her bag,
her auburn locks dropping down across her face and then flying back up with an
experienced flick of her head as she stood and turned without hesitation away
from town.
Artemis’s first reaction
was to call out to her, to tell her she was going the wrong way, but something
about her stride stopped him. She seemed hurried, determined. Without doubt. It
was clear she was headed towards Coso Point and, he assumed, the castle. He had
better alert his mate. The tourists were coming early this year.
As he returned inside to
change, Artemis had the feeling the strange woman wasn’t a tourist at all.
There was something about those eyes, that jaw, those lush locks that told him
she was no stranger at all. He had seen them all before.
###
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christina.larmer@gmail.com
