Page 48 of The Greek Villa

‘I think, maybe, you like something like this?’

He shows me a wooden door with a metal insert at the top in a circular filigree pattern in black that seems to lift an ordinary-looking door to something truly extraordinary.

‘That’s it! That is exactly what I imagine.’

I can picture the white-painted stone stairs leading to the balcony with a beautiful rail. The French doors will be flung open in the early morning sun, the bedroom bathed in sunlight.

‘No problem. I can make that for you,’ he assures me, which is music to my ears.

‘I’m not sure what I would do without you,’ I tell Dimitri as we climb into the car. ‘I would never have known about a place like this.’

‘I am pleased to be of service.’ He turns to me and smiles, and I feel a warm glow inside.

Driving through the bustle of traffic approaching Corfu Town once more, I can’t resist glancing at Dimitri as we drive. He attracts an admiring glance from a woman in an adjacent car at some traffic lights, and it’s not difficult to understand why. He’s dressed smart casual today, his curling hair let loose, his sunglasses pushed to the top of his head.

We pass throngs of shops selling everything from tourist goods to stores displaying smart clothing in their windows, until soon enough we are pulling into a car park, close to a bridge that crosses over to the castle, giving a view of a river below.

The town is busy, and Dimitri tells me it is this way pretty much all year round, as we weave through the back alleys and tourist shops displaying their usual wares. Baskets of olive oil soaps with various scents sit alongside gift hampers of oils and herbs, neatly wrapped up in bows. Cats linger outside cafés hoping for a morsel of food; others laze beneath food tables, sated by diners’ leftovers.

We pass a shop that has a stand outside displaying an impressive range of fridge magnets, next to a tall wooden stand displaying jars of honey and small bottles of the island’s kumquat liqueur. The aroma of herbs from an open wood-fired pizza oven has my tummy rumbling.

Soon enough, we are in a park close to the Maitland Monument. It was built by the British, by Sir Thomas Maitland, the first lord high commissioner of the Ionian Islands, accordingto a plaque. We walk past what looks like an English village green then, where a cricket match is taking place.

‘The whole of this park area is called the Spianada. Although I guess you already know that,’ Dimitri tells me.

‘Actually, no. I just think of it as a park.’

‘Do you like to watch cricket?’ he asks, as we stop and watch.

‘No, cricket has definitely never been my thing. Or football. In fact, most sports, although I do enjoy watching ice skating and I do love walking, especially in the fine weather.’

My interest in ice skating puzzles me a little as I’ve only ever been on the ice once in my life, at a Christmas ice rink in Manchester, where I fell, skidded and crashed into a bloke around my age, taking him down too. He was literally frosty with me and I remember thinking that a bloke, no matter how good-looking he was, that could not laugh at himself – or even ask me if I was okay – would never make suitable boyfriend material.

‘Have you ever played?’ I ask Dimitri.

‘Not really. What I mean is, I played with the boys in the village growing up, but I never took it seriously,’

An almighty cheer goes up then as someone has scored. Or made a wicket. Or whatever the terminology is.

‘Not like this lot then,’ I say, noting a batsman almost throw his cricket bat onto the grass in frustration.

‘Not at all. It can be serious business here.’

Just off the green, we amble through theListon, an elegant, arcaded promenade that houses bars and cafés close to theSpianada. Moving on, the Venetian influence is apparent once again as we pass tall, pillared colonnades and pastel-coloured buildings with iron balconies. One in particular catches my eye.

‘That looks so beautiful.’ I stare up at the impressive building. ‘It’s a bit like the one that is being made for me. It looks particularly good against the yellow walls.’

‘So now you want us to paint it yellow?’ He frowns.

‘Absolutely not. White is fine, I wouldn’t dream of changing the plans now, don’t worry.’

We continue through a jumble of narrow streets with dark-green painted wooden shutters against pastel fronts, and I mention the Italian feel to Dimitri.

‘It has that Venetian feel for sure, but many of the buildings were actually rebuilt by the British in a neo-classical style.’

‘I’m impressed.’

‘I have to confess, my father told me this when I was younger. As a builder he really loves the old buildings and their history.’

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