Page 16 of Not My Greek Wedding

‘I guess so. Anyway, it’s better having a wedding here than back home where you can’t rely on the weather,’ she says. ‘It rained on my wedding day.’

‘Isn’t that mean to be good luck?’ asks Lulu, helping herself to some yoghurt and fruit.

‘So, they say,’ agrees Irene. ‘And I suppose we were happy together for almost forty years, even though, thinking about it, we never really had that much in common,’ she muses.

‘They do say opposites attract though,’ says Patsy.

‘I used to think about our old age, going on holidays, that sort of thing,’ Irene continues. ‘Malcolm didn’t enjoy driving, so we thought we might do a couple of coach holidays, maybe even a cruise, but it wasn’t to be,’ she says, her eyes misting over. ‘Malcolm died two years ago.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ says Lulu sheepishly. ‘I didn’t mean to dredge up memories for you.’

‘Don’t you worry.’ She smiles. ‘These things happen, don’t they?’ says Irene, a widow for over two years. ‘And we did do a lot together during his lifetime, I’m sure he would have no regrets’.

‘You’re okay though, aren’t you?’ says Patsy. ‘And we do enjoy our days out and weekends away, don’t we?’ she says, gently placing her hand over Irene’s.

‘That we do,’ agrees Irene. ‘I can spend as long as I want mooching around markets, something Malcolm hated. And watching soaps on television without him complaining or talking all the way through them,’ she says, hiding her hurt with her usual humour.

‘Who needs men, eh?’ Patsy says laughing, just as two gorgeous-looking men in shorts and tight T-shirts walk past, and cast a glance our way and smile.

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I say, nudging Lulu as I watch them disappear out of sight along the strip of restaurants.

‘Ah to be young again.’ Irene sighs theatrically as she fires up her handheld fan, the air blowing her shoulder-length ash blonde bob. ‘If I had my time over again, I would do things a little differently.’

‘Would you?’

‘I would have travelled abroad more,’ she reflects as she sips her orange juice. ‘Malcolm preferred to stay in England, as he wasn’t a lover of the sun, although neither am I these days.’ She laughs.

We settle the bill, and head to a gift shop across the road, where Irene purchases a cotton fan displaying the sights of Santorini to use later at the wedding.

As we walk, I take in the rugged mountains in the background, and the tip of the blue-domed church at the end of the main street. It’s certainly pretty enough to have a wedding here, but I guess Fira just tops it for vista when it comes to stunning wedding photos. The far-reaching sea with the view, taking in the volcanic island known as the caldera in the middle, and the jumble of white buildings with steps leading down to the port, will all make for the most perfect wedding album.

Inside, we freshen up and change into our wedding outfits, and before we know it, a taxi has arrived to take us into Fira to see Tasha as she prepares for her wedding. The other guests willbe arriving in a coach laid on later for the ceremony at two p.m., that will continue into the evening at the luxurious hotel.

‘You look stunning,’ says Lulu kindly, appraising my knee-length pale-green silk dress I bought in a sale from John Lewis. I have accessorised it with a silver necklace and I have a white blazer for this evening in case it turns a little cooler.

‘So do you,’ I tell Lulu, who looks effortlessly stylish in a pale-blue trouser suit.

Irene and Patsy are wearing pretty summer dresses, and Irene has a white, wide-brimmed hat, while Patsy’s dark hair is clipped up into a stylish bun.

As the taxi winds along the roads, we once more take in the glorious scenery against the backdrop of a cloudless blue sky. The roar of a motorbike as it overtakes has Irene flinching, then smiling as she recalls riding pillion on a bike as a young woman with her first boyfriend.

‘Oh, I thought I was the bee’s knees, even though it was only a Kawasaki moped,’ she tells us laughing. ‘Still, the boy in question was the first person to get one in our street, so I was the envy of the local girls,’ she recalls.

We drive through the village, with its throng of bars and restaurants, set against a rugged mountain landscape devoid of any greenery.

Restaurants, car hire places and shops – one with a full-sized straw donkey outside – line the roads before we head out onto the highway, where the rugged landscape is interspersed with sightings of white villas with pink bougainvillea climbing the walls.

Fields of grapevines stretch out ahead of us, the vines growing on the ground like a bush and Irene comments on this.

‘They are wound around in crowns to secure them, due to the island being so windy,’ I tell her knowledgably, a fact I learned from a Santorini travel guide I found in a charity shop.

Passing one of the iconic blue-domed churches makes me think of Tasha. Her and Owen originally thought of marrying in a church, but as neither of them are religious they opted for the hotel instead, which I guess is more genuine than wanting a church purely for the photographs.

I wonder how her nerves are holding up, although I imagine she will be doing just fine. As a child, Tasha was always the calm one, sensible even. She followed a career path to become an interior designer, certain from a young age that was what she wanted to do.

Even then she had an eye for design and would sit in our lounge flicking through magazines, commenting on the home interior pages, rather than the fashion and make-up as I did, so I guess it was always going to be her destiny.

Me? I flitted in and out of jobs, although really I wanted to be one of the celebrities on the glossy pages, envying the women having their hair and make-up done, and posing for photographs. I guess not much has changed really, other than my photos are for my own social media profile, rather than some high-end magazine. But who knows what the future holds?

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