Page 17 of Not My Greek Wedding

TEN

We pull up outside the hotel that is slightly elevated and looks magnificent, even from the outside, with its flight of white steps and olive trees either side of the glass-door entrance.

The interior of the hotel lobby is just as impressive, with marble floors, and floor-to-ceiling windows. Stone-coloured sofas adorn the vast space, a sparkling chandelier at the centre of the ceiling. The whole place feels sumptuous, yet welcoming.

‘Wow, this place is really something,’ says Patsy, taking in the elegant surroundings. ‘Pity we are not staying here, although it might have made a bit of a dent in my savings,’ she admits.

‘I like our little place,’ says Irene. ‘And I like our local across the road,’ she says, referring to the Sea Breeze restaurant.

As we enter the lift, a tall Greek man of possibly around my age, or a few years older, steps inside and asks us which floor we are heading to, before pressing the correct button. I feel oddly self-conscious standing next to him, taking in his cologne which smells very expensive.

‘Thanks,’ I tell him as I step out of the lift followed by the others, and he mutters, ‘My pleasure,’ before delivering the most charming smile.

‘Whew, he was a bit of a hottie,’ says Irene. ‘I nearly whipped my fan out.’ She chuckles and we all laugh. Although she is absolutely right. A Greek Adonis, if ever there was one.

We tap on Tasha’s door, and she lets out a little squeal when she opens it, before welcoming us inside.

The room is huge with two dusky-pink sofas, a table and chair in a seating area, and the hugest bed you have ever seen, adorned with an assortment of velour cushions.

‘The honeymoon suite, not bad hey?’ says Tasha, waving her arm around the room.

We stand at the window open-mouthed, taking in the view, as Tasha takes a bottle of champagne from the fridge, and cracks it open.

‘It might even persuade me to get married again, if I could stay in a place like this,’ says Patsy as she takes in the scenery, and Irene rolls her eyes.

Patsy was married for several years in the nineties, but divorced after deciding that she wasn’t suited to marriage, she told me over dinner the other evening.

I must admit, it’s the kind of place I hoped I might have got married in too. Especially during the early months of my relationship with my ex. I could never have imagined how things would turn sour between us, after that first flush of love. Maybe next time I will take things a little more slowly.

A few minutes later, a young woman called Eve arrives, who is Tasha’s best friend since she has lived in Australia, and we hit it off immediately. Soon enough, the hair and make-up lady has arrived and we are all ensconced in the vast room, sipping champagne and swapping stories about Tasha.

‘I’m glad girl friends don’t have to give speeches like a best man does.’ Tasha grimaces when I recount a particular drunken evening when she took a desperate wee in what she thought was a field, just as the security lights came on from a house. A dogcame bounding towards us as she had her knickers around her ankles.

‘Oh my gosh don’t!’ she says, her face reddening. ‘And who has that much land, for goodness’ sake, we weren’t to know it was someone’s actual garden.’

‘I know.’ I laugh. ‘As I recall, the bloke was quite nice about it, amused even, it was his wife who was a bit frosty, which was hardly surprising. Especially when you fell over and your boob fell out of your dress and he copped an eyeful.’

‘Stop!’ She covers her ears with her hands as we all dissolve into fits of giggles.

‘Right,’ says Tasha, sounding serious. ‘Two glasses of champagne are more than enough, I think, we need to crack on,’ she says firmly, and the make-up lady agrees as she opens her vast toolbox of make-up.

We sip our drinks slowly, chatting and watching the transformation as Tasha, who is already pretty, is transformed into something stunning. After her make-up has been carefully applied, the make-up artist artfully sculpts her hair into a bun with soft curls, a few blonde tendrils framing her face, and I have to hold back a tear.

‘Oh my,’ says Irene, sniffing. ‘You really are the most beautiful bride. Your mum would be so proud.’ She stifles a sob as she crushes her in an embrace.

Half an hour later, we all refresh our own make-up and head downstairs to the hotel bar for a soft drink. As we were leaving, Tasha’s dad entered the room, and after hellos and hugs all round, we left them to have their father and daughter time before the wedding. He had been in a dark place for a while following his wife’s death, but has recently started dating.

‘This place is something else. isn’t it?’ says Patsy, taking in the sumptuous décor in the bar area. White walls display tasteful art and the lounge areas have expensive-looking sofasdraped around the room. One or two Greek gods even make an appearance, in the form of marble sculptures.

‘It is. Everywhere you look there is something stunning to admire,’ I agree.

Right on cue, the guy from the lift walks past with a young woman, and makes eye contact with me, before flashing that smile. He is wearing a cream jacket now, over the top of the dark shirt he was wearing earlier, and I can’t help thinking that he is a bit full of himself, smiling at me like that when he is with his other half.

‘You can say that again,’ says Patsy, eyeing the undeniably attractive bloke and Irene tells her she ought to stop taking the HRT as it’s making her sex mad.

‘You must be joking,’ protests Patsy. ‘And chance would be a fine thing. I am merely admiring a young man’s good looks,’ she says. ‘Besides, I don’t think I would have the energy to get out of bed in the morning if I gave up my HRT,’ she says, making me dread the eventual arrival of the menopause.

Owen is obviously ensconced somewhere with his male friends, as I haven’t come across him yet. When I nip to the loo a few minutes later though, snapping photos of the gorgeous lobby en route, there he is striding towards me.

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