Page 20 of Not My Greek Wedding

Goodness knows what Owen sees in Bryn, or what he was about to say about the weekend in Amsterdam, but then I guess we never know how people’s relationships work, but safe to say, they just do. Bryn must surely have some redeeming features as Owen surely can’t be that bad a judge of character. Especially as he has chosen someone as wonderful as Tasha to be his wife.

Speeches over, we dine on the most delicious meal of a sea bream starter, followed by lamb in a red wine jus with lemony Greek potatoes and roasted vegetables. We finish off with a pavlova bursting with juicy berries.

‘Oh, my goodness, I don’t think I will ever eat again,’ I say, throwing my napkin down onto the table as coffee is served. Platters of cheese and cubes of baklava are being placed along the tables, as if we haven’t had enough to eat already. I have taken photographs of every course, and can’t wait to show my followers.

‘Me neither,’ says Irene. ‘Although that probably isn’t true.’ She laughs. ‘Gosh, I really will need this slimming club when I get home.’

‘This is wonderful,’ Lulu says wistfully, glancing out across the water. Patio doors have been opened in the large restaurant, bringing a much-needed gentle sea breeze wafting through the room. ‘And you’re right, maybe I do need a break. I never seem to stop back home.’

‘Perhaps you could step away a bit from doing everything at home. Maybe draw up a rota to share some tasks with the kids,’ I suggest, even though they are hardly kids.

‘I know I probably should, but I enjoy doing things for them,’ she admits. ‘It makes me feel needed, which is pathetic, right?’ She takes a long glug of her red wine. ‘And maybe even a little selfish. They really ought to stand on their own two feet a little more, if they are to navigate this world.’

‘It’s not pathetic at all. I won’t lie though, I think they take advantage of you at times,’ I say honestly. ‘You are allowed a life of your own, you know,’ I remind her gently.

I resist adding that because when they do finally decide to leave home and do their own thing, Lulu certainly won’t be their priority, which will be a difficult pill to swallow. I have seen it too many times.

‘I know, and if I was to psychoanalyse myself it’s probably a feeling of being needed, you know, after Carl left,’ she admits. ‘I think all my confidence went out of the door with him,’ she says as she sips her wine.

‘Well, he was an absolute fool.’ I reach for her hand. ‘Don’t ever let him make you feel like you weren’t good enough. Typical mid-lifer trying to turn back the clock. He will come to his senses, when it’s too late, trust me.’

I do hope Lulu is strong enough to tell him where to go, should he ever try to come home. I saw him with his newgirlfriend in town last week, wearing a tight shirt and dark jeans that would look better on a man half his age. His much younger girlfriend was sporting a skimpy dress and inflated lips. I’m pretty sure he will get fed up soon enough. He didn’t look like a happy man to me, as he sat on a bench outside a fashion shop, scrolling through his phone and yawning, as his young partner headed inside.

‘I’m not that daft.’ She smiles and I really hope she means it.

‘Have you thought about going to your dance classes again?’ I suggest.

Lulu was once really keen on her salsa dancing classes, which seemed to tail off for no reason.

‘Do you know, I have actually been considering doing just that,’ she agrees. ‘Maybe those offspring of mine ought to fend for themselves a bit more, but it’s more than that, it is something for me,’ she admits. ‘I just seem to go to work, nip to the gym, then crash in front of the TV these days.’

‘Then you should definitely take up your dance classes again. And I might join you one day on a trip to Cuba for the real thing,’ I say dreamily. ‘Can you imagine the Insta photos?’

‘I might just hold you to that,’ she says, raising her glass.

People swap seats and chat as the wedding meal is leisurely and not rushed, just as I expected it to be in Greece. Even more dessert is placed on tables, in the form of some sweet almond biscuits and more cheeses.

As we sip our coffee, the hotel hottie – who introduces himself as Christos – asks for our attention and informs us that some Greek dancers will be appearing shortly for a floor show.

He stands tall and confident, the kind of man who addresses a crowd with ease.

‘Do you fancy a bit of that?’ Irene asks Patsy as she listens.

‘A bit of what?’ asks Patsy.

‘Greek dancing, what did you think I meant?’

Patsy rolls her eyes and laughs. ‘I wonder if there will be any plate smashing?’

‘I doubt it, not in this day and age. Times are hard for everyone,’ Irene reminds her.

‘Not for the owners of this hotel, judging by the décor, although I suppose it is a bit wasteful smashing plates,’ Patsy concedes.

I recall Christos telling me that his father owns this place.

I have just finished chatting to Tasha, taking a few selfies of us, when Christos slides into the seat she has just vacated as she chats to another guest.

‘Are you having a good time?’ he asks, fixing me with those dark-brown eyes. He has taken off his jacket, and has rolled the sleeves up on his shirt. He seems to be sitting awfully close. Has he pulled his chair nearer to me? I wonder.

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