Page 35 of Hot Greek Summer

She was still wearing that red dress. Jesse watched her swing her legs over his perimeter wall in the late-evening sunshine, her high heels now switched for flats and her arms full of something he couldn’t discern across the olive grove.

‘What the fuck are you doing asking her for a picnic, Anderson?’ Jesse berated himself with the rhetorical question as he went to the half-open door and watched her amble slowly towards the house, pausing to pass the time of day with the donkeys. He saw her pull carrots out of the bag she was carrying, and noted her improved confidence with the animals as she hand-fed them.

Retrieving the platter of food he’d prepared from the fridge, and a bottle of wine, he went outside to meet her as she approached.

‘I brought quiche.’

No hi, no preamble. She’d brought quiche. Had he made her nervous? The skittish look in her eyes would suggest so.

‘I didn’t make it. Frankie did,’ she said. ‘Not for us especially though. She made it for Don Draper, or Mr Big, or Angelo, as his actual name is, but he didn’t want it.’

‘Frankie made a quiche for Don Draper?’ They’d had the odd celeb come to the island in search of escape from the long lens of the press in the past, but surely Winnie and Co. hadn’t lured John Hamm to holiday at Villa Valentina within a couple of weeks of moving here?

Winnie fetched a plate from the bag she was awkwardly balancing to show him the deep, salmon-studded quiche with its golden pastry crust.

‘Not the actual John Hamm. Corinna’s brother, Angelo. He’s our first guest at the B&B, but he doesn’t want any of the lovely food Frankie had planned for him and it’s driving her crazy.’

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘OK. Shall we?’ He nodded around the side of the house. ‘I thought we’d head round the back, you get a better view of the sunset from there.’

Winnie glanced quickly back towards the donkeys and then chewed her lip and nodded. Surely she hadn’t taken him seriously about the invite being given on behalf of The Fonz? Stepping ahead of her, he led the way along the path he’d laid around the side of his house to the spot where he’d already set a big checked blanket down in readiness and left crockery and glasses.

‘This is nice,’ she said, leaving her shoes at the edge of the blanket and stepping onto it barefoot.

‘Sit down,’ he said, as if she were taking a seat in his dining room rather than his garden.

She bent to place the quiche down and then lowered herself to sit up straight with her legs stretched out in front of her and her ankles crossed.

‘I wouldn’t have had you down as a tattoo kind of girl,’ he said, nodding towards the slightly faded circlet of flowers around her ankle as he put the food down and flopped beside her.

She put her hands behind her as a brace and leant back a little, her head tipped to one side as she considered her ankle.

‘It’s not permanent. I wanted to see how I got on with it before I had a real one.’

‘And?’ he said, pulling the cork out of the chilled bottle of white.

Winnie’s mouth twisted. ‘Not sure yet.’

‘I like it,’ he said, and simple as that she blushed redder than the strawberries he’d packed for their dessert. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘You seriously can’t blush this easily. Make it harder for me, for God’s sake.’

She swallowed hard. ‘I’m sorry.’

He shrugged, exasperated. He’d intended his remark to be flippant, to maybe get a rise out of her, not an apology. ‘Winnie, would you please just relax? It’s just food on a blanket. We’re probably going to be neighbours for a pretty long time, so we need to get along, right?’

She nodded. ‘Now I feel stupid.’

‘I’m starting to feel stupid for suggesting it,’ he said drily, pouring them both a big glass of wine. ‘Drink that. I’m going to do the same. I think we might need it.’

Winnie accepted the glass he held out and took a good gulp, hoping the wine might cool down her stupid, hot cheeks. Jesse had a way of putting her on edge; being around him wasn’t remotely relaxing. The wine, however, was deliciously crisp and cool, so she held her tongue and watched him pull the food platter up the blanket towards him. Accepting the heavy pottery plate he handed her, she admired its bold cherry-red and ivory design as he dug around for a knife to slice the quiche.

‘Yes. I made it,’ he said, sensing the question she was about to ask.

‘I like it,’ she said, wondering if she’d ever get to see anything he’d made besides his crockery.

‘I needed plates.’

It was an odd attitude to creating art. Winnie had always found deep satisfaction and pleasure in crafting beautiful jewellery, but she couldn’t imagine doing it out of simple necessity; it kind of drained the spontaneity out of it. Not that she could imagine ever feeling creative again. She was relieved to have the B&B filling up every nook and cranny of her life now. Any lingering creativity she had went into painting the shutters and artfully arranging the flowers on the reception desk.

‘So, Winnie,’ he said, sliding a huge slice of quiche onto her plate. She helped herself to salad from a bowl on the tray, bright green and red tomatoes with creamy crumbled feta. There was chicken too, and thick slices of ham. ‘Tell me something about you that I don’t know. Surprise me.’

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