Page 91 of Hot Greek Summer

Frankie turned from the sink, drying her hands on her apron at the sound of Gav’s voice behind her. Winnie had called across to let Panos know about their change in fortunes, and she’d just finished the calming business of cleaning the big old kitchen. Her only plan was to sit down with her recipe books and earmark potential dishes to test out over the coming weeks, so it was a surprise to find she had company. Company with a bottle of champagne in his hand and a bashful, nervous look in his eyes, at that.

‘Wondered if you fancied a drop of the proper stuff, to, you know, celebrate,’ he said, holding the bottle out in front of him.

‘You always said champagne gave you a headache,’ she said, remembering how she’d often wished he’d share a bottle with her on special occasions.

Gav cast his eyes down to the floor tiles and sighed. ‘You’re not the only one who needed to change,’ he said softly, coming into the kitchen and pulling up a stool at the breakfast bar. ‘You did the right thing, leaving me.’

‘Gav … I …’ Frankie shook her head. ‘You don’t have to say that just to make me feel less guilty.’

‘I’m not,’ he said, then laughed sadly. ‘Don’t get me wrong, Frank, it’s taken me a while to get to this point. I wanted to kill you for a while back there, but even then I couldn’t blame you, not really. We were in the mother of all ruts, weren’t we?’

Frankie reached a couple of glasses from the cupboard, nodding sadly. ‘Shopping on a Monday morning, fish and chips on Friday, clean the house every Sunday morning.’

Gav popped the cork quietly. ‘You forgot about washing the car on Saturday afternoon.’

Frankie looked at him across the breakfast bar. ‘Do you still do it?’

‘Wash the car on a Saturday?’ he said, pouring a foaming inch into each of the glasses. ‘Nah. I sold it and bought myself a dirty great motorbike.’

Frankie’s eyes opened saucer-wide. ‘You’re kidding me?’

Gav shook his head. ‘I always fancied one.’

‘You never told me that.’ Frankie watched him top up their glasses, feeling as if she barely knew this fitter, more relaxed version of her husband at all.

‘We had twin sons before I’d even passed my driving test, Frank. Hardly any point in letting myself dream about things I couldn’t have, eh? There’s a lot of things I never told you,’ he said, pushing a condensation-coated glass towards her. ‘Probably a lot of things you never told me, either.’

It was an unsettling thought, that he’d cherished quiet hopes and dreams of his own that their circumstances had prevented. Frankie realised that she’d spent so much time dwelling on her own thwarted ambitions that she hadn’t taken the time to wonder if there were things on Gav’s wish list, too. It’d been far easier to cast him as dull and predictable; had he thought the same of her, she wondered now? And if he had, would he have ever reached breaking point himself if she hadn’t? It was both comforting and kind of discomforting to think that their separation had allowed Gavin the space and freedom to put his own needs first. She’d lazily imagined him still queuing for his fish and chips on Friday evening, still sleeping in his indent on the lefthand side of their kingsize bed, still washing the car on Saturday afternoon before heading to his armchair to watch the match. Had he just been settling, too? Making the best of things, all of the while dreaming of the open road on a throbbing motorbike, the wind in his hair, some blonde riding pillion? The very idea had Frankie gulping her champagne, her mind racing. She’d let herself see Gavin as … well, maybe she’d let herself stop seeing him very much at all.

‘We stopped laughing, Frank,’ he said, pouring a little more fizz into her glass. ‘It wasn’t your fault or mine. We were kids raising kids, and it was bloody difficult, wasn’t it?’

Frankie nodded, a sudden rush of tears clogging her throat. ‘It was. God, I love them, and I know you do too, but our teenage years were a mire of dirty nappies, secondhand clothes and making do, weren’t they?’

Gav looked over her shoulder at the garden out of the window, his eyes miles and years away.

‘We did our best,’ he said. ‘You’re a bloody brilliant mum, Frank. The boys adore you.’

A tear escaped, rolling down her cheek. It was the most valued compliment Gav could have paid her; if there was one thing that Frankie felt most guilty about, it was that the twins were now officially from a broken family. No matter that they’d stayed together until the boys no longer needed their roof or support, she still felt like a sad statistic; a failed marriage was hard on your heart and your self-image too.

‘You’re a great dad too, Gav. The boys are lucky to have you.’ Gav met Frankie’s gaze, and the raw uncertainty there pulled her up sharp. ‘What? Don’t you feel it?’

He didn’t reply, just sighed heavily and looked down into his champagne glass. Frankie realised that in all of the years they’d lived together, she’d rarely made the time to let Gav know that he was doing a stellar job as a dad; she’d seen only the holes in their own relationship rather than the strong fabric of his personal relationship with his sons.

‘You’re kidding me, you must be,’ she said softly, reaching across the breakfast bar to cover his hands with her own. ‘All of those Sunday mornings freezing your ass off on the touchline watching them play, the way they always looked to you for help with their homework, the way you always made sure you made it to parents’ evenings and assemblies, even though it meant using up your holiday allowance. All of that stuff mattered, Gav. You taught them how to be the young men we’re proud of today. You did that.’

In all of the years Frankie had known Gav, she’d never once seen him cry. To see him well up now was almost more than she could bear; she was around the counter in seconds with her arms around his shoulders.

‘Oh Gav,’ she said, as he turned on his stool to face her. ‘I’m so sorry. I’m sorry for everything.’

‘Don’t say that,’ he said fiercely, blinking the tears away. ‘I’m sorry. I let you down, Frankie. All I thought about was putting money in the bank and food on the table. I didn’t think about flowers, and compliments, or surprising you just because you deserved it.’

‘Jesus, Gav, come on,’ Frankie said, more sharply than intended. ‘Thank God you had those priorities. You kept a roof over our heads doing a job you’ve never especially loved. Do you really think our divorce was about lack of flowers or compliments?’

He half laughed, picking up his glass. ‘Maybe not. But we lost the art of talking somewhere along the way, didn’t we?’

Frankie couldn’t deny the truth. ‘We did. We lost the art of talking, or laughing, or … anything else, for that matter.’ She couldn’t bring herself to say the words, but they both knew that she was talking about sex.

Gav swallowed most of his champagne. ‘I still think of you as my Audrey Hepburn,’ he said, fast and embarrassed.

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