Page 42 of My Lucky Star
After I reached the end of the street, I headed toward the shore and wandered around the Art Deco monuments and flowerbeds, eventually reaching the pebbled beach. My feet sunk in, making it hard to walk fast.
The beach stretched in all directions, as flat as a pancake. I could see thousands of miles to the horizon and hundreds of yards along the blanket of pebbles. Despite the blinding brightness, the open space gave me an otherworldly feeling, like I’d reached the edge of the world and could see a glimpse of the great beyond on the horizon.
Emboldened by my anonymity, I decided to explore a different street while I navigated my way back, heading roughly in the right direction.
I wasn’t fainting from hunger, and could have walked back to the hotel, no harm done, but my eyes caught the sign for a Turkish restaurant, and it drew me like a magnet. I peered in through the window. The place seemed empty. A young woman clearing the table had curly, blond hair and English features. If the server wasn’t Turkish, I could fly under the radar, only enjoying the cooking.
I popped my head in, inhaling the heavenly scent of meat and spices lingering in the air. A far cry from the Subway sandwiches and protein shakes Emir had been fetching from the nearest corner shops.
As I approached the counter, a man popped up from behind it, as if from nowhere, with a packet of paper napkins. Black hair, black beard, olive skin. His eyes widened at the sight of me.
“Hello!” I pretended to notice something on my phone, letting some hair fall over my face.
He wasn’t fooled by my English, or the angle of my face.
“Cem bey? Cem Erkam?”
I drew a breath and raised my chin. “Evet.”
I had been recognized.
Cold sweat prickled down my neck. Emir would be furious, but he didn’t need to know, did he? According to those Instagram posts, I was on holiday, possibly somewhere exotic, with Burcu.
“The delicious smell drew me in,” I told him in Turkish and ordered a beefpide– a type of oval, wood-fire pizza.
The man showed me to a window table and rushed to fulfil my order. I got the feeling the place didn’t really have table service, but I’d receive it anyway. Thankfully, there were no other customers. I’d wandered in well past lunchtime.
Even if these people talked to the media, they couldn’t confirm or deny our story. If I only made it out of here without offending anyone or, most importantly, getting photographed in an uncompromising position, all was probably well.
An older woman appeared, eyes wide, carrying a cup of Turkish tea. She set it in front of me with shaking hands. I thanked her and took a sip. The flavor instantly transported me home, and I closed my eyes, savoring it. When I opened them, I found her still standing by the table.
“Can I help you?” I asked.
“Cembey?” She pulled out her phone, her eyes pleading with me.
My hand went up to shield my face, but instead of trying to photograph me, she showed me my own Instagram feed, her eyes shining with excitement. “I knew you and Burcu were back together, but I never, ever thought I’d see you in our restaurant. It’s the happiest day of my life!”
I nodded, trying to keep my smile from slipping.
“Where is she? If we could get a picture of the two of you together at our restaurant, it would mean the world to me!”
I blinked, trying to come up with something believable. “She’s resting at the hotel. Jet lag.”
The woman nodded, her eyes widening in animated sympathy. “Of course! Bring her for dinner, will you? We’ll take good care of you.”
I could see the hope and fear alternating on her face as she rubbed her hands on her apron. She reminded me of my mother, back when she’d still cooked for us. Back when we didn’t have money.
“I’ll... ask her,” I promised.
The man, presumably her husband, arrived with thepide, sliding it in front of me, sizzling on a hot ceramic plate. I inhaled the mouth-watering smell. This would have been a wonderful place to take Aria. Small, intimate, and unpretentious, with what seemed like excellent food. Too bad they were Turkish.
“That’s not Burcu!”
The man’s booming voice made my stomach clench. I looked up from my meal and saw the couple standing behind the register, peering at the woman’s phone.
“No, they’re back together, look! Isn’t it sweet?” the woman insisted, but the man shook his head.
“No. I know this girl. Aria. She eats here several times a week. If you worked the counter, you’d see her. I know her mother, too. She looks a lot like her.”
