Some Like It Greek

by Sue Roberts

Genres: Holiday books; Humor & Satire; Women's Fiction; Romance; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

There’s nothing like a summer escape. A sun-kissed story about living life to the full.

In the month from hell, incurable optimist Anna has lost her father and her job, and her trademark smile is dimming. Clearing out her dad’s house, she discovers a postcard of a beautiful sandy beach and a map with a route plotted to the Greek island of Kefalonia. With an empty summer stretching ahead, Anna’s eyes stray to her father’s old camper van. Next thing she knows, she’s hitting the road with friend Demi in tow, on a course from Salford to Skala!

Over one unforgettable summer, Anna and Demi make their rickety way along the sparkling Mediterranean coast, the hot sun shining down on their frequent mishaps with cheerful local characters. It’s the trip of a lifetime, and the scent of lemons in the air – as well as an unexpected romance – are just what Anna needs to awaken her inner Greek goddess.

But there are big surprises in store when they arrive at the island paradise, which could change both women’s lives forever. And as summer comes to an end, Anna has to decide whether she has had enough of the Greek life, or whether this is only just the beginning…

A joyful, hilarious summer read, perfect for fans of Carole Matthews, Jenny Colgan and Sophie Kinsella.

Readers love Some Like It Greek :

"This book radiates sunshin e and was the PERFECT summer read! " Goodreads reviewer, 5 stars

"A great story that put a smile on my face and warmed my heart. It felt so real that it was as if I travelled with them. 5 stars." B for Book Review, 5 stars

"I found it impossible to put down. It’s a fun-filled tale featuring family, secrets and love interests, plus a very healthy helping of gorgeously described Greek food and beautiful vistas. I can highly recommend this book." NetGalley reviewer, 5 stars

 

Release date: August 21, 2020

Publisher: Bookouture

Print pages: 257

Sample

‘What do you think this meeting is about then, Anna?’

My friend and colleague in the sales department of Unity Ethical Banking Group, Roz, pushes a strand of her shoulder-length lilac hair behind her ear as she peruses the food on offer in the staff canteen. I love her current hair colour, suggested by yours truly, and was thrilled when Roz gave it a go. It suits her colouring perfectly and complements her almost violet blue eyes. Occasionally, I think I should actually consider a career in hairdressing, as I have a feeling the time to plan a new career might be approaching faster than I think.

‘Dunno. Maybe we’re all going to get a pay rise?’ I raise my arms in a silent cheer, though really, I think the opposite might be happening.

‘Yeah, right. There’s probably more chance of Channing Tatum turning up here and spoon-feeding me my dessert.’

‘Stranger things have happened,’ I say, raising my eyebrow suggestively.

‘What kind of weird world do you live in?’ Roz shakes her head at me and laughs. ‘Do you reckon some of us will have to move over to the other site? It’s just that Lacey from the fraud section was telling anyone who’d listen, that might be the case.’

‘Lacey from fraud? Didn’t she tell everyone last month that Linda was pregnant?’

Linda is sixty.

‘Oh yeah, she did, didn’t she? Point taken.’

All the staff have been summoned to the conference room for an impromptu meeting this afternoon and the rumour mill has gone into overdrive. Is the bank in trouble? Some have heard whispers over the last few weeks that the business is being relocated to a business park several miles away. Me? I have my own suspicions, but beyond hoping that we aren’t being moved to a soulless industrial space off the motorway, I am struggling to engage with the rumours. I was one of the first people to join the bank when they started up twelve years ago, and the thought of change now, after all that has happened over the last few weeks, makes me want to bury my head in the sand. I am settled in my weekly routine; the sales department is in a good location, on the third floor of a beautiful Victorian building on a busy high street near Deansgate, and my lunchtime brownie from the swanky independent coffee shop next door is a daily staple. I haven’t really got the energy to think about anything else right now.

I stifle a sigh as Roz eyes the tasty-looking lasagne in the warmer before settling on a Caesar salad and a bottle of mineral water. I choose an aubergine and tomato bake, as I do every time it’s on offer, and we carry our trays to a window table that overlooks the busy street below.

‘You will just have to wait half an hour for the meeting,’ I say in a mature fashion. Truly, after something one of our managers let slip to me last week, I think redundancies may be on the cards, but there’s no sense in making Roz miserable when I don’t know for sure. Roz is not one to wait for anything and she’d burst with the news if I suggested it.

I glance at the large clock on the white wall of the canteen that hangs over the black and chrome furniture and potted plants. I’ve had so many chats with colleagues who have become friends over the years in this room. Corner tables have been host to private conversations where we have comforted each other, spilling our innermost thoughts, along with tears sometimes. If walls could speak, they could fill a thousand books with tales of ordinary people’s lives, their innermost secrets ingrained in the plaster. There’ve also been some pretty hilarious moments. Take last year’s Christmas drinks party for example, when someone drunkenly played ‘pin the tail on the elf’ and tripped, pin in hand, into our startled CEO, (who’d popped in for a quick drink) and almost had his eye out. That was just before they puked over his shoes.

I know I ought to be feeling something about this big meeting; it will be strange to consider leaving this place after twelve years, which is a long time really. I’ve come to realise recently, though, that things in life can suddenly change. I lost my dad a few weeks ago to a sudden heart attack. I seem to be experiencing the grief in waves, so have largely been functioning quite normally, but I’ve found myself dwelling over my life choices, and questioning whether I am happy in the same job I’ve been doing for the last twelve years. Maybe the redundancy is the impetus I need to do something about it.

‘How are you feeling now that the funeral is over?’ Roz asks sincerely as we finish our food, as if she senses the turn in my thoughts. ‘I still can’t believe it. He was such a lovely man. I’m surprised you’re in work, actually.’

It’s strange to hear someone offering condolences about my father. At times I don’t think it’s quite sunk in that he’s no longer here.

‘I’m OK, thanks. And what else would I be doing?’ I reply, hoping I don’t sound too unfeeling. ‘Once the funeral was over, I would only have been sitting at home with my thoughts.’

Which were the last thing I wanted to confront.

‘I’ve got to go and sort Dad’s stuff out at the house at the weekend. I can’t say I’m looking forward to it,’ I tell Roz, who reaches across the table and hugs me.

Truth be told, I’m dreading it. Things between my sister Liz and I have been tense since our argument at the funeral, but we’ve decided via text that I’ll go to Dad’s house on Saturday to sort through some of his things. I’m still hurt by some of the harsh things she said to me as we were packing up after the wake, but I know that I should try to patch things up soon. She accused me of having been distant for the last few years and of leaving her to look after Dad. I was shocked to hear it, as I spent a lot of time with Dad – only maybe not while Liz was there to see it. Now I can’t help wondering whether it was enough, and feeling guilty that he might ever have thought I wasn’t there for him. The inheritance is fairly simple: Mum passed away a few years ago from cancer and Dad has left everything equally between Liz and me, so thankfully that won’t cause any more tensions between us. Not for the first time, I wish they’d just sold the house and spent the money travelling the world, leaving us with a photo album crammed full of memories of their adventures.

I’m still thinking about Dad as I enter the huge conference room for the meeting. Someone offers me a seat but I decline, opting to stand at the back of the tightly packed room with Roz.

After a few minutes, our CEO, Bill Tyler, enters the room. Roz has a strong – thankfully undeclared – crush on him, and I have to admit he’s looking as attractive as ever in a sharp grey suit that matches the colour of the hair around his temples, giving his somewhat boyish face a more distinguished look. Bill doesn’t often call in to the office these days, and the anxious people in the conference room realise that this must be something serious. He goes over to the long oval conference table where senior members of staff are seated and greets everyone with a somewhat strained smile.

‘Good afternoon, all, and thanks for coming.’ His eyes briefly scan the crowded room before he glances down at some papers in front of him.

‘As if we had any choice,’ Roz whispers, as she twists a strand of hair around her fingers.

‘Right, folks, I imagine you’re all wondering what this is about so I’m going to get straight to the point. There’s no way to sugar-coat it; our finances are not healthy. We’ve been on a downward trend for the last few quarters and after the most recent forecast, I’m afraid now is the time to take action.’

This draws mutterings from the gathering.

‘At this moment, to avoid the possibility of more dramatic action in the future, I want to ask anyone who is in a position to do so to consider taking voluntary redundancy.’

You could hear a pin drop.

‘I realise it’s a lot to take in,’ Bill continues, ‘so please go away and take a few days to think about it, and then if you are interested please speak to HR about the package we are offering. I’m hoping we can save things by streamlining the staff. If not, then I’m afraid compulsory redundancies may become inevitable.’

He shuffles the papers in front of him, before gathering them up and departing with a forced smile.

‘I can’t believe it. That will be me gone, then, if it comes to compulsory redundancies,’ Roz sighs as we file out of the room back towards our desks. ‘Last in, first out, isn’t it? I’ve been here less than two years.’

‘It might not come to that; there’s a couple of others started after you. Besides, you could get a job anywhere. Your sales skills are amazing.’

I know this to be true. Our department has little prizes as incentives for the staff and Roz regularly wins bottles of wine and boxes of chocolates. A few months ago, she won a weekend to Paris when it was suggested there should be a bigger prize draw for staff with consistently good sales figures, although it seems huge sales aren’t enough to save the current situation.

‘Suppose so. Although maybe it’s time for a change anyway.’ Roz shrugs. ‘This is the longest I’ve ever worked in one place.’ Roz trained as a fitness instructor when she was younger and worked on cruise ships and in holiday parks teaching aerobics.

‘He’ll be expecting us oldies to take the redundancy first,’ says sixty-year-old Linda as she strolls along with us. ‘And to be honest, I might be ready for it. My mortgage finishes next year, I could pay it off and look after my grandson instead of my daughter paying a fortune to a childminder.’ She muses. ‘As long as she buys me the odd bottle of white wine, I’ll be happy.’ She chuckles.

That’s the positive side to voluntary redundancy, I suppose. It gives people choices.

The shock of the announcement is still with me at the weekend when I drive my blue coupe towards my old family home near Heaton Park. Turning into Westbury Drive, I pull up outside the three-bedroomed post-war semi-detached house that was my childhood home. The lawn at the front looks a little overgrown and I catch my breath as it hits me that Dad won’t be out to mow it ever again. Mum had nagged Dad to get a gardener when his knees became troublesome but he wouldn’t hear of it. He’d rub fiery balm into his arthritic joints and bat away any suggestion of a knee replacement, saying he wasn’t going through all that surgery at his age.

Every Sunday morning (weather permitting) he would lovingly prune the roses and mow the lawn while humming along to one of his favourite songs by Dean Martin. One of the rose bushes grew a pale-yellow rose called ‘Anna ‘and I remember Liz being annoyed that Dad hadn’t found a variety with her name on it, even though he’d merely stumbled across it at a garden centre.

I eye the camper van under the carport in the driveway and manage a wistful smile. Dad had some great adventures in that van when his working days were over. He’d been a fishmonger, selling his wares at a local market and also door to door. He built up a loyal group of customers and as his reputation grew, he supplied the fish for two local fish and chip shops, which I know he was thrilled about. During school holidays, I often went with him on his rounds but I don’t remember Liz coming along very often. She thought it was ‘boring’ and said all her clothes would stink of fish, which I could never understand, as surprisingly, mine never did. Some of the customers would rush inside when they saw me sitting in the front of the van, returning with a lollipop or a slice of homemade cake and I’d feel like a VIP.

When he retired, Dad gave himself a project and transformed the large fish van into a camper van using carpentry skills I hadn’t known he possessed. He pulled out the interior and transformed it into the most beautiful, completely functional area, making use of every bit of space. Long shelves line the walls and there is a seating area that folds out into a double bed. There’s a fold-down laminate table, and a separate bunk bed in one corner. It has a sink, a small cooker and even a chemical toilet.

There’s still the faint black outline of a fish and the logo ‘Thank Cod It’s Friday’ on the side of the van even though it’s been painted over several times, but that’s the only hint that this was previously a fish van. When Dad restored it, Liz made him a beautiful stripy rag rug for the floor and I did an acrylic painting on canvas that Dad hung proudly on the wall. Liz’s rug was perfect – which was more than could be said of my painting – but he placed them both in the van with equal pride.

I know the van is in good condition, as it was only fitted with a new engine five years ago. Mum complained that it was a lot of money to pay out for a van that they wouldn’t get much use out of in their older years, yet Dad had insisted, telling Mum that the time to enjoy life was right now while they still had their health. Which was exactly what they did. They made new friends at a caravan club and for a few years spent their weekends touring North Yorkshire and the Peak District, taking gentle walks in the fells and enjoying country pub lunches. I don’t think I’d ever seen Mum look happier than she did then and it comforts me to know that my parents enjoyed such lovely times together in their later years, before cancer took my mother three years ago.

It will be a shame, but I suppose selling the van will become inevitable as I don’t think either Liz or I would make enough use of it and I’d hate to see it rotting away on the driveway. I guess sometimes in life, we have to let go of the past and move on.

That’s the attitude Roz has taken, anyway. She’s decided that instead of waiting to be forced out, she’s going to take the redundancy and start on a new challenge. She’s told me what they’ve offered and I can’t help wondering how much redundancy I would get for twelve years’ employment. I envy Roz and her adventurous spirit. Perhaps instead of fearing the future, I should be grabbing it with both hands. It was never really my dream to work in a banking call centre but it paid well and I was quickly promoted to line manager, so I ended up staying. I wish I could ask my dad what he thought.

I can’t help but feel a little lost with all the change in my life, recently. I’ve only been back in Manchester for a few months and had been commuting from Bolton every morning for the last two years. My ex, Joel, lives there and he wouldn’t consider moving to Manchester so I ended up moving in with him. I suppose alarm bells should have rung over his inflexibility with leaving his home town, but I was so loved up at the time I think I would have travelled to the moon and back each day if it meant us being together.

But a few months ago, I arrived home early one afternoon in the pouring rain with the beginnings of a migraine to be greeted by the sound of noises coming from our bedroom.

I’ll never forget the look on their faces as I slowly pushed open the bedroom door. A woman with long red hair scrambled desperately for her things before beating a hasty retreat, whereas Joel just sat up in bed, exhaling deeply, unable to meet my eye. I was so stunned, I just stood there rooted to the spot for a while, as I hadn’t seen it coming. When we eventually talked things through, he never even tried to fight for our relationship. It seems in his head, things had been over for a while.

I moved back to Manchester shortly afterwards and rented a flat in the city centre. The redhead is now his girlfriend and not the one-night stand (well, afternoon) that Joel claimed. As if it would have made any difference anyway. I know that I have been a little wrapped up in the pain of his betrayal for the last few months, and I sigh as I realise that Liz may have been right when she accused me of not being there enough for Dad. I feel so guilty thinking I might have let him down. Especially since we had once been so close.

Being here evokes so many memories. If I close my eyes, I can picture Mum sipping a cup of tea from a garden chair, watching Dad prune the roses. I seem to recall lots of sunny days as a child – in contrast to today, when a steady drizzle of rain is beating gently against the kitchen window. Switching the kettle off, I wipe down the window which has now misted over and glance outside at the paved rear garden which is thankfully low-maintenance apart from a few shrubs in colourful pots. Dad’s garden shed stands in the corner, its exterior in need of another coat of paint. As a child, I recall begging him to paint the shed pink and how he laughed loudly and said he’d build us a wooden Wendy house instead, which he duly did. Liz and I painted it together and would spend hours in there having tea parties with our teddies and a colourful plastic tea set. I feel a stab to the heart when I think of what a lovely father he was and know I will keep those precious memories locked in my heart forever.

I’ve been here at my old family home for three hours now and the house feels strangely quiet. I’ve done little other than wander around soaking up the memories of the past and swallowing down a lump in my throat. The windows have been closed and I’m not sure if the faint smell of Dad’s cologne is in my imagination or not. I manage a smile as I lift a framed photo from the hall table of both my parents smiling and raising a glass at a family barbeque. Dad loved taking control, flipping steaks and burgers, while Mum bustled about in the kitchen making her delicious potato salad and special savoury rice. I suggested a gas model for a forthcoming birthday once, and he dismissed the idea, saying, ‘It’s not a proper barbeque without coals.’

It feels strange to think that Dad will never be outside in that garden again and a feeling of sadness engulf me.

I realise I haven’t achieved that much in the time I’ve been here, so I head upstairs with my tea, intending to bag up some of Dad’s clothes for the charity shop. I see my sister has already made a start on this job. I can feel the tension in the back of my neck when I think of the last time we spoke and let out a deep sigh. How on earth have we come to this? Growing up together I looked up to her so much and envied her beautiful clothes which, to be fair, she would often lend me. Liz took me to my first nightclub when I wasn’t quite eighteen, doing my make-up so I looked older. We’ve shared so much in our lives; it feels strange not being on the best of speaking terms.

Leaving the clothes, I grab a cardboard box full of photograph albums from on top of Dad’s wardrobe and head to the neat lounge. The urn of Dad’s ashes sits on a si. . .