I find her bent over at her usual table near the window, to maximise the light. Maintaining this posture day after day gives her a bad back, but she never complains. Behind her are racks and racks of crockery and other bits of pottery in various stages of completion. My little sister, Ava, sits on a floor mat a couple of feet away, studiously covering herself in clay and burbling nonsense. Seeing me, she waddles over to show me her lumpy creations, and ignoring the mess, I pull up a chair next to my mother, plonk Ava on my lap, and plant a sloppy kiss on the back of her fat neck. She chortles happily.

  “This is a nice surprise, Georgios,” says my mother, pausing her brushstrokes and smiling up at me. She has a smear of green paint near her eyebrow. This season’s design theme is wildflowers of the Greek countryside, and she is concentrating on a series of cream-coloured mugs, each with an identical pale-pink tassel hyacinth juxtaposed against a green hellebore. Very pretty and very intricate detailing—I think I’d be cross-eyed trying to paint those all day.

  “Yeah, well, I’ve got a few hours to fill before the evening shift, and I fancied a walk.”

  And I rarely get a moment with you on your own, I wanted to say, not in our overcrowded household. But somehow, since my father died and I grew up, and we became subsumed virtually overnight into Papa Marcos’s extended family, we’ve lost the level of closeness that allows us to unselfconsciously admit that sort of stuff to each other. I used to love my mother’s quiet company; she’s warm and funny and kind. And I know she still misses my dad as much as I do, probably more, but she can’t do anything about it. Circumstances have made her a pale-grey imitation of her former self.

  I jiggle Ava on my knees, pretending she’s going to fall between my legs before I catch her again at the last moment, making her squeal with delight.

  “Max has been around a lot this summer,” my mother remarks, focussing on the row of mugs.

  “Yeah.” I nod. “He’s working in Ibiza for a month now, but he may have time to pop over again before Christmas.”

  “You miss him, don’t you, when he’s not here?”

  It’s more of a statement than a question, and I concentrate on my little game with Ava, recalling my last morning in bed with him, the feel of his solid warm body folded around mine. To say that I miss him doesn’t even begin to cover the emptiness I experience when I wake every morning since he departed. I haven’t got the energy to dissemble.

  “Yeah, I do,” I agree at last, my face burning with colour.

  “It’s funny.” She smiles at a long-forgotten memory. “Your dad and I, we used to watch you two playing together as babies, and then as kids, for hours and hours, and so happily. You never seemed to fall out or have a fight, or move on and find a new best friend, not like most children do. Your dad used to say, ‘Simone, if Georgios grows up and finds himself a wife he loves as much as he loves Maxi, then he’ll do very well for himself.’”

  She shakes her head sadly at the mention of my father and then carefully looks up at me. “But you’re not going to find a woman like that, are you?”

  How long has she known? Have we made it that obvious, have they been aware all along, for all these years that I’ve been trying to hide it? My heart pounds in my chest. Sensing my disquiet, Ava wriggles on my lap, and I put her down gently and watch her toddle back to her play mat.

  “No. I don’t think that I am, Mama.” I respond eventually, looking down at my feet.

  She continues to paint in silence, her face a mask of concentration, and I wonder if she is going to say anything else.

  Her colleague bustles in, two coffees in her hand, and gives me a cheery hello before placing one in front of my mother and then settling at her own table in front of the only other window at the far end the warehouse. Does she know too? Do they talk about Simone’s faggot son? Does this work friend commiserate with my mother and blame my terrible affliction on Max’s malign influence or the sudden loss of my father or some such bullshit? I make a show of looking at the time on my phone and stand to leave.

  “It’s okay, sweetheart,” she says, putting a hand on my arm, stilling me. “Your secret is safe with me; I won’t tell anyone until you want them to know. And I suppose if Max makes you happy…”

  “He does,” I reply in an urgent whisper. “We’re both really happy together.”

  We gaze at each other uncertainly.

  “I’m so sorry, Mama.”

  “You have nothing to be sorry for Georgios. It’s not come as a surprise to me, and it wouldn’t have surprised your father either, although I don’t know what he’d have made of it. You are what you are; you can’t change that. But it’s going to be tough for you, I think. Especially choosing Max Bergmann of all people.”

  I smile at her. “I know, but he’s all I’ve ever wanted. He loves me.”

  Glancing over to where her friend is seemingly absorbed in her painting, my mother drops her voice and briefly holds my hand in hers. “In that case, don’t worry about Papa Marcos or anyone else, for that matter. I’ll handle him when the time comes, of that you can be sure.” She looks over at Ava meaningfully. “I think it is fair to say that he owes me.”

  *

  “There’s a man out front; he wants to talk to you,” calls Dion with a sneer in his voice, as if someone requesting the pleasure of my company is the most absurd notion ever.

  I’ve been holed up in the restaurant kitchen preparing bowls of tzatziki for the last hour, mixing together about a gallon of the stuff. If Max and I do ever eventually have a semblance of a life together, if he never wants a stick of cucumber to darken our doors, I’ll be in full support. By this time of the year, I’m sick of the sight of it.

  I hang up my apron and walk through into the small bar area of the restaurant. A middle-aged man, dressed in chinos and a smart blue jacket looks up from his coffee at my approach, smiling pleasantly. He’s slim, with longish brown hair and wire-framed glasses, attractive in a nerdy sort of way. Quite pale-skinned for a Greek. He stands to shake my hand.

  “Georgios Manolas? Hi, I’m Kostas Apostolakis; nice to meet you.”

  I recognise the name from somewhere, but I can’t quite place it. He’s confident and stylish. I don’t know anyone like that, apart from Max.

  “I’m the architect planning the design of the new hotel over by the port. Do you have a spare five minutes?”

  I nod, curiosity getting the better of me, and slide into the seat opposite. I was right; I do know the name. His family are from the island—one of his kids was at school with me. Why would someone working on that project want to talk to me?

  “Hi, what can I do for you?”

  “I wanted to talk to you about our work on the hotel and leisure complex. It is scheduled to be finished around Easter, and you may be aware that the consortium who have bought it have stipulated we only employ islanders for the development.”

  Smiling pleasantly, he elaborates. “While this strategy is highly commendable, as I’m sure you will agree, it is leaving me with a bit of a headache. I can’t use my usual design company in Piraeus and finding the er…how can we say it…people with the required skill set for certain bits of the development is proving a little tricky.”

  He sighs, not without a small degree of exasperation. “But I’m working around it.”

  “What about when it’s finished? Are they going to employ just local people from Aegina then too?”

  “That’s the plan.” He nods tiredly. “Which is brilliant for Aegina and our island economy, obviously, particularly as the owners are planning on keeping the complex open all year round. We could do with a bit of a boost.”

  “Who are the consortium?” I’m still not sure why he’s decided to have this discussion with me, but Mr Apostolakis seems to know what he’s about, and I’m not in a hurry to be anywhere else. This conversation is the most interesting thing that’s happened to me since I dropped Max off at the port, which says a lot about Aegina outside the holiday season.

  “Oh, they’re British. I deal mostly with a very nice chap called Guy, who is developing the upper floors as a boutique hotel and spa. His company owns a few hotels, and they want to expand. And there is an investment firm, also based in the UK, who are providing a lot of the financial backing, plus someone else who is stumping up for the club and restaurant. I haven’t met him, but this Guy chap is very impressive, very switched on.”

  He pauses to finish his coffee. “Anyway, the reason I’m here is because, funnily enough, Aegina doesn’t have a commercial kitchen design company, and as I can’t use the firm I prefer to deal with in Piraeus, I thought the next best thing would be to work with some local chefs and get their ideas on it. Your name came up in dispatches—the boss wants someone with a younger, fresher set of eyes. Do you think this is something that might appeal to you, or that you might be interested in helping us out with?”

  Interested? Interested? Apart from falling in love with Max, this is the most fantastic thing that has happened to me during my entire life! The chance to plan a commercial kitchen? Of course I’m bloody interested. I’ve had my dream kitchen planned in my head for the last ten years, ever since I made my first meatballs, and even if I never get to work in it myself, the opportunity to bring my dreams to fruition seems too good to be true.

  It gets better and better. “We’ll pay you for your time, of course. I think we will probably need about a month or so to plan.” He mentions a sum of money, almost more than I’ve earned in the restaurant all year so far. “And if you need to go across to Athens or Piraeus, then of course, those costs will be covered too.”

  He’s looking at me expectantly. He has kind eyes behind those glasses and is playing his part in this game politely, knowing full well what this sort of opportunity means to someone like me, particularly at this time of year when my income for the next few months will mostly come from the odd bit of painting and decorating and helping load pottery into vans at the warehouse.

  “I’d love to.” I give him a shy smile. “Thank you very much for thinking of me, Mr Apostolakis. But I hope I don’t disappoint. All I’ve ever done is cook food. I’ve not had any formal training as a chef or anything.”

  “Please, call me Kostas. And don’t thank me. I’m confident you are not going to let us down; your culinary expertise comes highly recommended. They will consider themselves lucky to have you on board. Come over to the site office tomorrow morning, and I’ll give you a tour.”

  News travels fast in our busy household. Dion and Nico can’t be bothered to hide their incredulity that I have been selected to be of assistance in the development project that is the talk of the island. I feel like someone out of a fairy tale, plucked from the kitchens by a handsome prince and thrust into the limelight while the two ugly siblings look on in disgust.

  My mother is pleased for me though. “I used to know Kostas very well. We grew up as practically neighbours. He was always going to make something of himself.” She stops momentarily, caught in happy memories. “He was good friends with your father—he kindly used to pass a lot of work his way. It was a shame when his wife died so suddenly a couple of years ago. Some sort of stomach cancer, I think.”

  I FaceTime Max to share my good news. Wherever he is in Ibiza there is a lot of noise in the background, mostly thumping music accompanied by squealing and splashing. From what I can tell, it seems like some sort of pool party at his hotel. He’s reclining on a lounger, a bottle of beer in hand and looks tanned and relaxed. As he moves the phone screen to get a better view of me, I inadvertently catch a glimpse of a toned male body stretched out on the lounger next to him. This person says something I don’t catch in English to Max, who laughs uproariously and passes him the beer, which they are obviously sharing. I’m fairly sure I recognise him as one of the men who fawned over Max in the club back in Athens.

  Although our phone call is a warm, loving one, and Max is appropriately enthusiastic on my behalf, instead of making me feel even happier, somehow it only highlights the distance between us. And not just geographical. Admittedly, he says all the right things when we are apart—he phones me much more often than I phone him. He tells me he loves me more than once every day. And when we are together, it is impossible to think his love for me is anything but totally sincere; nobody is that good at acting. Yet, always niggling at the back of my mind is the usual worry. Do I really have enough to offer him? Will Aegina and I ever be enough?

  *

  My long-term concerns regarding my relationship with Max are momentarily forgotten when I meet up with Kostas the next morning. He’s waiting for me in the makeshift site office, and after we’ve donned hard hats and high-vis jackets, he gives me a tour.

  There is no question that the project is ambitious; Aegina has never seen anything like it. I nod politely as he shows me around the hotel upper floors and the area designated for the planned spa complex, talking non-stop, explaining everything in great detail as though I’m a prospective future guest. Which is unlikely in the extreme as even my completely untutored eye can see this hotel is set to rival any of the secret getaways that Mykonos and Santorini have to offer. No expense has been spared. Each room will be its own luxurious individual minisuite, with private balconies, jacuzzies, sunken baths, and lots of gadgets I didn’t even imagine existed, but that rich people apparently like to spend their money on.

  What I’m really waiting to see, of course, is the kitchen. Or should I say kitchens because there are going to be two: one at the rear of the ground floor, catering for hotel breakfasts, room-service snacks, and the like; and another, adjacent to the bar area, solely catering for the front-of-house restaurant. It is for this one that they’ve asked me to offer design ideas.

  “I’ll leave you to it, Georgios,” suggests Kostas. “Time for you to think alone, without my constant wittering. Shall we meet in say…two hours, to go through a few of your preliminarily thoughts?”

  And then he’s gone. As I’m left alone in the vast expanse, self-doubt creeps in. My first thought is that I wish Max was here with me so I could bounce my ideas off him. But I know what he’d say. He’d tell me that I was born to do this, that no one knows more about running a kitchen than me, and that I should believe in myself more. And he would be right because running a kitchen is about the only thing I do know how to do—I’ve been doing it for the last ten years.

  Pulling myself together, I take a lot of photos, make a few sketches and measurements, and I forget my worries as my vision slowly begins to take shape. Instead of focussing on this intimidating blank canvas, in my mind, I’m dressed in immaculate kitchen whites, an enthusiastic sous chef on one side, pot washers on the other. In the open-plan restaurant behind me are tables crammed with diners—the restaurant is full to overflowing—devouring my creations. Today’s ocean catch hangs in the larder, vying for space next to fresh vegetables haggled over at the dawn port market. In my vision, my feet ache from standing for hours at the stove, the fryer, the grill. But the ache feels wonderful because there is no Papa Marcos putting a halt on my creativity, there is no stupid Dion plating orders at half speed, no snide comments from Nico lolling uselessly in the doorway. Just me, in my kitchen, with my staff.

  The hours fly by, and it seems like only ten minutes since Kostas left me before he is back, with my mother, of all people, in tow.

  “Hi Georgios. I ran into this stranger when I popped out for coffee for us both. Sorry I’m late, but we’ve spent the last half hour catching up on old times—Simone and I have a lot of shared history, don’t we Simone? I feel seventeen again!”

  From the awkward and embarrassed expression on my mother’s face and her determination not to meet my eye, it would appear she’s not too keen on me hearing the exact details of their shared history. However, from the eager gleam in Kostas’s eyes, I think he’s keen on building on that history and possibly exploring a shared future too. An interesting development that I’ll definitely be discussing with Max later! My mum is way too young to spend the rest of her life bringing up Ava and painting pots for peanuts, not to mention waiting hand and foot on Papa Marcos and the rest of the ungrateful household.

  Kostas and my mother listen carefully as I outline my provisional ideas. He’s fairly non-committal, but positive. We bat a few thoughts back and forth before agreeing to reconvene in a couple of days after I’ve done some research online regarding pricing of commercial kitchen equipment.

  My mother and I say our goodbyes to him and walk back home together.

  “He seems very nice,” I venture. “And I had the impression he was pleased to bump into you.”

  My mother is smiling. It makes her look about fifteen years younger. “Yes, Georgios, he did, didn’t he?”

  Vagia, 3rd September, 1942

  I dreamed about Dimitris being shot last night, and when I woke up, I’d had a wee in my bed. It’s the third time I have done that. I haven’t told Mama because she will be really cross. I’ll just have to wait until it dries. It smells though.

  Vagia, 4th September, 1942

  I drew a picture of Dimitris today, playing with me in the sea. He was throwing a ball to me, back and forth, back and forth. He was wearing his blue swimming shorts. If I keep on thinking about him, then I won’t forget what he looks like. I’ve found one of his white handkerchiefs in the chest downstairs, and it smells like him. I’ve hidden it under my pillow.