I didn’t promise to stay faithful to Georgios; I didn’t need to. And it’s not that bloody difficult at all. I’m a natural at faithfulness it would seem. I just needed someone I wanted to be faithful to. I’m able to pass on the coke as well, and the vodka. I’m sticking to drinking beer and feel better for it. Knowing I have Georgios waiting for me, trusting me, gives me a willpower I didn’t know I possessed, and declining offers of sex, drugs, and rock and roll is surprisingly easy.

  I’m spending most of my spare time with Charlie. He’s what Georgios witheringly refers to as ‘one of my hangers-on’, but he’s an old schoolfriend, and we go back years. As lovers, we’ve been there and done that, and frankly, we are totally incompatible in that sphere anyway. Some of the kinky stuff he suggested when we were first acquainted had this seventeen-year-old, naïve Greek boy running for the hills. But bizarre sexual exploits aside, Charlie and I are solid. And he’s the reason I get paid a fortune for doing what I do, as not only is he an old mucker but also my business partner and event and tour manager. What started out as just doing a few DJ sets at mates’ birthday parties has grown into a European-wide money-making commodity, and there is no one better to milk the moment than canny Charlie. He takes a hefty percentage and tells me when to jump and how high. We’re a cohesive team.

  Tonight, we’re coming down from the adrenaline rush of a packed Camden set. After my sexually frustrating, chaste encounters with Georgios, I should be gagging for some action, but a quiet chillout with Charlie is exactly what the doctor ordered. It seems to be suiting him, too, which is rare as he’s usually heading out to a party around about this time of night and trying to get laid.

  He’s a funny-looking bloke, particularly when he is going through one of his cross-dressing phases, but he seems to have no trouble bedding whoever he pleases, which is generally down to his persuasive charm more than straightforward good looks. He had a cleft lip repair as a baby, and although the scar is almost invisible, his expression tends to be drawn into a permanent disdainful snarl, even when he is perfectly content, like now. Given that he is about six feet four inches tall, swarthy, and built like the proverbial brick toilet, this aspect of his demeanour makes him quite intimidating and me the much better choice of friendly front man for Berg ProMusic Ltd.

  So instead of hitting the town, Charlie and I are sharing a joint together after the London gig. Giving up vodka binges, casual sex, and an expensive coke habit is one thing, but I’m not a saint. I’m holding on to a few of my vices. It’s nearly four in the morning, and I’m still wired.

  “There’s something different about you tonight, Berg, my darling,” Charlie drawls in his ridiculously posh voice. “But I can’t put my finger on exactly what it is.”

  I don’t reply, the joint is having the desired effect of calming me down, and I’ve successfully escaped the pissed groupies—male and female—who were waiting for me at the end of the set. Having Charlie around is useful for that. We pretend to be so wrapped up in each other that we don’t notice anyone else and generally successfully waltz through them all in a passionate embrace, giving onlookers the distinct impression we’re hotfooting it to the nearest bedroom together. And even though Charlie is fairly beefy, after a particularly pushy man accosted me last year, I also have a minder who hovers discreetly, just in case.

  We’re seated in a quiet nook of a comfortable hotel terrace, around the corner from Hyde Park. Charlie has had an open relationship with Guy, the owner of this hotel, for around a year or so, and we can turn up here at any time of day or night and get served. He’s pushing his luck a bit with smoking the joint, but the few staff floating about are turning a blind eye. It’s that sort of place: discreet, luxurious, and somewhere to hide. A place where footballers, politicians, and popstars can conduct their intimate lives safe in the knowledge that no lurid photos will find their way into the tabloid newspapers the following day. Charlie has managed to find us a couple of blankets to wrap around our shoulders to keep out the chill, and not long afterwards, Guy slips in beside him, scowling slightly at the weed but saying nothing. He’s a short, pallid little man, at least fifteen years older than us and a quiet unassuming presence. But some of the things he does to Charlie when they’re alone together can even make me blush.

  “I don’t think you heard me, Berg, darling,” Charlie repeats, taking a long toke. “You’re different. For instance, Vincent—that skinny French chap you usually have the hots for—was there tonight, and you pretty much ignored him completely. And Michael whatshisname—the guy with the ridiculous lion tattoo on his arse—I know you’re partial to him from time to time.” He gives me a sly nudge. “Have you concluded that I’m your number one after all?”

  Guy harrumphs in disgust, and I grin and accept the joint from him. “Would you like to be my number one, Charlie?”

  He’s shaking his head. “Nah. You’re pretty and all, but a bit too vanilla for my liking. You know me, I’m dreaming of a bloke who will tie me up and stick an orange in my mouth before he tries to strangle me. I hope you’re taking notes, Guy.”

  He’s hopefully exaggerating, but the teasing raises a short laugh from Guy. Bloody British upper classes, they’re all as kinky as hell, I’ve decided. I’m sort of one of them, but not quite; somewhere within me is a good little Greek boy aching to get out. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not averse to a little bit of kink. A good spanking does wonders to spice up an otherwise average sexual encounter, but Charlie and Guy’s true tastes are way out of my comfort zone. Yet, Charlie is the closest thing to a best mate I have in England, and I decide to confide in them both.

  “I’m in love, mate,” I confess to guffaws of laughter.

  That mixture of wonder and pleasure on Georgios’s delicate features as he climaxed against me, his unanticipated discovery that something as simple as kissing could give him so much joy, has never been far from the forefront of my mind since I left Aegina. And his too-cute-for-words embarrassment afterwards has brought out protective instincts I had no idea I possessed. I’m desperate to look after him and show him more, to show him how good it can really be between us. And Vincent and Michael, the occasional good-time boys Charlie referred to? They don’t even come close.

  “And another good man falls,” Charlie manages to respond eventually, lifting his hand up into the shape of a gun and pretending to shoot me. “So who is this lucky boy who’s captured your heart?”

  “You don’t know him, Charlie. He’s back in Aegina. I’ve known him my whole life.”

  “Oh, him,” he says without much surprise. “The guy all over your private Instagram account. This is old news, Maxi. You’ve always been in love with him, haven’t you?”

  It’s been that obvious, clearly. “Yes, I have, but fortunately, he’s finally realised he’s in love with me too. It’s only taken him about ten years.”

  “Not very convenient, Maxi, loving someone who lives halfway across the planet,” Charlie replies drily. “It’s a long way to go to get your cock sucked; he must be bloody good at it.”

  I smirk, taking another drag on the joint. “I have no idea, mate, but I’m hoping to find out. It’s a bit complicated, to be honest.”

  Whipping out my phone, I proceed to bore him for the next few minutes with all the surreptitious photos I’ve taken of Georgios, stretching back over a couple of years. Even Guy leans across to look.

  “Very pretty, Maxi,” he observes. “Although I hope for your sake he’s reciprocating your amour because otherwise, I reckon with this number of photos, you could be done for stalking him.”

  I’ve probably scrolled through at least fifty snaps—I could look at them all night and not get tired. Charlie is watching me, amused.

  “Well, I wish you all the luck in the world with him, my darling, all the luck in the world.”

  We smoke and drink in silence for a few minutes, letting the cool night air wash over us.

  “As a matter of fact, I’m in love too,” Charlie announces, breaking the silence. Goodness, it is a night for revelations.

  “Wha-at??”

  “You heard. I said that I’m in love.”

  Charlie shifts in his seat so he’s angled towards Guy and pointedly eyeballs him. “It’s just that the man I’m in love with doesn’t bloody believe me when I tell him.”

  Well, well, well. This is awkward. Guy stares at the floor, and the only sign he has registered our conversation is the tips of his ears have turned a fetching shade of pink. Charlie closely examines the end of the joint, and I feel like a third wheel. True love, blossoming quietly amongst the whips and chains.

  “Can I ask you something, Guy?” I say eventually.

  Grateful that I’m possibly changing the subject, he turns his attention away from the floor tiles and to his fingers, which somehow, without me noticing, have become loosely interlinked with Charlie’s. He settles his cool gaze upon me speculatively.

  “This hotel of yours—you know, boutique luxury, complete privacy, and all that—when did you buy it? Can you tell me a bit about it?”

  He looks at me with surprise, and then they both smile. “I’ve currently got three hotels, actually,” he says. “This one that I’ve had for nearly ten years, a smaller venture in Nice, and another in Vienna. I have discovered there is an extremely profitable market in providing luxurious boltholes for wealthy people prepared to pay good money for total anonymity. Why do you ask?”

  I shrug, slightly unsure of where I’m heading, and I don’t only mean conversationally, but on a truly frightening, vast, life-sized scale. It might be the effects of the joint or the beer, but I’ve had jumbled thoughts buzzing around my brain since my last trip to Aegina, and I haven’t a clue where to begin.

  “Have you ever considered investing in another?”

  *

  Three days later finds me at my mother and Henry’s immaculate Georgian townhouse in leafy Richmond. My mother’s marriage to my stepfather Henry is a prime example of how dating website algorithms should be treated with a very large pinch of salt, and one should stick to trusting one’s instinct when choosing a life partner. They met and were married while I was still in nappies and, for all the idiosyncrasies on both sides, appear to be blissfully happy.

  She’s a strange bird, my mum. In some ways, she’s tough as old boots, although I expect being a single parent at sixteen can do that to you. She hoards secrets too. Gregarious on so many levels, she’s close-mouthed whenever I try to bring the conversation around to her leaving Aegina under a cloud all those years ago. Sometimes I wonder if she has started to believe her own reinvention of her wealthy Athenian roots. And although it would be interesting to hear the full story of how she came by her money, I found out the hard way a long time ago that mention of my biological father, Felix, and his German family is strictly verboten.

  These days, she presents herself to the world as a not quite forty-year-old glamorous airhead, whose life revolves around looking fabulous and quaffing expensive champagne with expensive friends in exotic locations. This is a polite way of saying she has a drink problem, masked by her wealth and class. Judging by my recent performances, it would seem the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Her excessive drinking happens in peaks and troughs, and every now and again, she disappears to a ‘health retreat’ and returns looking fresher and well…healthier.

  My stepfather, Henry, is ten years older, and when not making oodles of cash as a venture capitalist, spends his time building what seems to be a scaled-down version of the Enigma machine in our garage, entirely from scratch. He has a brain the size of the actual Enigma machine. I love him to bits. Henry has been a levelling constant my whole life, and even though he could never see the point of attending my sports matches or speech days and the like, he’d be the first person I would turn to for advice. Solid is his middle name.

  Unfortunately, he’s not at home, so I have to endure my mother’s post-lunch tipsiness while I wait for him to return.

  “Tell me, darling, how is that gorgeous young man of yours?” she asks, and just as with Charlie, I show her some recent photos on my phone that I took of Georgios from my last visit to Aegina. (Maybe Guy is right, perhaps I am a stalker.) In one of them, he’s steering his little boat back from our day out at Moni, the sun behind him, hanging low in the sky. I remember him laughing at me each time I yelped when he purposefully hit the crest of a wave. In another photo, he’s working in the restaurant and frowning with concentration as he plates up an order.

  Me being gay has never been an issue for my mother, which makes me luckier than a lot of young men of my acquaintance. Now that I’m older, she tends to treat me as another of her gossipy female friends, and indeed, I’m of a similar age to many of them.

  “I’m missing him,” I admit. “We Facetime every day, but it’s not the same. That’s one of the reasons I’ve come to see Henry.”

  It’s no lie, I really am missing him, even though he has never stayed with me in London. I miss that he’s not in my bed every morning, even though he never has been, and I miss that he isn’t throwing together a saganaki in my sleek, underused kitchen, even though he never has before. It comes as no surprise to my mother that Georgios and I are finally getting it together as she’s watched us growing closer for years.

  “Oh, Henry will be back soon, he’s having lunch with a chap from Norway who he met online. They wanted to continue an argument in person they’ve been having for months regarding how many power settings are possible if he adds a ninth rotor to his Enigma, given that the original Enigma had fewer than that. I forget how many exactly.”

  I think I can forgive my mother for not coming up with the precise details, particularly after a boozy lunch. I’m impressed she’s as knowledgeable as she is.

  “I had dinner with Georgios’s family when I was over there,” I say, trying to steer the conversation back to Aegina. I might as well use her slight inebriation to my own benefit. “Noni was her usual, unpleasant self, but the others vaguely tried to pretend to like me. Papa Marcos even asked after you, via Georgios, of course!”

  She smiles and begins absently flicking through the latest copy of Vogue on the coffee table next to her. “Mmm, this new-season Chloé blue leather clutch is rather lovely, don’t you think, darling?”

  I nod my agreement, recognising a familiar frustration at her evasiveness. “Why don’t they like us, Mum? I know you’ve fobbed me off before when I’ve asked, but Georgios is uncomfortable talking about it, and I think I have a right to know. Especially now that we’re…um…an item. Is it because of you having me when you were still a teenager and unmarried? Because if so, then that’s ridiculously narrow-minded of them after all these years.”

  Yawning languidly, she turns over a page. “Gosh, no, I wouldn’t have thought so, darling, although everyone kicked up an awful fuss at the time. It’s not the whole story anyway.”

  “So what is the whole story then?”

  She sighs theatrically and puts down the magazine. “Oh, I don’t know, Maxi darling. You’d think they would have got over it all by now. Please don’t spoil a nice afternoon by making me rehash all of that nonsense.”

  This is as close to the truth as I’ve ever got, and it’s not very far. Despite pretending to be blasé about the whole thing, I sense an edge to her voice. I wait patiently.

  “If you really must know, it’s something to do with that book written by that ghastly journalist.”

  “What book? What ghastly journalist? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, Maxi, surely I’ve told you before, haven’t I? You know, that book about the Germans in the war, when they came and occupied Aegina. I’ve never read it, and I have no desire to do so. Raking all that misery up again. Would you like a glass of wine with me? I have a lovely bottle of Chardonnay open.”

  I shake my head, refusing to be distracted. “What on earth has a book about German soldiers occupying Aegina got to do with them disliking us so much? Is it because my father was German? Jesus, that’s not a reason to bear a grudge for so long.”

  “Oh, I know, Maxi darling. It’s stupid really; nobody cared at all about that silly book until it became a school text. I’m surprised they’re still harping on about it, although they’ve got nothing better to do in that backwater, I suppose.”

  Her head drops down to her magazine, the conversation apparently closed.

  “I don’t suppose you remember what the book is called, do you?” I ask tentatively, not wanting to push her. If she gets into a huff, then Henry will be cross with me because it can last for days, and I’m already sensing her drinking is on an upwards slope.

  “Goodness, don’t go on. You’re giving me a headache with all these questions. I’ve no idea. There’s probably a copy of it lying around somewhere—it was on the bookcase in the dining room for years—it’s probably still there unless Henry has walked off with it. Georgios’s mother insisted I have it years ago, but I’ve refused to read it.”

  Henry phones a little while later with his apologies for being delayed, and we make an appointment for the morning. It suits me fine, and with the book in my jacket, I make my escape. Meeting Henry can wait. I want to spend my night getting to the bottom of things.

  Vagia, May 5th, 1942

  I don’t want Hauptmann Ernst to come to our house again. I don’t want any of the German soldiers to come. I want them all to go back to their own country where they belong and leave us alone. I want Papa to come home from near Albania, I want Mrs Tzabó to come home from wherever she is, and I want the whole world to go back to how it was before this horrible war started.