Claudia's Big Break by Lisa Heidke

should.
    â€˜You have something for me. Nai? ’ Con said in Greek.
    â€˜Err, nai .’ Nai meaning yes in Greek. It was confusing.
    â€˜ Fira avrio. Enteka I ora to pro-i avrio, nai .’ Con was all business and talking so rapidly I had difficulty understanding. When I sat the oral Greek exam at uni the examiners spoke V . . . E . . . R . . . Y slowly.
    My palms were sweating and my mind was racing. Could Con have been one of the men I’d seen in Athens? Looking back, that whole afternoon was a blur. I’d been so overcome with heat and tiredness, perhaps I hadn’t been thinking straight.
    â€˜ Ti? You want to come here?’ I asked, wiping my clammy free hand on the sheets. Stupid, Claudia! Mentally, I whacked myself on the forehead.
    â€˜ Ochi . The café opposite the bus terminal.’
    Thank goodness. ‘ Simera? ’ Today? I hoped so. I really wanted this matter dealt with as soon as humanly possible.
    â€˜No,’ Con said, irritation rising in his voice. He continued to give me instructions in Greek, which I did my best to interpret.
    â€˜Eleven o’clock tomorrow at the café opposite the bus terminal?’ I repeated.
    â€˜ Nai. ’
    â€˜How will I recognise you?’
    â€˜Marcus sent me your picture. I will, how you say, recognise you.’ Con disconnected before I could say anything more. My brain was spinning. All I wanted to do was get those papers signed and hand over the flash drive.
    I clomped downstairs to the bathroom, determined to put the niggling concerns I had about Con to one side. By the time I’d finished showering, I was feeling more philosophical about his call and had even devised a charming scenario of how my meeting with him would play out. We’d meet at the café for ten minutes, tops, knock back a grainy Greek coffee with a side order of baklava, then I’d hand over Marcus’s documents, Con’d sign them and it would be over. Finito!
    What did Con look like anyway? Perhaps he was a swarthy-looking Greek who’d roll up to the café on his Vespa, dark curls twinkling in the sun, bod firm and tanned from years spent fishing out on the ocean and dragging nets ashore. Those guys looked incredibly laidback when I’d seen them propped up in bars, smoking cigarettes and downing ouzo. Hitch: from the brief conversation I’d had with him, Con didn’t strike me as a laidback fellow.
    Maybe he was more the suave and slick man about town. Wearing a sharp designer suit with the obligatory heavy gold chains dripping from his neck and arms (and maybe a couple of thick gold rings on his fingers), he’d saunter up to the table, engage me in flirtatious chat, while all the time leering at my breasts and legs. Plausible.
    Scenario three, he’d look like any of the hundreds of nondescript blokes I’d observed since my arrival in Greece. Though I doubted Con would be wearing an I’m with stupid T-shirt, and loud red board shorts.
    I walked out onto the terrace, where Marcella greeted me with freshly baked koulourakia — sweet biscuits — and yogurt.
    â€˜Eat,’ she said, imploring me to sit with her. This morning she had her hair pulled back in a colourful headscarf and was wearing a peach-coloured dress with faded navy apron. ‘Your holiday, it is good?’
    â€˜Very. Thank you,’ I said, taking a scoop of yogurt.
    â€˜But you here alone? No husbands?’
    I shook my head. ‘Sophie is married but Tara and I —’ I shrugged.
    She nodded. ‘Men. Too much trouble.’
    I studied her for a moment, taking in her strong arms and worker’s hands. She didn’t wear a wedding ring, not that that meant anything. Plenty of married women didn’t wear jewellery. However, she did seem to be running this business all by herself.
    â€˜Are you married?’ I ventured.
    â€˜ Ochi! No!’ Then she softened. ‘A long time ago, yes.’
    I felt