A Shameful Consequence - By Carol Marinelli Page 0,19

into the back of the car and saw Nico lounging there, they were waved on immediately.

‘It was always the poor side,’ George explained, and for once Nico wanted to hear from his driver and asked him questions, encouraged him to speak on. ‘The soil is more fertile in the north, that is where vines and orchards are, and the markets and ferry, too—really the south was just for local fishing, but not now.’

As the car swept along the beach road, even Nico, who was used to luxury, was taken aback by the contrast to the north of the island. Huge homes were carved into the rocky hillside. Yachts were out for their Sunday sail, but it had none of the charm of Puerto Banus; there was a certain sterility to the place and Nico was less than impressed.

‘It would be good for the island’s economy, though?’ Nico asked, because that the was the sort of talk he was interested in, but George shook his head. ‘They come here for seclusion, they don’t eat in our restaurants and the developer uses his own men for the building. Really, it has done nothing for us …’

Nico could see what he meant as they drove: the houses were stunning, vast properties that overlooked the ocean, but the main street was nothing like the bustling town of Xanos, the aroma-filled town centre on the north of the island where yesterday he had sat. Here it was a sanitized version, with an exclusive hotel and smart designer boutiques, trendy cafés and restaurants.

‘Which serve what foreigners think is Greek,’ George explained, and Nico found himself smiling as they drove on. ‘These aren’t done yet,’ George said. ‘This was how it once looked.’ And this was the real Xanos, Nico decided and told George to slow down. Simple houses were dotted in the hillside, but the once-loved gardens were now overgrown and neglected, the bulldozers idle for the weekend but waiting to move in soon. There was a small taverna they drove past, where tradesmen now ate and drank, George explained, and what was left of the locals, but soon they, too, would be gone.

‘They’re all sold,’ George said as Nico moved for his phone. ‘He bought up the lot—there are a few locals that lease from him, but only till the work is complete and he’s done with them.’

‘Who?’ Nico asked, but George didn’t know.

‘Some rich Australian.’ Lack of information didn’t stop Nico. Neither did the fact that it was Sunday. Even if it was her one weekend off, he rang an eternally patient Charlotte and told her to make enquiries and to get back to him. Then got out of the car and started walking.

He wandered for an hour or more, along the cobbled streets and up the stone steps to a couple of deserted properties. He found one that was a little larger, shaded by a vast fig tree, whose fruit lay rotting on the ground. The air thick with the scent of it but there was beauty in neglect, too; the paths were overgrown, the stone pool mossed and empty, but vivid cyclamen still burst from shaded pots and it wasn’t Puerto Banus that was tempting him now.

‘They’re not interested in selling.’ Charlotte soon got back to him. ‘Especially not on a Sunday.’

‘Get me a price,’ Nico said, because there always was one, and Nico was more specific with his instruction now, describing the house in detail, this the one that he wanted. He lingered a little longer, searching for answers to a question he didn’t know, then back to the old town they went. Nico was looking for something he did not understand, but his head was pounding by the time he was back at the hotel.

He went to the bar.

Told himself it did not matter that there was no sign of her.

He checked his phone for perhaps the fiftieth time, answering it promptly when it rang. He was curiously deflated when it was Charlotte on the other end. Even Nico’s eyes widened when his PA rang and gave him the price.

‘He’s not interested in negotiating,’ Charlotte relayed.

‘Who?’ Nico asked.

‘I just got a lawyer, and he wasn’t particularly chatty. That’s the price,’ Charlotte said. ‘Are you sure you’re not in Monte Carlo?’

He let out a grudging laugh.

He worked well with Charlotte, perhaps because they rarely saw each other—she lived in London and was permanently available on the phone and online. Occasionally, when needed, she travelled with him, but their relationship had survived