Little White Lies and Butterflies: A Perfect Heart-Warming Romantic Read

1

From outside the dance circle, you sing lots of songs

‘That’s it!’ I announced, having just landed at Mum and Dad’s house for our customary Sunday lunch gathering. ‘My life as I know it is officially over!’

I paused, waiting for that all important condoling response. Daft enough to expect at least a modicum of sympathy from within the bosom of my family, I quickly realised I should’ve known better. The Livingstons didn’t do compassion.

Instead, Mum appeared with a mass of cutlery, her arm outstretched as she thrust it my way. ‘If you wouldn’t mind,’ she said, pointing me in the direction of the dining room table.

Mum headed back into the kitchen, leaving me no choice but to get on with it. However, as I spotted Dad already seated and eager to eat, I did suppose the woman needed all the help she could get. Certain members of our family had always preferred a more observational role when it came to mucking in with the household chores; Dad was a prime example of this.

‘Oh, yes,’ I continued, regardless. ‘My dreams have finally been crushed, once and for all.’

I began laying the table, sucking myself in as I squeezed behind my somewhat unaccommodating father, a man more concerned about his belly’s grumblings than those of his beloved offspring.

‘Leaving me no choice but to think about joining a convent,’ I carried on. ‘Where I shall, no doubt, remain for the rest of my days.’

‘Things didn’t go too well, then?’ asked Mum, suddenly re-emerging with a stack of plates, eager to get the task at hand done and dusted.

Not that I minded her hurrying me along in my moment of distress. After all, everyone knew it paid dividends to have everything organised and in place before brother number one, Steve, and his wife, Jill, arrived with their not so adorable kids in tow. Although, to be fair, it wasn’t so much my sullen fifteen-year-old niece who created cause for concern – texting, tweeting Tammy, as I liked to refer to her – but more my yet to be diagnosed ADHD suffering little nephews, eight-year-old twins Luke and Johnny.

‘The trouble with you, Lydia,’ Dad joined in, although just to clarify, by that I mean with the conversation and not the workload, ‘is you’re far too picky.’

I watched him fold his arms as if he’d just imparted some piece of crucial advice. Obviously, a chap who wants nothing but the best for his one and only daughter. Although at the same time, I did have to acknowledge he wasn’t exactly the first person to suggest I might be setting my sights a little higher than was good for me. Unrealistic, for want of a better word.

‘Too ugly, you mean,’ corrected a rather bedraggled Pete, brother number two, as he appeared in the doorway – a man who needed to choose his words a little more carefully in my view, especially when I still had a couple of knives in my hand.

‘Do the words pot, kettle and black mean anything to you?’ I asked.

He plonked himself down at the table and, yet again, I found myself understanding why his long-suffering girlfriend had finally decided to kick him to the kerb, sending both him and his belongings back home to Mummy.

‘If you must know,’ I said, getting back to the more important issue under discussion. ‘This one met all the necessary criteria. He even asked if he could see me again.’

Mum suddenly stopped what she was doing. ‘So, what’s the problem, then?’

She had spent years listening to me recount the events of one disastrous date after another, all the while harping on about not settling for second best and bagging my perfect man by the time I hit thirty, so I understood her surprise. The way I’d gone on I should’ve been chomping at the bit to book the church for the wedding by now, or at least be sending the invitations out for the engagement party.

‘Well, I can’t be sure,’ I ventured. ‘But I think this one had some sort of medical condition.’

‘Ha!’ scoffed Pete. ‘I knew it. He was blind, wasn’t he? Had to be, to be seen out in public with you.’

I forced myself to put the last of the knives down. ‘No. Not exactly.’

Mum handed me half her pile of plates.

‘What do you mean? Not exactly?’ Dad laughed, as usual failing to take my quest at all seriously.

‘It wasn’t so much he couldn’t see,’ I said. ‘But more that he didn’t blink.’

I ignored Pete’s sniggering.

‘And did you ask him about it?’ enquired Mum. ‘It might’ve been curable.’

‘No, I didn’t!’ I replied. ‘Just because he wasn’t The One doesn’t mean I’d want to hurt the guy’s feelings.

‘Besides, that’s not the point, is it?’ I continued. ‘If I start making concessions now, just because time’s running out, all the other naff dates will have been for nothing. And in that case, I may as well have just married a fool like him from the off,’ I indicated to my not-so-darling brother, ‘and have been done with it years ago.’

Mum rolled her eyes, probably picturing me as an ageing spinster for the umpteenth time, spending my twilight years with nothing but a room full of cats for company. ‘I blame all those silly books you read,’ she said. ‘Putting ideas into young girls’ heads like they do. They’re just not realistic.’

‘I’ll tell you what’s not realistic,’ I replied. ‘Women who think they can have it all.’

Dad threw his head back and groaned. ‘Here we go again,’ he said, failing to realise he’d been proving my point since the day I was born.

‘Just look at you, Mum – you work all the hours God sends, then come home and run around after these two, because heaven forbid they should have to do something for themselves.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with a woman having a career, Lydia,’ she replied.

‘No, there isn’t. And there’s nothing wrong with having a family either. As for having both—despite what everyone preaches, what everyone’s always preached, you of all people know it isn’t everything it’s cracked up to be.’

Mum, Dad, and Pete stared at me like I’d lost the plot, while I looked from the crockery in Mum’s hands to the crockery in mine.

Still, in my experience it didn’t matter how often I tried to explain. When it came to the career versus family argument I knew they’d never be able to understand why, well into the twenty-first century, I’d find it acceptable to choose one over the other. Why I’d choose domesticity over a job.

Then again, thinking back to the couple of hours wasted on the latest, and as it turned out blinkingly challenged, conjugal contender, I had to admit this was something even I was beginning to question.

‘Not that I suppose it matters now, anyway,’ I reluctantly conceded. ‘Which is why you’ll all be pleased to know I’ve finally decided to take stock.’

The relief on Mum’s face was immeasurable, no doubt because she was glad to hear her next set of grandchildren weren’t going to be of the feline kind, after all. ‘Well that’s something, I suppose,’ she said.

‘Yes, well, before you all go and get your hopes up too much, just because I’m abandoning my mission doesn’t mean I’m about to enrol on some course and get myself a proper job, as you lot call it! No, siree. Instead, I’m going to banish myself to a distant land and head off into the wild blue yonder.’ I threw my arm out in a dramatic gesture. ‘A place where I can reassess my situation and decide where to go from here.’

‘I knew it was too good to be true,’ said Dad, obviously viewing my assertion as another of ‘those melodramatic tendencies’ he’d always thought me prone to.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Mum. ‘Take yourself off into the wild blue yonder?’

I got back to laying the table. ‘Well, if I’m not going to use my wedding fund for an actual wedding,’ I explained, ‘I might as well put it to some other good use. And I think a bit of time and space away from everything is just what I need right now.’

‘And when do you plan on going?’

‘As soon as…’

‘But you can’t,’ interrupted Mum. ‘What about your birthday? I’ve already ordered the cake.’

‘I’ve decided I’m not celebrating it this year,’ I replied. ‘Being thirty and still single isn’t exactly something I want to shout from the rooftops, is it? Not after everything I’ve been through.’

‘Now she really has lost her marbles,’ said Dad.

‘That’s if she ever had any to begin with,’ said Pete.

2

A cassock doesn’t make someone a priest

Now I know why they call these things Dolphins, I thought, the boat rather energetically bouncing up and down as it cut through the water’s surface. Although it has to be said that real dolphins are a lot more graceful. And probably not quite as fast!

With my hair blowing about all over the place and my beloved Beckhamesque sunglasses about to fly off my face at any given moment, I knew any attempts at appearing the consummate traveller were fast disappearing. And, fighting to keep my bum on the bench, convinced that I, too, would be tossed overboard if I dared release my grip in the slightest, I began to question why I’d seen fit to choose a deck seat in the first place. In fact, I began to ask what I was doing on the boat at all.

Determined not to lose control altogether, I willed myself to at least try and enjoy the ride and, with the boat leaving Kos well and truly behind in favour of its neighbouring Kalymnos, I endeavoured to take in the rest of my surroundings.

I mean, it isn’t every day you get to see a sight like this, is it?

I stared out at the largest expanse of Brandeis blue I’d ever seen, under the most glorious of Mediterranean sunshine, and even I had to admit the energetic crossing was sort of worth the discomfort. But as the vessel rose to the challenge of yet another swell of surf, I found it a struggle to remain quite so positive. I just wish I wasn’t bobbing up and down quite as much. So, I could actually enjoy it.

It was my first time in the Dodecanese and my Greek geography knowledge was strictly limited to some of the larger islands like Corfu and Zante; up until recently, I’d never actually heard of Kalymnos, let alone of its rocky, rugged landscape. But into the travel agency I’d gone, armed with my long list of requirements for that perfect exile experience and, a few taps on her computer later, this was the little slice of paradise the agent had come up with.

I only hope the place lives up to its reputation, I thought, remembering the woman’s somewhat poetic description of what was to become my home for the next few weeks. Although as I looked about at my fellow passengers, also recalling her telling me about its popularity among the world’s climbing fraternity, I doubted if she’d really had a clue as to what she’d been talking about. This one aspect of reality was already failing to meet expectations.

She obviously has an overactive imagination, I complained inwardly, while continuing to observe the rucksack- and kit-carrying individuals around me. Because instead of the host of handsome, muscular, athletic types I had hoped to feast my eyes upon, I couldn’t have come face to face with a scruffier group of crag rats if I’d tried. Wide-leg sweatpants are horrific at the best of times, but wearing them a couple of inches too short is just scandalous.

And what was it with the dreadlocks and Jesus sandals? But as if things couldn’t get any worse, any disenchantment I felt soon turned into a sense of nausea, all courtesy of the array of tighter than necessary leggings on display. After all, these garments aren’t just offensive per se; when it comes to a man’s particular body parts, surely an air of mystery needs to be maintained?

I realised my observations hadn’t gone unnoticed when I spotted one of the climbers giving me the glad eye. Not that this one appeared as extreme as all the others, I noted. This chap preferred to wear knee-length combats and a simple T-shirt, rather than one of the more grotesque outfits on view. If I ignored the overgrown, sun-kissed hair and blocked out the not-so-designer stubble, he probably wasn’t all that bad looking underneath. Nevertheless, he still wasn’t my type; although, if experience was anything to go by, I couldn’t be certain my type even existed.

If he does, he most certainly isn’t among this lot. I took another look at the inferior gene pool around me. Not that you’re here to think about any of that anyway.

I turned away, determined to dismiss all images of bulging Lycra-covered crotches completely from my mind. Ready to embrace what lay ahead as the content, happily single woman I was clearly destined to be, I returned my attention to the rest of my surroundings, excited to see that we were fast approaching Kalymnos.

As the boat entered the harbour of Pothia, it struck me just how Venetian the island looked as opposed to anything Greek and, whereas I’d anticipated seeing a mass of traditional blue and white when it came to the architecture, much to my surprise, I found myself taking in a multitude of terracotta, peaches and yellows. Thinking back to the little bit of googling I had managed to squeeze in before my departure, I recollected something about it being under Italian rule up until as late as 1947 and so I guessed a certain influence was hardly surprising.

Everyone around me suddenly sprang to their feet and, all at once, began heading down to the holding area. However, it wasn’t a large boat to begin with and, with the sudden uneven weight distribution, I started to feel a slight panic. As far as I was concerned, the other passengers obviously knew something I didn’t and watching them all clamour to undertake a mass exodus the second we finally docked, I quickly came to the conclusion that I’d better join them in their fight for dry land. Rising to my feet, I told myself if this craft was going to go down, I had no intention of going down with it and so I pushed and shoved my way down the steps and along the gangplank with the rest of them, until my feet hit terra firma.

Wrestling with my mammoth suitcase, I battled my way through the crowds and over to one of the waiting taxis.

‘Your first time here?’ asked the driver, trying not to grimace too much as he windlassed my luggage into the boot.

I realised it was the suitcase that had given me away. The more seasoned visitors all had backpacks.

‘So where to?’ he asked.

I dug my booking sheet out of my bag, while he took his position behind the wheel.

‘Fatolitis in Massouri,’ I said and, just glad to be leaving all that confused hustle and bustle behind me, I heaved a great big sigh of relief. At last, my well-earned sabbatical could start for real.

We made our way over to the north side of the island, climbing steadily up through villages with names like Xora and Elies. Being a newbie visitor, I considered them all of interest in their own right, although the more we journeyed, the more I noticed a distinct lack of tourism on display. In fact, there wasn’t much of anything taking place at all, apart from people going about their everyday lives in pretty much the same way they would at home – only here, they could do it in the sunshine. However, there were lots of old men sitting in cafés, drinking coffee and smoking—another reminder that it was a good job I’d decided to put my manhunt on hold before I actually got there, otherwise I’d now be doubly disappointed.

We turned the bend that signalled our eventual descent and I immediately shot forward in my seat. Now this is more like it, I thought, God’s honest beauty of Kalymnos finally hitting me in the face. ‘Wow!’ I said, mesmerized. ‘It’s like something out of Jason and the Argonauts!’

I began rooting in my bag for my camera. ‘Can we stop for a minute?’ I asked, mid-search, ‘so I can get one for the album?’

The driver did as I asked and pulled over, enabling me to jump out and make the most of our vantage point as I click-clicked away, taking one photograph after another. But after a moment I paused to really absorb the sight before me, the harsh barrenness of the mountainous Kalymnian shoreline proudly rising up from the bluest of oceans almost taking my breath away.

‘Magnificent!’ I said, staring out at a spectacle more reminiscent of Ancient Greece than any modern-day vista I’d ever seen before. I envisaged the great Poseidon suddenly heaving himself up out of the waters, only to hoist the smaller island opposite off its anchor in an angry god-like display.

‘That’s Talendos,’ explained the driver, as if reading my mind.

‘It’s incredible,’ I replied, still gazing out to sea.

The driver started his engine signalling it was time to set off again, leaving me no choice but to climb back into the car.

‘I think I’m going to enjoy my time here,’ I said, as we began following the somewhat windy road down towards our destination.

We came to a standstill outside Fatolitis and my Kalymnian reverie came to an abrupt end. ‘There must be some mistake,’ I said, bolting upright.

‘No, no mistake,’ said the driver. ‘This is Fatolitis.’

I