better than Bekim – or any of the other guys in football who succumb to all the temptations made possible by a hundred grand a week. I was just older and perhaps a little wiser and, truth be told, just a little less pussy-hungry than I used to be. You get older, your sleep matters more than what’s laughingly called your libido.
Alexander’s Bar looked like something out of an old Hollywood movie. The marble counter was about thirty feet long, with proper bar stools for some serious, lost weekend drinking, and more bottles than a bonded warehouse. Behind the bar was a tapestry of a man in a chariot I assumed was Alexander the Great; some attendants were carrying a Greek urn beside his chariot that looked a lot like the FA Cup which probably explained why everyone looked so happy.
It wasn’t hard to spot Valentina: she was the one in the grey armchair with legs up to her armpits, coated tweed minidress and Louboutin high heels. Louboutins are easy to identify; I only knew the minidress was a three-grand Balmain because I liked to shop online and it was a rare month when I didn’t buy something for Louise on Net-a-Porter. The blonde hair held in a loose chignon gave Valentina a regal air. If she was a hooker she wasn’t the kind who was about to give a discount for cash.
Seeing me she stood up, smiled a xenon headlight smile, took my hand in hers and shook it; her grip was surprisingly strong. I glanced around in case anyone else had recognised me as quickly as Valentina had done. You can’t be too careful these days; anyone with a mobile phone is Big Brother.
‘I recognised you from the picture Bekim sent me,’ she said.
I resisted the immediate temptation to pay her a dumb compliment; usually, when you meet a really beautiful woman, all you can really hope to do is try to keep your tongue in your mouth. I remembered Bekim showing me her picture on his iPhone. But it was hard to connect something as ubiquitous and ordinary as the image on someone’s phone with the living goddess standing on front of me. All my earlier thoughts of dinner were now gone; I don’t think I could even have spelt the word ‘appetite’.
We sat down and she waved the barman towards us; he came over immediately, as if he’d been watching her, too. Even Alexander the Great was having a hard job keeping his embroidered eyes off her. I ordered a brandy, which was stupid because it doesn’t agree with me, but that’s what she was drinking and at that particular moment it seemed imperative that we should agree about everything.
‘I live not far from here,’ she explained.
‘I had no idea that Mount Olympus was so close,’ I said.
She smiled. ‘You’re thinking of Thessaloniki.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m thinking of Greek mythology.’ I was having a hard job to restrain myself from pouring yet more sugar in her ear; she probably heard that kind of shit all the time.
‘Have you eaten?’
I shook my head.
‘There’s still time to go to dinner,’ she said. ‘Spondi is a five-minute cab ride from here. It’s the best restaurant in Athens.’
The waiter returned with the brandies.
‘Or we could eat here. The roof garden restaurant has the best view in Athens.’
‘The roof garden sounds just fine,’ I said.
We took our drinks upstairs to the roof garden restaurant. The rocky plateau that dominated the city and which was home to the Parthenon, now floodlit, is one of the most spectacular sights in the world, especially at night, from the rooftop of the Grande Bretagne, when you’re having dinner with someone who looks like one of the major deities who were once worshipped there; but I kept that one to myself because it’s not every woman who likes that much cheese. And frankly, after a couple of minutes, I barely even noticed the Acropolis was there at all. We ordered dinner. I don’t remember what I ate. I don’t remember anything except everything about her. For once Bekim had not exaggerated; I don’t
Alexander’s Bar looked like something out of an old Hollywood movie. The marble counter was about thirty feet long, with proper bar stools for some serious, lost weekend drinking, and more bottles than a bonded warehouse. Behind the bar was a tapestry of a man in a chariot I assumed was Alexander the Great; some attendants were carrying a Greek urn beside his chariot that looked a lot like the FA Cup which probably explained why everyone looked so happy.
It wasn’t hard to spot Valentina: she was the one in the grey armchair with legs up to her armpits, coated tweed minidress and Louboutin high heels. Louboutins are easy to identify; I only knew the minidress was a three-grand Balmain because I liked to shop online and it was a rare month when I didn’t buy something for Louise on Net-a-Porter. The blonde hair held in a loose chignon gave Valentina a regal air. If she was a hooker she wasn’t the kind who was about to give a discount for cash.
Seeing me she stood up, smiled a xenon headlight smile, took my hand in hers and shook it; her grip was surprisingly strong. I glanced around in case anyone else had recognised me as quickly as Valentina had done. You can’t be too careful these days; anyone with a mobile phone is Big Brother.
‘I recognised you from the picture Bekim sent me,’ she said.
I resisted the immediate temptation to pay her a dumb compliment; usually, when you meet a really beautiful woman, all you can really hope to do is try to keep your tongue in your mouth. I remembered Bekim showing me her picture on his iPhone. But it was hard to connect something as ubiquitous and ordinary as the image on someone’s phone with the living goddess standing on front of me. All my earlier thoughts of dinner were now gone; I don’t think I could even have spelt the word ‘appetite’.
We sat down and she waved the barman towards us; he came over immediately, as if he’d been watching her, too. Even Alexander the Great was having a hard job keeping his embroidered eyes off her. I ordered a brandy, which was stupid because it doesn’t agree with me, but that’s what she was drinking and at that particular moment it seemed imperative that we should agree about everything.
‘I live not far from here,’ she explained.
‘I had no idea that Mount Olympus was so close,’ I said.
She smiled. ‘You’re thinking of Thessaloniki.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m thinking of Greek mythology.’ I was having a hard job to restrain myself from pouring yet more sugar in her ear; she probably heard that kind of shit all the time.
‘Have you eaten?’
I shook my head.
‘There’s still time to go to dinner,’ she said. ‘Spondi is a five-minute cab ride from here. It’s the best restaurant in Athens.’
The waiter returned with the brandies.
‘Or we could eat here. The roof garden restaurant has the best view in Athens.’
‘The roof garden sounds just fine,’ I said.
We took our drinks upstairs to the roof garden restaurant. The rocky plateau that dominated the city and which was home to the Parthenon, now floodlit, is one of the most spectacular sights in the world, especially at night, from the rooftop of the Grande Bretagne, when you’re having dinner with someone who looks like one of the major deities who were once worshipped there; but I kept that one to myself because it’s not every woman who likes that much cheese. And frankly, after a couple of minutes, I barely even noticed the Acropolis was there at all. We ordered dinner. I don’t remember what I ate. I don’t remember anything except everything about her. For once Bekim had not exaggerated; I don’t
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