Page 8 of Deep Blue Lies

SEVEN

I was going to head back to the hotel, but I can’t afford to hide forever, so instead I go back down towards the beach.

The woman in the supermarket is right, Bar Sunset isn’t hard to spot.

It’s a kind of large wooden shack, with tables that spill out onto the beach.

Already a few of them are occupied, mostly with guys on their own with large glasses of beer.

Behind the bar is a tall man with light-brown hair tied in a ponytail.

Below that is a linen shirt, open at the neck.

He watches me as I go up to him, his head nodding gently to the beat.

I perch on a stool, and for a moment he ignores me, then he strolls over, drying a glass as he goes.

“Hey there.”

“Hello.” I pause, I could just launch into this, but maybe it’s better if I order a drink first?

Try and figure something out about the place.

I glance at what they have, a shelf full of spirits, a couple of fridges with glass fronts.

Heineken, some German-sounding beers, then others that look more Greek.

I point towards one. “Um, can I have a bottle of Mythos please?”

“You most certainly can.” He spins around and pulls the bottle from the fridge. With a practised flourish he prises off the cap and puts it down in front of me. I don’t seem to be getting a glass, so I take a swig.

“Thanks.”

He nods once by way of acknowledgement, but doesn’t move away.

“English?” he says, a moment later.

“Um, yeah. How did you know?”

“I saw you earlier. Walking past. You looked English.”

“Oh.” I’m not sure what to make of that.

“Are you Hans?” I ask instead.

He seems surprised by this, like somehow I’ve beaten him at some game by guessing his name.

“That’s right.” His eyes narrow a little.

“I’m Ava,” I say, holding out my hand, then I go on. “The woman in the supermarket gave me your name.” Then, under the bar where he can’t see my hands, I cross my fingers. “I was asking if there was anywhere that might have any work?”

He doesn’t react at once to this, but after a while he says: “You spoke to Maria?” I’ve no idea who I spoke to, but I nod. Probably it was Maria.

“And Maria said I was looking for someone?”

“Yeah. She said she thought you might be.”

He steps away, places the glass he’s dried on a shelf, and takes another. He dries it carefully for a few moments, then glances around the very-much-not-busy bar.

“You have a work permit?”

“A work…?”

“That’s right. You’re English. You voted for Brexit. So now you need a work permit. Can’t employ you without one.”

I didn’t actually vote for Brexit. I was thirteen years old when the vote happened. But it doesn’t feel helpful to point this out. Either way, I do have a solution.

“I have dual nationality,” I tell him. “I was born here. I’ve got a UK passport and a Greek one. ”

“OK.” His head nods to the beat a little more, as if this was the answer he was expecting.

“So you speak Greek?” he checks, after a moment.

“Um.” This is more of a problem. “I know a bit,” I say, exaggerating slightly. And immediately I wish I hadn’t, because he goes on, saying something in Greek, and I have no idea what it is.

“You don’t speak that much Greek.” He switches back to English, showing his teeth with a grin. I open my mouth to reply, but there’s little to say.

“You worked in a bar before?” he asks next, and I’m happier about this one.

“Yeah. Plenty of times,” I lie.

He tips his head on one side, like he’s actually considering this, which I take as a good sign.

“How long you here for? You’re no good to me if you’re moving on in five minutes.”

“I want to stay the whole summer,” I say. “But obviously I need a job first.”

He seems happy with this answer and I start to feel more confident. It would be a great start to my time here if I can get a job right away. It would certainly help with my money issues. But if I thought this was going well, I might have misread it.

“A lot of the customers we get here are German. I really need someone who can understand them.” He pauses. “You gonna pretend you speak German too?”

I don’t have an answer for this one.

“Um… probably not.”

He begins to shake his head, but before he can say anything he’s interrupted by a customer along the bar.

He clears his throat loudly to get Hans’s attention, and I look too.

It’s a large guy – huge even – with an enormous gut and shorts that reveal horribly white hairy legs.

Hans gives me a “hold on” look, as he spins around to serve him.

I take a dejected swig of my Mythos. Clearly I’m not getting a job, so I might as well enjoy the beer.

But then, as the fat man waits for Hans to fetch his drink, I feel his eyes sliding over to me, not even bothering to hide it.

I have a look I use on these occasions, every woman does, a “fuck-off stare”, and I’m just about to deploy it when I change my mind.

Instead of giving the guy an evil look, I offer him a warm and friendly smile. His eyes widen in surprise.

“Hi there,” I say. There’s a few strands of hair falling over my face, and I brush them behind my ear, feeling the guy following my every move. “How’s your day going?”

“Hallo,” he says, when his brain realises I actually spoke to him.

I smile again, then when it’s clear he doesn’t even have a response, I turn back to Hans, who’s watching the both of us, the litre of golden beer he’s just poured frozen in his hands.

The fat guy pays, then finally he takes his drink back to a table, where he changes his seat, to give a better view of my rear sitting on my stool.

Hans wanders back to me, a thoughtful expression on his face.

“OK,” he says. “No German. But most of the guys like to order in English. I guess I can give you a couple of shifts.”

And just like that, I have a job.