Claudia's Big Break by Lisa Heidke Page A

toys rinsed and bundled into a plastic bag, the stench remained.
    I’d been intrigued and fascinated by Greece for years. It had been a dream destination for as long as I could remember. At university, I’d been struck by Greece’s mythical nature, the beauty of the Aegean Sea, and the teachings of Plato and Socrates. But despite all I’d learnt about ancient Greece, my knowledge of Santorini was vague. I had intended to use the flying time to swot up on Santorini, but the plane was swaying too wildly to read, and the vomiting incident had left me feeling a little nauseous myself. I knew it was a beautiful island with white homes dotting rugged cliffs. And that it was one of the two thousand islands stretching from the Ionian Sea in the west to the Aegean Sea in the east (I happened to glance at half a page of Greek propaganda as we boarded the plane), but aside from that, I hadn’t done a lot of research.
    I’d seen Captain Corelli’s Mandolin (Nicolas Cage is one of my favourite actors) so was familiar with Kefallonia, or as familiar as you can be after watching a ninety-minute Hollywood movie. And of course I’d seen the musical Mamma Mia too many times to count . I also knew Ios was the party island because my younger sister, Sarah Sunbeam, had shown me photos as proof. But Santorini? Everyone said it was the bride of the Cyclades.
    Given the ferocious crosswinds during the plane’s descent, we all clapped after Captain Kangaroo had bounced us to a standstill at the gate. We had finally arrived.
    Our hostess, Marcella, the proprietor of the aptly named Marcella’s Hotel where we’d be staying the next thirteen nights, had arranged for us to be met at the airport. As we were being driven to our villa I was captivated firstly by the seemingly inhospitable rocky outcrops and then, as we got closer to Fira, the island’s capital, by the white stucco homes with blinding blue shutters and the bright purple bougainvillea that climbed the walls and snuck onto rooftops.
    When we arrived, I was further blown away, and not only by the incredible scenery. The fierce wind was so strong it was difficult walking in a straight line. Marcella’s, a quaint block of four apartments, each perched precariously on Fira’s granite cliff and with its own enormous terrace facing towards the impressive pool below and the Mediterranean beyond, was prettier than I ever could have imagined.
    â€˜Welcome!’ beamed Marcella. With her radiant smile and petite features, she could have been anywhere from her mid forties to late fifties. ‘You have a good journey, no?’ she asked in broken English as she led us to our apartment.
    We all nodded, overcome by the astounding views.
    â€˜It may look pretty but it’s fucking freezing,’ Tara whispered as we followed after Marcella.
    Unfortunately, she was right. Even though it was the middle of the European summer, it was freezing. Thirty degrees would have been nice. Instead, it was about ten degrees below zero and the wind was getting stronger. In the couple of minutes we’d been here, a sturdy beach umbrella and several wooden chairs had blown over and bounced along the entire length of the marble terrace.
    â€˜Again with the language!’ Sophie hissed, and pointed to Levi, who was spinning around in the blustery weather.
    â€˜Well, it is,’ said Tara, trembling in her chinos and Lady Penelope T-shirt. ‘I hardly brought any warm clothes.’
    â€˜Don’t worry, I’ve brought an extra couple of pashminas you can borrow.’
    â€˜Oh, I am thrilled,’ said Tara. ‘I’ve always wanted my own pashmina but somehow never got around to buying one.’
    â€˜Please yourself,’ replied Sophie. ‘You can be rude and shiver or you can graciously accept my offer. Take it or leave it.’
    We walked, hunched over, to the edge of the apartment’s terrace. ‘Get a load of this