Free The Sunrise by Victoria Hislop

songs, it was with a heavy Greek accent. It made the audience admire the pinpoint accuracy of the impersonation all the more.
    Up in the foyer, Savvas stood with Aphroditi.
    ‘Darling, shall we go and have a drink before we leave? Markos told me there is a great singer there tonight.’
    Aphroditi felt herself wince even at the mention of Markos’ name.
    ‘I really don’t want to, Savvas,’ she said. ‘I am so tired after last night.’
    ‘But darling, it’s the Clair de … the nightclub’s opening night!’
    ‘I know, but I just feel like going home.’
    ‘
Please
, Aphroditi. Just for ten minutes.’
    It was an order, not a request. Savvas’ voice was unusually firm. Sulkily, she followed her husband towards the unmarked door that led from the foyer to the stairs that took them down to the nightclub.
    The muffled sound of applause drifted upwards, and as they walked in via a door opposite the stage, Aphroditi stifled a gasp. The Marilyn Monroe lookalike’s platinum-blonde hair and peachy skin shone out luminously against the purple velvet backdrop. The singer was taking a bow and revealing plenty of her generous cleavage as a man in black tie continued to play, teasing out the melody of the next song on the Moog synthesiser. The stage was carpeted with carnations thrown by the appreciative audience.
    She had already been singing for forty minutes, and the atmosphere was sultry with desire, dense with cigar smoke. Markos had picked up that one of the Americans in the audience was celebrating his birthday, and had asked the singer to serenade him as if he were President Kennedy.
    For a subsequent song, she turned her attention to Frau Bruchmeyer, perching next to her on the low padded settee. She lifted one of the bony hands, two of its fingers laden with diamond rings, and gazed into the old lady’s eyes like a lover.
    ‘
Diamonds are a girl’s best friend
,’ she sang.
    The audience began to cheer even before the song had ended. The singer was an accomplished actress, too. Now she turned her attention to Markos, who was standing just in front of the bar.
    He returned her gaze and smiled, increasingly broadly, as she began her next song:
    ‘I wanna be loved by you, just you …’
    She left the stage for a moment, approached Markos and then led him back with her, continuing to sing. The pallor of her skin and fair hair against the dark curtains was dramatic. Her bosoms were like pale cushions, her voice sweet and sexy but childlike.
    When they had arrived, one of the waiters had immediately approached Savvas to take their drink order. He and Aphroditi stood close to the bar, sipping from their glasses. Aphroditi had refused a suggestion to sit down. She did not intend to stay long.
    Savvas noticed how the men gazed at ‘Marilyn’ and the women at Markos. It was as if his manager had rehearsed the role, reacting to the singer’s lines perfectly on cue.
    More importantly, he observed that the three waiters were constantly busy, refreshing drinks, opening bottles, crushing ice and shaking cocktails. The air-conditioning kept the room at around twenty-five degrees, warm enough to make people thirsty, but not uncomfortable.
    Well done, Savvas thought, silently congratulating his manager.
    By the time the song was ending, the artiste was singing close to Markos’ ear.
‘Boo boo bee doo!’
she whispered seductively. The music faded away, and for a moment, there was silence except for the clink of one ice cube against another.
    She took Markos’ hand and they bowed together as if theirs was a double act. The audience was on its feet, cheering and whooping.
    Markos caught sight of his boss’s wife. She stood with her back to the bar, her face as sour as the lemons piled up in a bowl behind her.
    Aphroditi touched her husband’s sleeve.
    ‘I’d like to go now,’ she said, trying to make herself heard above the noise. Her tone of voice was firm, like her husband’s earlier.
    Savvas looked at his wife.