The Key to a Girl’s Heart Bryony’s prayers are answered

Would the fracas with the dodgy lock to a Greek flat help answer Bryony’s prayers?

Bryony Clarke was a very long way from her comfort zone. If someone had taken her to one side even a month ago, and told her that she would soon be here, on a Greek island, completely alone, with her life as she knew it in tatters… well, she would have laughed in their face.

Nothing to laugh about now, she thought, sitting up on her sun lounger and scrunching her bare toes through the sand.

Bryony had been in a terrible mood ever since Leon had casually proclaimed over their Sunday roast that a) he did not love her anymore and so would be needing his grandmother’s ring back off her engagement finger, and b) that he was, in fact, in love with a vegan vlogger named Lara, who was twelve years his junior.

The howl of rage that Bryony emitted shortly afterwards was so loud, even the Yorkshire puddings had shuddered.

Leon moved out two days later, and a fortnight after that, the For Sale sign went up outside the house – their house. As if being dumped for a twenty-year-old “influencer” wasn’t insulting enough, Bryony had been lumbered with the unenviable task of showing potential buyers around what she had dared to think would be her forever-home.

This was not how her life was supposed to pan out.

Bryony sighed, gazing down the beach to where a gang of skinny teenage boys were kicking a football around.

She had booked this trip at the last minute, buoyed by a combination of white wine and the shrill enthusiasm of her best friend. Ella had practically moved in since Leon had departed, and while Bryony appreciated the gesture, what she really needed was time by herself – space to stew and weep and puzzle everything through.

Now that she was here in Zakynthos, however, so far from home and with six more isolated days stretching out ahead of her, she wondered if it had been the right decision. Ella’s dire tea-making skills and perpetual TV remote-hogging was arguably enough to drive anyone out of the country, but then maybe that was the point. Perhaps her friend’s entire nightmare-housemate charade had been a ruse to spur Bryony into action?

The marmalade dollop of sun that had warmed her limbs all afternoon was now beginning to sink behind the shifting dark-blue curtain of the sea, and in the far distance, Bryony could just make out the rounded turtle-shaped island she had spied from the plane.

Shadows stretched and twisted, and a light breeze lifted tendrils of her curly brown hair off her cheeks. Bryony could smell lemon, pine trees and the faintest hint of woody smoke… but all she felt was sorrow.

Leon should be here beside her. How would she cope without him?

The view had begun to swim in Bryony’s eyes, and she allowed the tears to fall as she gathered up her things and pulled on her shorts. She missed him, that much was to be expected, but she also missed the security that came with him. Leon had always been the one in charge – of the bills, the DIY, the finances… all the important stuff. It wasn’t just that she wanted Leon – she needed him.

In an attempt to distract herself, Bryony took out her phone, thinking that she would take a photo of the sunset. Instead, she found a message from Ella: Youhadbetterbedrunkand onthelapofaGreekman!

Bryony rolled her eyes. Ella’s instructions had been very clear. She had said, “You must sample as many Zakynthian delights as possible, and by that I don’t just mean feta cheese”.

A ride on a Greek donkey would apparently not suffice, either, and when Bryony had dared suggest it, Ella had replied with a remark so crude she’d clapped her hands over her ears.

Bidding a silent and somewhat reluctant farewell to the beach, Bryony made her way along the road towards Kalamaki resort centre, stopping off on the way to pick up bottled water, yoghurts and three different varieties of crisps. Now that she no longer had a wedding to diet for, Bryony figured that she may as well welcome her old friend junk food back into her life. Leon used to love his greasy fry-ups whenever they came his way, but there was no way clean-eating Lara would allow that habit to continue.

Bryony tried to feel happy about the fact, remembering what Ella had said about getting over Leon being a one-win-at-a-time process. Anything that Bryony could use as a triumph over her ex and his new girlfriend – however petty it might seem – should be grabbed with both hands.

She had reached the block of apartments where she was staying and fished in her bag for her key. The ancient Greek lady who’d shown her to her room earlier had muttered something about the door, but Bryony hadn’t paid much attention. She was too busy watching a tiny lizard scuttle up a nearby wall, thinking how much Leon would have liked it.

Now, however, as she slid the key in the lock and found that it wouldn’t turn, she began to wish that she had.

“Oh, come on!” she hissed, gritting her teeth as she fiddled, fussed and faffed. It was no good – whatever angle she went in at, and however many variations of twisting she attempted, the door remained shut.

Resisting a strong urge to kick it, Bryony dumped her bag and towel on the floor and went to look for help.

Bryony WELCOMED any triumph over her ex and his NEW GIRLFRIEND

To her dismay, she found the office where she’d checked in locked, and the rundown bar area completely deserted.

Grumbling under her breath, Bryony began the whole process over again, this time cursing with gusto and kicking the door when she failed to gain access.

She was on the verge of more tears when she heard the buzzing sound of an approaching moped, and shortly afterwards, a man appeared on the path.

“Yassou,” he said, noting her frustrated expression.

Bryony ran her eyes over his smooth tanned face, wide smile and messy black hair, and felt her cheeks flush.

“Yes, hello,” she began, sounding ridiculously posh all of a sudden. What was it about English people, she thought? Confront them with anyone whose first language is not the same as their own and they automatically start talking like the Queen.

“Problem?” the man asked, even though that much was obvious.

“The door,” she mumbled. “I can’t get it open.”

“Ah,” he replied, looking at her with a mixture of pity and amusement. “Your boyfriend, he is not here?” “No,” she said, puzzled. “Just me.” The man frowned, then took the key from her and embarked on the same process of tinkering that Bryony had just exhausted, albeit with a few shouldershoves thrown in for good measure.

“Hmmm,” he said after a moment, narrowing his brown eyes and lifting his hands in defeat. “Spasménos.”

“Yes,” she agreed, wondering what a “spasménos” was. She was just about to ask him, when the man pointed above their heads, gesturing at the tiny first-floor bathroom window which Bryony had propped open after her earlier shower. “One moment,” he declared, sauntering off in the direction of the bar, only to reappear less than a minute later carrying a plastic chair. “You’ll never fit,” she exclaimed, jumping out of the way as he swung the flimsy piece of furniture round and positioned it under the window.

After clambering up, however, it became apparent that he was nowhere near tall enough to reach. Stepping down with a hearty grunt, he vanished again around the side of the building, this time returning with his motorcycle helmet, which he balanced on the seat of the chair with a flourish.

“Careful!” yelped Bryony, leaping forwards a fraction too late.

The man wobbled atop his helmet for a tentative second or two, then slipped violently to the left, bringing the chair down with him.

“Are you OK?” Bryony enquired, her words getting lost amid a volley of what could only be Greek swearwords. The man picked himself up off the ground, brushed the dust off his denim shorts and grinned at her. “Oops,” he said.

A smile tugged at the corners of Bryony’s mouth as she watched the man rebuild his makeshift tower, and this time she was ready to hold the chair.

After a few unsteady moments, his tatty flip-flops found purchase on the slippery surface of the helmet, and he pushed up onto his toes. Bryony looked on, feeling helpless, as he levered himself up with both arms. There was a gap of air between his feet and the helmet now, but he didn’t seem able to go any higher.

“Shall I push?” called Bryony, reluctant to touch his hairy calves unless he gave her permission. His head was through the window now, but it looked as if only one of his shoulders would fit, and as she waited, his swearing began again in earnest.

Bryony dithered, unsure what to do. If she went to find help, she wouldn’t be here to help if he fell. Then again, if she didn’t, there was a good chance he would be stuck there all night. She was still mulling it over when she felt something wet connecting with her ankle and squealed in fright.

“What the –?” she began, letting out a sigh of relief when she saw the dog. “Hello there,” she crooned, patting its soft, brown head.

An exasperated grumble filtered out through the window, and the dog, noticing the man for the first time, took one look at his flailing feet and jumped upwards, snatching one of his flip-flops and trotting away with it clasped between its teeth.

“Ela!” bellowed the man, and this time Bryony failed to stop herself giggling. She couldn’t wait to tell her best friend that there was a Greek dog named after her.

“Ela,” he said again, and Bryony took a step forwards.

“You want me?” she asked, grabbing his foot to avoid being kicked in the face.

The man grumbled, and Bryony frowned as she heard him mutter something sour-sounding about women. It was all very well him blaming her, she thought – but he was the one who’d got himself stuck.

Leon used to mock her, too, and pick apart all her achievements. If Bryony cleaned all the windows in the house, he would point out the single smear she’d missed. When she surprised him with a candlelit dinner, he’d find fault with the seasoning of the meat. And the one time she’d managed to remove and clean the filter of the washing machine by herself, he had tutted and lamented to her that she’d most likely done some irreparable damage.

All of those times, Bryony had been meek. She had apologised and agreed that he was probably right – she was useless, and she was lucky to have

Her ex used to MOCK her and pick apart all her ACHIEVEMENTS

She REALISED she was free to make as many MISTAKES as she liked

someone like him in her life, someone capable, someone who looked after her.

As she stood, watching her so-called saviour suspended and squirming above her, it dawned on Bryony that she no longer had to feel ashamed. Leon had left and taken his affection and support away with him, but what had also gone was all his disdain and disgruntlement. She was free to make as many mistakes as she liked now, without fear of retribution – or worse, bullying.

All this time she had been so fretful about how she would cope without him, when what she should have been focusing on were the benefits of his departure. In Leon’s eyes, she was a screw-up, but in her own, she could be anything she wanted to be.

The man emitted a growl and tried once more to lever himself through the window. His T-shirt had ridden up, and Bryony could see an untidy pattern of thick black hair on his back.

“Right, come on,” she instructed, surprised by the weight of authority in her tone. “Time to get down.”

“No!” he thundered, cursing as his other flip-flop fell off. He was now attempting to climb higher up the wall by placing his bare feet against it, and his bottom veered dangerously close to Bryony’s face.

“I’m going to get help,” she informed him, gingerly stepping away from the chair. The man didn’t seem to notice, instead sucking agitated air in through his teeth as his foot slipped and his knee connected with the wall.

This time when Bryony reached the office, the old woman was there, a black shawl wrapped around her shoulders despite the heat.

Bryony explained in broken English about the key, using mime to get her point across when her words were met with a blank stare.

“Ah,” the old woman said at last. “In. Twist. Shake.”

“In, twist, shake,” repeated Bryony, and was rewarded with a crooked smile. “Nai.” Bryony said the words again under her breath as she ventured back to the apartment, ignoring the increasingly ludicrous figure of the flailing man and moving confidently towards the door. “In,” she said, inserting the key. “Twist,” she whispered, turning it forcefully to the right. “Shake,” she finished, vibrating it. Bryony closed her eyes, then gasped with joy as she pushed the door open.

At that exact same moment, the man finally managed to squeeze himself in through the window and slithered down the adjoining wall, landing on the bathroom tiles with a soft thud. “Are you OK?” Bryony rushed in. The man staggered upright and rubbed at the scrape on his knee.

“No,” he said, and for a moment she thought he was going to start telling her off. Leon would have been apoplectic by this stage, and just the thought of him gave Bryony the strength she needed.

She folded her arms, daring the man to complain, and the two of them glared at each other for a second. Then, quite incredibly, he started to laugh.

“I’m a malaka,” he told her happily, and Bryony laughed too, agreeing even though she had no idea what he was actually on about.

The man seemed to find this even funnier and slapped his thighs with pleasure as he laughed.

“You are funny,” he informed her, and Bryony blushed. He was gorgeous, after all.

“We have a drink?” he said, stepping forwards and ushering her back towards the open door. “I take care of you.” He was so confident, so sure that she would go along with him willingly, and Bryony almost allowed herself to be persuaded. Ella would be so proud – this had been her plan all along.

But then Bryony thought about Leon, about how she had let him run her life, and how good it had felt just a few minutes ago to take that control back for herself.

“Sorry,” she said, stopping as the man turned to look at her, his earlier frown returning and wrinkling his forehead. “But I’m actually very happy by myself.”