The Sunrise by Victoria Hislop Read Free Book Online

be opening?’ she asked.
    ‘Not tonight,’ said Markos. ‘Tomorrow.’ He looked at his watch.
    ‘I’ll go and water your plants later,’ Irini said. ‘And I’ll starch your shirts – they’ll be in your wardrobe.’
    She was already bustling around clearing the cups, wiping the table, dead-heading a geranium, peering into her canary cage to check if she had put in enough seed. Soon she would start preparing lunch. The whole family appreciated her cooking, especially Panikos, who had put on considerable weight since the marriage. Maria would come down to help her, and her son-in-law would arrive home from his electrical shop at midday, just in time to eat.
    ‘I must go,’ Markos said, kissing her on the top of the head. ‘I’ll come and tell you all about it, I promise.’
    Between now and when the sun set, there was not a moment to waste. By the time it was dusk, the island’s biggest social event of the year would be well under way.

Chapter Four
    T HE SUNRISE WAS filled with the scent of hundreds of lilies and the perfumes of as many glamorous women. Gowns were in jewel colours, jewels were in all colours.
    The guests were greeted at the entrance and then directed down a crimson carpet that led them towards the frolicking dolphins. Here they were served with ice-cold champagne and then ushered past the murals, which they stopped to admire.
    The plaster pillars were entwined with flowers. As night fell, they would also be illuminated.
    Dozens of waiters in white jackets circulated with platters of food. The head chef, with a staff of twenty-five in the kitchen, had laboured tirelessly since dawn to create a colourful array of canapés with liberal use of gelatine, piping and puff pastry. They had worked like robots, mechanically cutting and garnishing so that each piece was neat and precise and bore no resemblance to anything home-cooked in traditional Cypriot style. There were tiny vol-au-vents, delicate morsels of foie gras and prawns to be speared with cocktail sticks. The chef was French and his inspiration was Escoffier. He instructed that everything had to be decorated like a dessert. If it could not have a cherry on top, there must be a few grains of caviar, or a tiny speck of tomato to add a finishing touch.
    The combined volume of several hundred voices all speaking at once meant that the twelve-piece band was unheard, but the musicians persevered, knowing that later in the evening when the crowd thinned out their carefully rehearsed repertoire would be appreciated. They had been flown in the previous day from Paris, one of the many things specially imported for the occasion. Savvas Papacosta wanted the reception to reflect the international aspirations of the hotel, and the twang of a bouzouki would undo this with a single note. This, indeed, was a sophisticated affair.
    Everyone was naturally drawn towards the terrace outside, where there was a suspended centrepiece, an arrangement of white flowers that spelled out the name of the hotel. In front of this stood their hosts, waiting to welcome them.
    Aphroditi, in a floor-length ivory gown, seemed to glow from within. Coiled round both of her upper arms were white gold bracelets each with the face of a snake, one with rubies for eyes, the other with sapphires. Some guests thought she looked like a mermaid, others saw Cleopatra’s influence. Every woman in the room studied her enviously, analysing the detail closely: the diamonds that dripped from her ears, the dress skilfully cut on the bias that flowed around her body, the way in which the sequins caught the light as she moved, the gold sandals that occasionally peeked through the slit in the hem, the hair wound into a chignon. Emine had created a perfect hairdo for the evening and the women speculated on the number of grips and pins. In spite of their secret admiration, the comments they made to their husbands were reductive and universally scathing.
    ‘And who does she think she is? Everything