The Santorini Writing Retreat

Wednesday 30th August

“And above all, don’t forget there needs to be a terrible secret at the heart of the story.”

J o closed her agent’s email and set her phone on the windowsill, resting her forehead on the glass. Oh, the irony. Below her, Curtis the gardener was sweeping hedge trimmings from the broad expanse of the drive. In about half an hour she’d make him a mug of coffee and they’d talk about everything he needed to do while she was away: what daffodil bulbs to buy for the spring, which of the perennials were worth dividing and whether the lawn needed an autumn feed. It would be bliss, losing herself in his enthusiasm. To be able to share your love for something was such a gift.

A gift she didn’t possess. However hard she tried, she couldn’t love writing. Not anymore. So why the hell had she ever agreed to lead a Kickstart Your Novel retreat, of all things? She needed more than a boot up her arse to put pen to paper herself.

Her chest tightened, her heart thudding ominously. She couldn’t do it; she really couldn’t. Just the thought of standing in front of people… But she’d committed, so backing out now wasn’t an option either.

Slowly Jo lifted her head from the cool glass and gazed out over Wimbledon Common. The grass had faded to its end-of-summer yellowish beige. It would be good to get away. For so many reasons. She just had to keep telling herself that. Every few minutes, if necessary, until she was on that plane and the doors were shut.

Turning, she eyed the suitcases lying open on the dressing room floor. Authoring clothes: palazzo pants in neutral colours; tunic tops, plain or with subtle designs; a sundress or two; a couple of pashminas in case the air-con was aggressive or the nights became cool. Could she get away with flip-flops? Probably. The wide trousers hid a multiple of sins. She gazed down regretfully at her cut-off leggings and hooded sweatshirt. Maybe she’d take some to wear in her room? But no, even on days off she’d still be on duty; she’d still be Jessica Rose.

Perhaps a change of writing attire would do her good. She’d never thought of it before, but maybe sitting in front of her laptop dressed as Jessica would make a difference. God, she was clutching at straws. This whole writing retreat business was one great big frigging straw. No, she couldn’t do it. Yes, she had to.

Jo clenched her hands into fists. Breathe. Breathe and calm down. This time tomorrow she’d be on Santorini and everything would feel different. From the photos she’d seen online, The Retreat House was just the oasis of calm she needed. There’d be sun on her back, and a couple of thousand miles between her and Rees. That’s why she’d agreed to this craziness really. That and about a bottle and a half of wine inside her when the email inviting her had arrived. Never the best time to make decisions. But putting distance between her and Rees was definitely a good one.

She always struggled to pinpoint exactly when her marriage had gone wrong. Maybe a slightly premature seven-year itch, but it felt like more than that. It had to be. Rees was on at least his second affair and, what was almost worse, she didn’t give a damn. She only wished she could escape this gilded prison. What a frigging cliché. If one of her students at the retreat wanted to use the phrase, she’d certainly advise them against it.

One of her students. The reality hit home, punching Jo so hard it almost winded her. She sank onto the stool next to the dressing table. Five people had paid a hell of a lot of money for a world-famous, highly talented, best-selling novelist to help them write their books. And she was not that person.

She fumbled with her phone, her mother’s number, as ever, at the top of her recent calls list.

“Mum. It’s me. I can’t do it.”

“Oh, darling. Of course you can. This isn’t Rees making you doubt yourself, is it? Just because he wants you home to cook his supper.”

“No.” He rarely came home for supper. But Mum didn’t know things had reached that point.

“Then tell me exactly what’s bothering you.”

Thank goodness for Mum and her knack of breaking every problem down into bite-sized pieces which were easier to resolve.

“OK, OK… I suppose… if I’m struggling with my own work… I mean, how can I help anyone else?”

“Because struggling or not, you know your stuff. You have an internationally best-selling novel under your belt and a first class honours in creative writing, and if that doesn’t qualify you to lead a retreat, then I don’t know what does.”

Good point, Mum .

Her degree was something Jo had barely considered; she did know the theory, even if?—

“And you’re probably fretting over the public-speaking aspect,” her mum carried on. “You don’t need to tell me that, but it’s only five people. No worse than going to a dinner party with strangers. And within a few days you’ll get to know them, then you’ll wonder what you were so stressed about.”

“Thanks, Mum. You always make me feel better.”

If nothing else, she’d given her two little life rafts to cling to: her degree, and the dinner party analogy.

“Of course I do. You’re my daughter, Jo. I know all your little wrinkles and love you for each and every one of them. Most of the time you just don’t realise how talented you are, and I blame Rees for that. He chip, chip, chips away at your confidence, when he should be so proud of all you’ve achieved.”

Except Rees was the only person who knew exactly how little she’d achieved. Just how devastated would her mother be if she ever learnt the truth? The truth– or rather the lie– that lay at the root of everything. The lie that spun out, twisted in, from that one decision. Had it even been a decision? Jo couldn’t remember making it– not actively, anyway. Yet neither could she hide from the responsibility, however swept along by events she may or may not have been. There had most definitely been a point, probably multiple points, when she could have said no and nipped this whole charade in the bud.

Mum chatted for a while longer, until Jo remembered Curtis’s coffee. She felt calmer now, calmer and a tad more confident. She needed to carry that to Santorini with her. She needed to write her own bloody book. Or at least start it. Her publisher had been more than patient. She hadn’t needed to be told the writing– pun intended– was very much on the wall if she didn’t deliver.

She jogged down the polished oak staircase and into the hall. The afternoon sun streaming through the windows on either side of the door was like a spotlight on the photograph of her and Rees on the red carpet at the premiere of Only. Ever. You. She was sure he’d placed it there deliberately as the first thing anyone coming into the house would see. She hated it. He wasn’t even here, so why should she suffer the bloody thing? She laid it flat on its face on the table. That made her feel better as well.

In the gleaming white expanse of the kitchen, she selected Curtis’s favourite coffee pod and inserted it into the machine. She’d have tea. And a biscuit. They both loved chocolate digestives. Maybe she’d slip a couple of packets into her case. Or give them to Curtis. And remind him he’d need to bring a flask for the next month.

Tucking the biscuits under her arm and picking up the mugs, she headed outside to find him. He was on his knees, weeding the long cottage-garden border they’d designed together two summers before, and as he heard her approach he stood and stretched, his short, dark curls a halo against the sun.

“Great timing, Jessica. I’m parched.”

“I thought you might be.”

Every week– no, twice a week– she almost told him that Jessica wasn’t her real name, but somehow it seemed too late for that, and she bitterly regretted it. Only those closest to her called her Jo, and she could never pinpoint the moment Curtis had passed from gardener to friend. Her only friend. Even though he couldn’t be much more than ten years older than her, his was a solid and reliable presence. A man she could actually talk to and laugh with. Be herself. Or as close as you could be with someone you couldn’t even screw up the courage to tell your real name.

Summed up her whole bloody life, really.

“So are you all packed up for the big trip?” He brushed the dirt from his hands on his combats.

“Almost. My passport’s in my bag and the taxi’s booked for stupid o’clock in the morning.” She handed him his mug. “I’ve made lists of my lists– I’m so scared I’ll forget something.”

He shrugged. “As long as it isn’t your laptop, would it really matter? But I do get it. A month’s a long time to be away from home. I reckon it might feel odd.”

She looked around her. “I’ll miss the garden, for sure. But at least I know it will be well looked after.”

“I’ll do my job while you do yours. You have a book to finish, if I recall. It would be great if it was out by Christmas. Copies signed by my favourite client would save me no end of shopping.”

“Unfortunately the world of publishing doesn’t move that fast.” And neither did she. For the last two books, every word had been like pulling teeth. Painful, rotten ones at that.

He grinned at her, easing a biscuit from the pack in her hand.

“Oh well, next Christmas then. Now, have you chosen the bulb varieties you want me to plant while you’re away?”

Jo pulled out her phone. “I thought we could decide together.”

He stepped closer, leaning over her shoulder. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

How Jo had come to adore this garden. At first it had been nothing more than an escape from the house– a displacement activity when she should have been writing. And, if she was brutally honest, a way of delaying her first glass of wine of the day. The wine that took the edge off the guilt, made life just a little more bearable if Rees did come home. But slowly, under Curtis’s patient guidance, she’d learnt the difference between annuals and perennials, how to deal with the white fly that plagued her roses, and the frankly mind-boggling number of varieties of the snowdrops she loved so much.

This was in complete contrast to the house. The previous owners had made a thing of the celebrity interiors guy who’d renovated it, but Jo loathed everything about it. Maybe because Rees name-dropped the designer to everyone he invited here to impress, which was basically everyone who stepped through the door. After they’d seen the sodding red-carpet photo, of course. And she’d been wheeled out as his famous wife.

She’d never planned this life. Never wanted it. It felt as though it wasn’t even hers. And there was a reason for that. The same reason she couldn’t escape it. The secret that only she and Rees shared. The lie that had spawned all the other lies.

She was a fraud. A fake.

And it was far too late to unravel everything now.