Thursday 31st August
S crewing up her nose, Zina Sideris surveyed the courtyard in front of her. She was proud of what she’d achieved. Really proud. Proud and excited and sick, all at the same time. The renovation had filled her every waking hour and Instagram feed for months; now she had to make it work as a business. For so many heartfelt reasons.
The Retreat House surrounded her on three sides: two flat-topped floors in the central portion plus single-storey arms with traditional barrel-vaulted roofs that created a rectangular cobbled courtyard. The clear blue of the sky contrasted gloriously with the freshly painted white walls as they sparkled in the sun. The colours of the Greek flag. Of every Santorini website– and a far cry from the rundown holiday lets that had stood here a year ago.
God, it had been some year. A year she could have never imagined. Tragedies and small triumphs, excitement and uncertainty, sacrifice– yes, sacrifice big time– and now this massive sense of achievement that coursed like adrenalin through her veins. Who would have thought her father’s death would lead to all this? A totally new life. Especially as she’d loved her old one so much.
It must have been a day or two after her babá’s funeral. Exhausted by everything, darling Mama had fallen asleep in front of the television, so Zina and her husband of five years, Lambros, had stepped onto the farmhouse terrace in the coolness of the autumn dusk. One look at Babá’s empty chair had absolutely finished her, releasing the flood of tears she’d been holding inside. Lambros had held her, stroking her hair and rocking her gently in his arms.
Perhaps she’d been the one to suggest the walk, to get away from the sight of that bloody chair, so they’d headed out across the neglected vegetable patch towards the pistachio orchard that stretched up and along the northern slope of the valley, all the way to the winding dirt road which formed the farm’s boundary.
The soil beneath their feet was parched, the stiff breeze catching the dust they disturbed, swirling it around in small puffs. The trees, barely taller than Lambros, gave little shelter. Here and there hung ruby-red bunches of nuts, most well beyond picking and destined only to fall to the ground or provide food for the flock of sparrows that chattered in the nearby branches as twilight settled over them.
They’d wandered between the trees, their dried and twisted leaves darkening in the gathering shadows, until they were behind the holiday apartments, unlet this season because with Babá so ill there’d been no one to look after them. The swimming pool lay empty, the land at the bottom of the valley where the campsite normally was, overgrown with weeds. Part of her childhood vanished, alongside the father she’d adored and tried so hard to make proud of her.
“It’s sad to see it like this,” she’d said with a sigh.
“I know.” A silence. A very long silence before Lambros had said, “We could change that, Zi. Bring the farm back to life.”
She’d looked up at him, and as the last of the light blushed from orange-pink behind his head she’d realised that for the first time in months hope shone in his eyes, a spark above the dark bruises highlighting his hollow cheekbones. Zina may have loved her life in Athens, but she loved her husband more. Oceans more.
So they’d come. Lambros in December, Zina following in February, having worked her notice but not entirely having worked through her misgivings. Even setting aside how she felt about returning to the island, Lambros had quite a track record of passions that waned after a couple of years at best. Furthermore, he knew nothing about farming; and finally her parents’ property hadn’t been much of a farm anyway. Her babá had switched into tourism years ago. Right at the budget end.
Released from the stressful job in insurance that had been destroying him piece by piece, Lambros had thrown everything into running the farm. In reviving the abandoned olive trees, vines and pistachios he’d come alive himself. From being constantly withdrawn he’d become animated, from monosyllabic to talkative, from distant to attentive. The threat of a major breakdown had been averted, and that alone had made the move worth it.
It was a thought she’d clung to during those first few months. That and the fact they were making her mama’s life more bearable simply by being here. But what about her? She’d given up so much. She’d adored her job in an Athens marketing agency, relished the challenges and how hectic it was, as well as the social whirl that accompanied it. Rural Santorini was a sleepy backwater she’d left at the age of nineteen, and now she’d returned she needed a project of her own. Even if Lambros was content to be a farmer, she was no farmer’s wife. Not in a million years.
The answer was in the old farm buildings her babá had turned into apartments. Lambros had assumed they would do up part of the complex to live in themselves, but Zina had put her foot down. They had to generate extra income; farming alone was too risky. So they’d moved into the farmhouse with her mother and she’d glued herself to her computer researching the latest high-end trends in European holidays.
Three words came up again and again: boutique, retreat and sustainable. Boutique certainly had the right vibe, but on its own it was no good; Santorini was awash with boutique hotels, many of them with stunning caldera views, and although here on the low land near Akrotiri they were close to the sea, they were on the wrong side of the island for that. Retreat had possibilities, though. Writers, artists, yoga, business reboot breaks. And as she’d mulled it over, wandering around the sad and tatty lino-floored apartments, she had begun to see it as it could be and a wave of enthusiasm had surged through her. Five gorgeous rooms downstairs, together with a suite for the group leader and a studio on the first floor. It could be perfect. Perfect. And it was up to her to make sure it was.
Transformations on this scale cost money. Lots of money. Zina had always known her parents lived frugally, but her father had left a surprising amount in the bank for someone who habitually lived in holey shirts and trousers shiny in patches with use. Not a fortune, but enough to have a modest budget to restart the farm and upscale the apartments. Sort of. At least, to do one or other of them properly. How best to use the money had become a source of constant bickering between her and Lambros, until her mother had stepped in and said that as the money was hers, she would give them exactly the same amount each, and they’d have to make the best of it.
Any sort of challenge lit a spark in Zina, so she’d dived into sourcing the best value materials, watching online tutorials on interior decorating and filling spreadsheets with her business plans. Trying to find ways to make a bigger profit than Lambros made the whole venture fun and exciting, rather than the frankly scary idea that the farm would never do well enough for them to live any sort of life.
Of course, a little friendly competition didn’t mean they hadn’t helped each other along the way. Zina would never have finished the house without Lambros turning his hand to mending window catches, putting up mirrors and shelves and pulling chunks of plaster from the walls… And in turn she had tended young tomato plants, harvested grapes and even rounded up those damned goats more times than she cared to remember.
Finally, The Retreat House stood ready. And not a moment too soon, given that her first tutor would arrive at lunchtime, followed by the rest of the guests tomorrow. The slightly sick feeling washed through her again, but she steeled herself against it. Failure was not an option, especially as not everything had gone to plan with the farm. It may have been a good year for the tomatoes, but the first fava crop had failed when, just days before the harvest, the unseasonably hot April had more or less fried the valuable little beans in their pods. Scarily, Lambros had withdrawn into himself again, until her mother, Panora, had persuaded him that these things happened in farming and not to take it personally.
Luckily, the weed-infested mess that remained was a little further down the valley next to the goat enclosure, while the view from the retreat was over the low circlets of vines towards the olive grove. Unfortunately, from ground level the sea was hidden by the gentle rise of the land, but overall the setting gave the impression of being cocooned in nature far from the real world, which was exactly the vibe she’d been hoping to achieve. At least for her guests she’d been able to make a virtue of being this far from civilisation, even if she didn’t much like it herself.
The last few days had been an almighty rush of finishing off, and she’d been planting geraniums and fragrant basil into the terracotta pots on the dining terrace until almost midnight last night. It had been so worth it; the splashes of vibrant red and deep pink enticed the eye towards the long communal table, surrounded by comfy director-style chairs in striped blue and white fabric, the matching awning fluttering above. As well as filling the air with their scent, the herbs would keep the annoying flies away. It was no coincidence that pots of basil could be seen on the windowsills of most of the homes on the island.
No coincidence either that hers were so Instagrammable. Zina crouched, snapped, checked and uploaded. Greens, pinks, blues. The rich colours and funky angles her followers expected. Totally on brand. The likes would soon flood in. The likes connecting her to a wider world. A world she knew, and loved, and did not want to forget her.
The picture made the story. Just like celebrity grabbed attention. Which was why she had aimed high for her first tutor, and she could still hardly believe that Jessica Rose, author of best-selling book and movie Only. Ever. You. had agreed. Zina had actually, literally, screamed when she’d received Jessica’s email, bringing her mother running from the terrace in a total panic. It had been one of the most joyous moments in a long time as they’d danced around the kitchen together. To have made Mama dance again, however briefly, had meant the absolute world.
Zina nibbled what was left of her thumbnail. Would Jessica Rose actually turn up? She had no solution for that particular scenario, and just the idea of a no-show had sent her already high stress levels through the roof. Rather than a triumphant start to brag about, she’d have a total disaster on her hands. She had no Plan B for a tutor; how could she? All the guests would want their money back and the retreat would stand empty for another whole month. There’d be pitifully little in the bank if that happened, and with the tomato season almost over, she could expect nothing from the farm until they were paid for the grapes they’d sold to a local winery.
No, she had to believe. She had absolutely no reason at all to think the woman would let her down– it was just first night nerves. She opened Jessica Rose’s website on her phone and looked at her picture. She didn’t have a mean face; she had an honest face, as far as you could tell under all that make-up. Small, even features, pale eyes, a rather hesitant-looking smile. It would be OK. It would. Unfurling her fingers from her phone and slipping it into the pocket of her cut-offs, Zina crossed the courtyard to continue her final tour of inspection.
The heavy wooden double doors that led to the staircase and the bedroom in the central portion of the ground floor were her pride and joy. They were probably as old as the building itself, maybe even older. Her father had painted them blue, but she’d stripped off every last flake, then fed and polished them with beeswax until they’d returned to their deep burnished gold. It had been just the best surprise when Lambros had come home one day with beautiful cast-iron fixtures for them. The fact that he’d thought of it, had thought of her , had made her heart sing. The moment she’d known beyond all doubt she had the man she’d married back.
Pushing the doors open, Zina entered the cool terracotta-tiled hall. Most of the materials she’d used were reclaimed; not always the cheapest option, but she was proud of the fact. Over-tourism was becoming a significant issue on Santorini so she’d been determined to keep the retreat’s carbon footprint as modest as possible. Water-efficient bathrooms, definitely no hot tubs, and the difficult decision not to revive the swimming pool. After all, even though their land had no direct access to the sea, it wouldn’t take her five minutes to run her guests down to Akrotiri beach if they wanted a dip.
Unlike most of the other rooms, the group leader’s suite upstairs was completely devoid of original features so it had been the hardest to design. The box-like appearance hadn’t mattered for the studio on the opposite side of the landing– that was meant to be functional– but Zina had wanted an ultra-luxe feel to attract the best possible tutors, and she was delighted the result showed the thought, and not just the hours of hard graft, that had gone into it.
For a start, the lounge area could be separated from the bedroom by an opaque glass sliding door, which meant it could double as a private tuition area or breakout room from the studio. Linen-covered sofas flanked a low coffee table, and matching vintage teak bookcases filled the spaces below the windows at either end. She’d been careful to make sure that copies of Jessica Rose’s best-selling book in at least three languages graced the shelves. Detail was everything.
She picked up the Greek translation, which was her own copy. She’d never had much time for books, but Only. Ever. You. had been such an Instagram sensation she’d felt compelled to read it. She’d been totally swept up into the tragic, aching beauty of Eloise and Anna’s secret romance, its vivid descriptions of London– a city Zina loved– in the 80s and 90s, and the undercurrents of male dominance that blighted both their lives in different ways. She hadn’t doubted for a moment that the book deserved its accolades, and that Jessica Rose was a rare and special talent.
After a final glance around, Zina ran down the stairs. At the window halfway she stopped. In the drying yard behind, Lambros’s dark head was bent as he swept the floor in preparation for the pistachio harvest which he hoped would start soon. His arms were deeply tanned, a million miles from the city pallor that had worried her so much just a year before.
Oh, those muscular arms. Even stronger now than when they’d first caught her attention at the gym. Arms that invited her to climb into them, be held by them, feel cherished in them. She looked again, thrills spiralling to the pit of her stomach. Oh, what she wouldn’t do for half an hour for a little passion beneath the pistachios. That half an hour they never seemed to find.
The spark was still there– of course it was. And it was normal, wasn’t it, when they were both working so hard and had little time for each other, that they wouldn’t feel quite so close? Normal, and temporary. Surely it was temporary? Zina nibbled the quick of her thumb. These last months had been harder than hard and while there’d been plenty of laughs and moments of joy, there’d been more than enough niggles too. Living with her mother didn’t help either because they had no time alone, but what choice did they have?
Lambros looked up and, seeing her there, blew her a kiss. She sent one in return then, filled with a happy glow, set off to inspect the bedroom below. A movement in the courtyard caught her eye through the open door. Putana! No! Two furry heads were munching contentedly on her geraniums. The geraniums she’d been up until midnight planting.
“Lambros! Lambros!” she screamed, running at them. “Get your arse over here! Your bástardos goats are eating my plants.”
If he dared to laugh, she would absolutely– absolutely – kill him.