Friday 1st September 1
A s soon as she realised Santorini was coming into view, Professor Karmela Simic grabbed her suitcase and headed onto the small deck at the back of the ferry, gratefully gulping the sea air that ruffled her short, dark hair. Why, oh why, had she not flown directly here, instead of taking a couple of days to see the historical sites of Athens on the way?
The journey had been an absolute nightmare, even in her VIP seat well away from the noisy mass of humanity filling the boat. Not that she was a VIP, but the extra twenty-euro price tag had seemed worth it when she booked. She had envisaged getting some writing done, or just the bliss of reading, but no, she had felt sick as a dog all the way.
She had sat, alternately hot and cold, sipping water whenever she dared in a futile attempt to keep her surging stomach at bay. The long haul from Piraeus to Mykonos had taken all morning, the boat pitching and tossing so much she had barely been able to open her eyes. It had calmed a little between Paros and Naxos and now, finally, at three o’clock, they were heading into Santorini’s famous caldera.
The outdoor space at the back of the ferry was tiny and the tang of cigarette smoke hung in the spray created by the plume of water frothing behind them. Holding her breath, Karmela worked her way through the groups of people to the rail, then leant on it, her legs strangely weak. In the distance behind them were the hazy humps of small islands, the thrumming beat of the engines slowing as they entered the egg-shaped archipelago which had once formed the volcano’s crater. Looking up to her right she spotted a mass of white-painted buildings perched on top of steep black and terracotta cliffs, in stunning contrast to the deep blue backdrop of sky.
So this was Santorini… It looked every bit as beautiful as the pictures she had seen online. Beautiful, and no doubt crowded, but only last year she had lived through a summer in Dubrovnik so she was sure she could cope. A city girl at heart, this was not where she would have chosen herself, but now she was here she was going to make the most of it. Her nausea retreating, excitement surged through her, making her grin wildly too. A whole month to focus on her historical novel.
She had been beyond surprised– genuinely beyond surprised– when, on the Sunday after her forty-third birthday, her mother had handed her an envelope with the booking for the Kickstart Your Novel retreat.
“There you are, Karmela,” she had said. “You need to stop talking about this book of yours and start writing it. And this fits in perfectly before your university term starts.” Unfortunately it did not; it would be an awful rush when she got home at the end of the month, but she had spent the last few weeks preparing her lectures like a woman possessed, so now she was free to write, and nothing else, for the whole of September.
For most of her life, Karmela’s relationship with her mother had been distant, if not a little troubled– at no time more so than over the last year when she had been desperately trying to put that right. She had no doubt in her mind that they had both been damaged by their experiences as refugees fleeing from Sarajevo during the Balkan war, but her mother dismissed the idea as nonsense.
Karmela understood her denial all too well. For most of her adult life she had told herself that being a refugee had made her an outsider, and that it suited her well. But newly forged friendships she had made in Dubrovnik had shown her how much she had been missing. Her carefully constructed defences had come crashing down, buried emotions bubbling up to meet them and washing the last of the bricks away. The joy that letting people into her life and finding her place in theirs had given her had been truly life-changing, and forging new friendships was something she now embraced whole-heartedly wherever she went.
More than anything she wanted her mother to acknowledge the hurt and reconnect with her own emotions. Mama being so distant and cold had become more than painful– both to see and to experience– when she herself had moved into a world so full of feeling.
With the zeal of the newly converted, Karmela had set about trying to convince her mother it was the only way. Looking back, it was hardly surprising it had quickly become a source of friction between them. Useless friction at that, because her mother would not even talk about the subject, and for a while Karmela had been at a loss over what to do. Especially as her mother claimed she lived a very full life, so clearly nothing was wrong. It broke Karmela’s heart that she could not see that what she lacked was emotional connection, even with her only child.
Eventually, Karmela had decided her best option was to be herself. Her new self. When she had first started sharing feelings, rather than opinions backed by objective facts, her mother had almost visibly flinched. But she had persevered, and these days Mama seemed to have become a little more used to it. At least she did not change the subject quite so rapidly, and the gift of the retreat had shown a depth of understanding of her daughter that Karmela found not only surprising, but which filled her with hope. Mama may not have been able to say as much, but she had shown she cared about her in no uncertain terms.
Her mother had seen what Karmela herself had barely recognised: that without an external impetus she would have kept researching the historical aspects of her novel and kept making copious notes without ever leaving her academic comfort zone and putting pen to paper. Here on Santorini, she would have to do it. Especially because when Mama had dropped her at the airport for her flight to Athens she had actually hugged her and told her to get the damn book written because she wanted to read it. It was the first real hug they had shared in years.
Karmela jumped as something cold and wet nudged her leg. Looking down, she met the amber eyes of an almost silver greyhound, which was gazing up at her with an adoring expression. Without thinking, she reached to stroke its head.
“ Hej ti ,” she murmured softly.
A male voice came from above, slightly overloud and English. “I am so sorry.” He spoke slowly and left a gap between each word.
“It is OK,” she told him. “I speak your language.”
“Then I’m sorry again.”
She unbent from the dog to find herself standing next to a tall man with a frighteningly short haircut and the most arresting green eyes she had ever seen. His nose had a slight bump but his smile radiated warmth, and she could not help but grin back. Despite the hair, he was surprisingly attractive.
“There is no need. I spoke to your dog in Croatian, after all. It is a rather endearing creature.”
“Doesn’t she know it? She’s a rescue dog, a former racing greyhound, and I’m afraid she can be a little bit naughty.”
“And with those eyes of course you forgive her anything.”
His laugh was as warm as his smile. “Got it in one.”
He leant on the rail next to her, while the dog rested her head against his knee. Behind them the hilltop village was slipping away, and Karmela could see that as well as the houses on top, a huddle of buildings fringed the shore, tucked beneath the honeycomb of russet-grey cliffs. She guessed the varied palette of colour in the rocks was to do with the island’s volcanic origins, and it gave the caldera an almost otherworldly feel. In places they were blacker than black but in others, layers of red, ochre, gold and cream sparkled in the sun. It was almost the moonscape of her imagination, but surrounded by sea.
Her new companion interrupted her thoughts. “I don’t think we can be long from docking.”
“Which is something of a relief. I have just discovered I am not the best of sailors. Zagreb is a long way from any ocean.”
“Are you all right now? Is there anything I can get you?”
“That is kind, but no. I feel better for being outside, and I am being met at the port.”
“OK. Just thought I’d ask.” He looked at her for a long moment, before turning back to the view.
Ships passing in the night. On a ship at that.
She smiled to herself as she gazed at nature’s majestic walls rising up from the sea, fringed white with the buildings on top like icing on a cake. Should she grasp the nettle and ask if he was staying on the island long? Should she grab this potential opportunity with eager hands? But she had a book to write and she could do without the distraction, especially as Mama had paid for the retreat. She needed to repay that belief.
Even as she was pondering the question, an announcement came over the Tannoy, first in Greek and then in English, asking drivers to return to their vehicles.
He straightened, grasping the greyhound’s lead.
“Right. That’s us. Have a great holiday.”
“You too.”
If nothing else, it had been a pleasant way to pass ten minutes. She had to tell herself that was all it was, but oh, those eyes, that look… She had probably imagined the look. What did she know about flirting anyway? Laughing quietly at herself, she leant back on the rail to enjoy the ferry’s final approach to Santorini’s bustling quayside.
* * *
Jo leant on the Juliet balcony and gazed over the patchwork of fields towards the dazzling strip of sea that at this distance danced with sequinned light. How she longed to dive in and stretch her tired arms and legs, but when she’d asked Zina if she could walk to the nearest beach her host had shaken her head and told Jo she only had to ask and she’d give her a lift. But that seemed like too much of an imposition, so Jo decided tomorrow she’d find out about hiring a car.
The view was not how she’d pictured Santorini, but was glorious all the same– far better than the shiny white urban sprawl around the airport, which had sent her heart plummeting to her sandals. Rather than being perched on the caldera, The Retreat House was on the island’s gentler slopes, away from the dramatic expanse of water which had once been the volcano’s heart. Below her were olive groves, vineyards and empty fields of cracked earth, dusty grey in some places and almost red in others in striking contrast to the silver green of the trees. The hum of cicadas filled the air, punctuated now and then by the bleats of the goats who wandered between the low mounds of russet-fringed vines. How idyllic was this?
Closer to hand, the courtyard blazed with pots full of colourful flowers and scented herbs that made her heart sing. Nearer still, the richly coloured bougainvilleas which were beginning to wind their way around her balcony rails fluttered in the gentlest of breezes like so many butterflies. Leaning over, Jo snapped a picture of the unusual orange one with her phone to send to Curtis. She knew he’d love to see it.
Reluctantly she dragged herself away. Her bedroom was light and airy, the walls, wardrobe doors, floorboards and the crisp linen on the bed were white– or rather whites, if you looked carefully enough. It was the perfect backdrop for a whole palette of blues; on cushions, the inviting easy chair by the window. She’d spent much of her day here, book in hand, peeping out from behind the gauzy curtains as her charges arrived, knowing in her heart of hearts she should go down to greet them if only she weren’t crippled by shyness. Her first epic fail.
It had, however, helped that she’d had lunch with the first arrivals, an American couple who she guessed were in their early fifties: Susan, with straight blonde hair and huge pink plastic glasses, wanted to write a family history, while Ellen was an artist who’d come with her to sketch. Despite restricting herself to one small glass of wine, Jo had almost relaxed as Susan regaled her with tales of her work as a librarian in a small town called Alpena on the shores of Lake Huron. Her enthusiasm for her work, and books in general, bubbled into a constant stream of delightful chatter. Jo really, really hoped that everyone would be as nice.
Shortly after lunch, Zina had collected two friends, Diana and Sophie, from the airport, and from the safety of her window Jo had watched her show them into adjacent rooms on the opposite side of the courtyard to the dining terrace. Zina’s energy and enthusiasm had been palpable, her ponytail of shiny black hair bouncing behind her slim shoulders. Oh to be that confident with people you’d met only half an hour before.
Nothing about their appearance gave Jo any clue which of the friends was which. Both appeared to be in their mid to late sixties, both were shorter than Zina, and one almost painfully thin. Her angular features were made all the more pronounced by her choppy haircut, her hair almost certainly dyed a subtle shade of bronze, while her companion had embraced her natural grey. From the little Jo could see, it suited her, as did the calf-length floral skirt and pale blue T-shirt she was wearing. She was a woman who looked more than comfortable in her own skin.
Curious, Jo checked the lever-arch file Zina had prepared for her. Reading their sign-up forms one after the other, Jo was surprised to see Sophie’s said that since their schooldays the women had dreamt about writing a romance together and now they were both free of caring responsibilities they were determined to do it. Meanwhile, Diana claimed Sophie had broached the idea of coming to the retreat recently, and she’d readily agreed, especially as Sophie’s friend’s husband was in a care home with dementia and no longer knew her, so she needed a distracting break. Given their circumstances, perhaps the over-thin, slightly fraught-looking woman was Sophie. Only time would tell.
Returning to the folder, Jo noticed that the fourth participant was a professor of Medieval History from Zagreb University. Perhaps it should come as no surprise she wanted to write an historical novel set in medieval Dubrovnik, and such was her level of organisation she had attached a detailed scene-by-scene plan. Jo could only hope that this was evidence of commitment and enthusiasm and not that she was an inflexible control freak. The thought of having a professional teacher scrutinise her every move was bad enough. What if she turned out to be a fraud as both a writer and a tutor?
She couldn’t do this. Really she couldn’t.
Jo took one deep breath, and then another.
Remember the life raft. Her degree. And anyway, she wasn’t teaching, she was tutoring, mentoring… A voice from long ago echoed around her head. Some snarky girl at school. “Those who can, do; those who can’t, teach.”
Well she couldn’t do . So maybe she could teach?
A car pulling into the parking spaces beyond the courtyard distracted her. A man with an incredibly short haircut jumped out, no doubt to quell the cacophony of barking from the rear of the hatchback. Ekaterini, the cook, bustled across the terrace to meet him. He reached to shake her hand before opening the boot and releasing a greyhound, which cavorted around him as though it had been trapped in the car for hours. This must be Iain. He’d cut it fine, but presumably he’d come on the ferry from which Zina was collecting the professor.
Locking her room behind her, Jo crossed the beeswax-scented landing to the studio, her flip-flops sinking into the softness of the ever-so-slightly worn cream and blue rug. Jo loved the shabby-chic vibe of the retreat– so fresh and relaxing, so understated. Maybe she could try it at home and make that awful house more like hers. But was it really worth the aggro she’d get from Rees if she did?
The studio was laid out exactly as she’d asked Zina, with four glossy white trestle tables pushed together to form one large workspace with six chairs around it, one at either end and two on each of the longer sides. Two more tables were set against the walls, providing space for anyone who preferred not to work in their rooms, and a fridge hummed in the corner. Jo peeped inside to find it well stocked with soft drinks and a jug of fresh milk for the coffee machine that sat on top of it.
At either end of the studio, windows flooded the space with light, reflecting off the white-painted floorboards and walls. Everything about it oozed brightness and energy, and a ray of hope sparked through Jo. Could she perhaps do this after all? Did she actually know enough to help other people write wonderful books? Even if she singularly failed to do so herself?
Perching on the edge of the table nearest the inland-facing window, she gazed up the hill and over the pistachio trees towards the back of the caldera ridge.
She could do this, she could.
She’d visualised the next half hour so many times, imagined herself greeting the participants as they arrived one by one, then once everyone was here, getting them to talk about themselves and their writing ambitions. How hard could that be?
Very soon the pieces of paper in the file she was clutching so tightly it bit into her fingers would begin to flesh out into real people, rather like characters who grew from a single page and went on to fill a whole book. Jo liked the analogy and decided she might even use it. It would at least make her sound like a proper writer.
Not that the first session would require any knowledge at all. After the introductions, all Jo planned to do was explain how the retreat would run: an hour or so each morning for some tuition and exercises, and for everyone to share their objectives for the day; then writing time until late afternoon when they would come back together to discuss their progress and share their work. Added to that, Jo would offer each of them a one-to-one session every few days to help them hone their manuscripts.
It wasn’t complicated… and yet it was. So much depended on how well the group gelled together, and she was the one who needed to make that happen, even though she was well aware that one awkward person could derail everything. She just had to keep her fingers firmly crossed it didn’t happen because she rated her chances of managing someone with a strong personality at about zero. Just look at her and Rees.
With the benefit of hindsight, she had a strong suspicion that Rees’s dominant personality had been part of the initial attraction. She’d liked that he demanded so little of her. She’d never had to worry about deciding where to go on dates, for weekends away… She’d let him take responsibility for everything, which had probably become a habit for them both– and not a good one from her point of view, not now. But he’d been an absolute rock when she’d needed him and she’d been so damned grateful that she’d somehow fallen into the trap of thinking her dependence was love.
So when had that changed? She couldn’t be sure. Had it been when she quit her day job to write, so that apart from official author stuff she couldn’t wriggle out of she saw no one but him? When they moved out to Wimbledon? When he stopped coming home every night? She could remember no single moment, and what shocked her most of all was that she’d never much cared. Surely your husband’s infidelity was meant to hurt? In the end she concluded she’d never really loved him at all.
Her musings were interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the stairs. A wave of crippling shyness washed through her, leaving her gulping for air. She had nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. One by one she unfurled her fingers from the folder, then stood.
Breathe, Jo, breathe. Breathe and smile.
Zina was paying her to be Jessica Rose, and she could not let her down.
* * *