Monday 4th September
Even ensconced between the velvet curtains of her palanquin, Filipa Men?eti? recognised the moment her bearers turned into Dubrovnik’s port. The archway through the city’s thick walls muffled every sound but the stench of rotting fish and human waste grew stronger, causing her to reach for her lavender-scented handkerchief and hold it over her nose.
But within moments the air freshened and she could sense the particular light of the winter sun reflecting from the sea. She took a deep breath then settled back into the cushioned seat, clutching her leather-bound account book between her hands. She did not have to inspect her late husband’s ships herself but she enjoyed the bustle of the quayside. And the barely veiled disapproval of the merchants around her that she, a mere woman, dared to run a business empire, much less actually leave her house to do so.
The swaying movement beneath her stopped and her steward Vincenti drew back the curtain.
“Madam, we have arrived.”
As she held out her hand ready to be helped down, a flash of colour caught her eye. It was the finest green silk, shimmering and shining in the pale sunlight, better than anything she herself could import. But below the hem of the swirling skirt she glimpsed a pair of old shoes, the leather cracked and one seam bursting apart.
She leant forwards, whispering to Vincenti, “Who is that woman?”
“Cvijeta Zuzori?. Her husband is a merchant from Florence and they have rented a palazzo on Prijeko Ulica.”
Filipa nodded. Those shoes intrigued her more than the silk. She would have to find out more.
K armela sat back and stretched, raising her arms above her head and locking her fingers together with a satisfying crack. That was a reasonable start to her day’s work and the scene had been made far more interesting by the writing prompt Jessica had put on the whiteboard this morning: the old shoe . She had no idea yet how Cvijeta’s shoes fitted into the story, but she was sure she could work it out. She had been after a really strong reason for Filipa to take an interest in her, and now she had one.
The daily writing prompts were fun, and Karmela made sure she arrived in the studio as early as she could to make the most of them. She felt the freedom and the joy of simply letting words flow; the magic of creation at the tips of her fingers.
There was nothing about the retreat that Karmela did not love. Jessica was an excellent teacher, and so far each topic had made a hugely positive impact on Karmela’s work. She was learning so much, and she was so damn grateful her mother had sent her here. In fact she had become quite emotional when she had called her to tell her so.
Naturally her mother had been embarrassed. In Mama’s world, unlike Karmela’s, feelings were not to be shared. Other people’s emotions were not her business. But Karmela’s book was. Her mother had made it so with her generous gift, which Karmela would repay by finishing the first draft while she was here. She had planned it out; it was tight, but possible. Definitely possible.
Of course this was not just for her mother; she was writing the story for other people she cared about too. Her friends from the book club in Dubrovnik who had suggested it in the first place, and for her childhood friend Nejla in Sarajevo, who she had lost but who had been found for her again, and in memory of Emina, who had died in the war. Precious friends, each and every one of them.
So the book she was writing was about friendship, but it had a love story woven into it too. That had not been her original intention, but it was necessary for the plot and also true to the historical record. As far as she could, she wanted to be faithful to that, despite the fact she had moved the enigmatic Cvijeta from a different century, and was feeling rather guilty about it.
Karmela stood and began to pace the room. It was not that the fully adjustable office chair at her desk was uncomfortable– far from it– but she needed to move. It was all too easy to become glued to her desk, making her neck and shoulders stiff. And besides, the rhythm of her steps made it easier to think.
She stopped to admire one of the botanical prints that graced the wall, deep in thought. She could write about friendship because she knew about friendship, but what about love? Something inside her, something long buried, was more than curious. Oh, that sounded so cold, and that was not how it felt, especially as she had been thinking about relationships a great deal over the last six months. Forty-three and single was fine, of course it was, but a part of her yearned– absolutely yearned – for a special someone in her life. To at least try. It had been the longest time since she had had anything even approximating a boyfriend– only a date or two as a student, largely because she had been inquisitive about sex.
Back in the spring she had joined an internet dating site for professional people in Zagreb, but with little success. Neither of the men she had actually met had lit any sort of spark, and most likely it had been the same for them, although one had proved fairly persistent. Oh, she knew she was not beautiful, with her pale complexion and sharp nose and chin, but she also knew that if looks were a man’s only yardstick then he was of no interest to her.
So the question remained: could she write love without knowing love? Experienced authors would be able to portray any feeling they wanted to, she knew, but she was an absolute novice. Maybe empathy and understanding were all it took. Maybe research. Find some blogs. Some online agony aunts perhaps. Talk to married people like Jessica and Zina. Somehow she had to be able to make her characters’ emotions real.
Of course she was familiar with the tingle of attraction, not least when she saw Iain, and she was having to be extremely careful not to let it become an obsession. Yes, he was kind to her, but then he was kind to everyone. But sometimes those looks that passed between them sent shivers down her spine– melting shivers that went as far as her stomach, if not even further.
What was even better was that she liked him as a person. Although he could act the fool, he obviously had a keen intelligence and a wicked sense of humour. He clearly adored Sybil too, however naughty she could be.
Iain ticked any number of boxes, but they had been thrown together for a month and it would be downright embarrassing to make a move if he was not interested. And even if he was, getting together might upset the dynamic of the group. There were so many reasons not to pursue this. Logical reasons, reasons above and beyond her need to focus on her book. But there was nothing logical about the way she felt, nothing at all. Oh, it was not love. It could not be so quickly, but it was full of thrilling potential all the same.
She turned sharply away from the picture and thumped down onto her chair. This would not do. Not at all. She should remember her priorities. Not least that she had a one-to-one session with Jessica later, and she needed to get this scene finished first.
* * *
Turning up the air-con in her room, Jo opened her laptop. Apart from the gentle hum, the retreat around her was silent. That wasn’t surprising; the morning session had ended well over an hour before, and everyone was in their rooms writing. Which meant, despite her pointless faffing around ever since, she couldn’t put off her own work any longer. No more prevarication.
Arse on seat and get some words down.
She told herself rather sharply that as she was somewhere completely different and writing something completely different, there was no reason at all not to embrace her new project. Cosy crime was a total departure for her but she was convinced that her characters– an Edwardian dowager duchess and her butler, who had first appeared in a Christmas short story she’d sold to a women’s magazine years ago– were interesting and sympathetic enough to appeal to readers.
It wasn’t as though she’d never written a book before. She had. More than once. But they hadn’t exactly been very good. Jo stood up again and walked around the room, her hands interlaced in front of her in a vice-like grip. Through the arch to the bathroom, her heart thudding in her chest as air spilled from her lungs. If she wasn’t careful her head would start to spin…
She thumped her palms onto the smooth rim of the honey-coloured stone wash basin. This had to stop happening. Had to. Especially here. She had to get over it and write. Channel that positivity she felt when she was with the group. She ran her wrists under the tap for the longest time, then dried them carefully on the fluffy cream towel. Averting her eyes from the wine she’d bought at the taverna on the way back from her swim, she fetched a carton of peach juice from the fridge and held it against her forehead. Cool. Calm. The moment had passed. Time to try again.
But instead, Jo perched on the edge of the bed, eyeing her laptop as though any moment it would leap off the desk and bite her. She knew why these mini-panic attacks plagued her, but she was powerless to stop them. Seeking professional help was completely out of the question, because it would mean telling a stranger the truth.
The truth that she wasn’t about to embark on her fourth book; it was her third. And that so-called difficult second novel, which had all but disappeared under a welter of three-star reviews, had actually been her first.
The familiar, overwhelming how did it come to this feeling washed over her, but here at the retreat she had no option of hiding from it in a wine bottle. Certainly not at eleven o’clock in the morning. That was not what she was being paid for. More than not. And she really, really didn’t want to mess this up, especially as she was beginning to enjoy it.
Was enjoy too strong a word? Now her perspective was returning, she didn’t think so. In the main, the little group was delightful, and over the last couple of days had thrown themselves into the morning writing exercises with gusto. Only Sophie was less than enthusiastic, but Diana was good at jollying her along and at least they had begun to write their story together.
So far in the late afternoon feedback sessions Jo had let them off sharing their own work, instead inviting them to read an extract from a favourite book so they could learn to critique kindly and constructively. Tonight that would change, and she was looking forward to seeing what each of them would come up with.
But all this positivity didn’t alter the fact that Jo desperately needed to write something herself, and she hadn’t. Not so much as a sentence. Maybe she should ease herself into the book through another short story? She could still manage those without panic descending. After all, it was where she had started. It was her thing. Deep down she knew it would be a displacement activity, but a comforting one. One which would take her back to a happier time and place.
Was that when she’d been happiest, living with Pam in her terraced house in Putney? It certainly felt that way and a shard of grief cut through her, bringing tears to her eyes. Grief, guilt, and god only knows what else.
Pamela Collins had been her mother’s best friend, so when Jo’s first job as a new graduate had been in London it had made sense for her to move in with her, at least temporarily, while she found her feet. But the place she’d found them had been with Pam, not a flat share with girls of her own age. For a start, she didn’t know any; the few friends she’d made at university had been scattered across the globe and had pretty soon drifted apart. In the first few weeks of her new job, out of a sense of duty and after some gentle nagging from her mum, she’d tagged along to after work drinks, but she quickly gave up, figuring it was better than having her colleagues stop asking her because she was so boring.
She’d known Pam all her life. She liked being with Pam in Putney and Pam had liked having Jo there. Pam’s own career as a high-ranking Whitehall civil servant was demanding, and her social life limited by the fact she’d never come out to more than a handful of people, adamant it would blight her chances of further promotion. Jo may have grown up seeing Pam as a favourite auntie, but living together they’d become good friends.
The best times of all were when Jo’s mother Caroline could join them for a weekend. They’d visit museums and art galleries, shop at Fortnum’s for picnics to eat in their pyjamas sprawled on Pam’s sofas and talking into the small hours about everything and nothing. At first Jo had worried she’d be a bit of a spare wheel, but Mum had explained that was not the case because a three-legged friendship was like a three-legged stool– the most stable and strongest of all.
Thinking of Mum reminded Jo that she needed to phone her. They’d messaged since she’d arrived– of course they had– but she’d promised her an actual conversation once she settled in. But she so, so wanted to be able to tell her mother she’d started the book… And anyway, now would be absolutely the worst time to talk, because the memories of Pam were making her teary and the sound of Mum’s voice would most likely tip her over the edge.
For god’s sake, Jo.
This was getting her nowhere; sending her backwards, in fact. Perhaps she should just let herself wallow and get it over with, then write this afternoon. Curl up on the bed and imagine herself back in the time before, when life had been simple, and peaceful, and fun. When the only fly in the ointment had been her mother’s gentle suggestions, echoed by Pam, that she should maybe, just maybe, get out a little more.
Pam and Caroline had certainly lived it up in London when they were new graduates, going to theatres, clubbing and gigs. Their attitude had been to work hard and play hard, the have-it-all mentality of the time. Then Caroline had been offered a promotion which meant moving to Cheltenham, met Jo’s father and settled down. She’d always assumed her daughter would do the same, but living with Pam taught Jo she didn’t need a man to be happy. Didn’t need many people at all. When Pam went out, Jo was content with her own company and anyway, she could always lose herself in a book.
The man part was bloody ironic too, considering how miserable being with Rees made her. But when they’d met on the tube of all places and he’d got off at her stop and asked her out, once she was over the shock she’d realised it might just get her mum off her back. Rees wasn’t bad looking, and he was sophisticated and so much older. She wondered what he could possibly want with her? But despite the whole thing being vaguely puzzling, she’d quite enjoyed their conversation because he’d done most of the talking.
Dating had disrupted her peaceful life with Pam, so she’d almost stopped before the relationship had started, but Mum had been so excited Jo finally had a boyfriend that she’d thought she ought to give it a decent go. Despite the stresses and strains of thinking about what to wear, what to say, and remembering to put condoms in her bag. God, she should have trusted her instincts and run for the hills. Everything would have been different if she had. But no, that wasn’t fair. Not everything. There was one thing that nothing she’d done could have changed: the perfectly ordinary Thursday morning when she’d woken up to find Pam not in the kitchen making tea and toast, but dead in her bed.
Heart attack, they’d said, and most likely she’d have known nothing about it, for which Jo had been incredibly grateful. And she’d also been more than glad that they’d spent what turned out to be Pam’s last evening companionably writing on either side of the dining room table, Jo working on a short story to sell to a magazine and Pam on her novel.
Pam had never said what the novel was about, but she’d read Jo extracts and it became clear it was an achingly beautiful love story, full of emotions that Jo hadn’t even known existed, let alone had the prose to describe. Pam often asked her advice on phrases and words, even though it seemed to Jo that she didn’t need it. Every snippet she shared was wonderful, but when Jo had asked if she was going to look for an agent she’d shaken her head and told her the story was far too personal to ever be published. Not even Caroline knew of its existence.
Which was all the more reason why Jo should never have done what she did.
Pam’s book was Only. Ever. You.