Saturday 9th September
Z ina watched from the kitchen window as Karmela and Iain strolled up the track. Something was going on between those two. If their body language didn’t scream intimacy, then she didn’t know what did– the angle of their heads as they talked, the closeness of their shoulders. She bet when she cleaned their rooms that one bed or other wouldn’t have been slept in.
Karmela, certainly, had that glow of a new relationship, lucky cow. Oh, she shouldn’t be bitchy. She really shouldn’t. Karmela was a lovely person who deserved all the happiness she could get. Besides, Zina knew full well why she was feeling sore, and it was nothing– nothing – to do with Karmela at all.
It was Lambros’s fault, keeping her awake all night with his snorting and snuffling. If he’d actually snored she could have elbowed him in the ribs and been done with it, but he couldn’t even do that properly. Just long stretches of silence, then a sudden sound like a pig. Staring into the darkness, all sorts of stupid worries had popped into Zina’s head, going round and round and round, making sleep impossible. Everything from whether she’d ordered enough pasta flour from the cash and carry, to if she should open for special solo traveller retreats over Christmas and New Year, to the perilously small amount of money in their bank account.
This morning, as usual, Lambros had rolled over and kissed her on the lips, telling her he loved her before padding off to the bathroom. Just as if he’d done nothing wrong. She’d curled into a ball of exhaustion, watching the minutes click over on the alarm clock until she couldn’t lie in bed a moment longer. Ekaterini didn’t start work until ten, so she had to get up to make breakfast for her guests, however frigging shattered she felt.
Maybe venting by slamming a few pots and pans around would help. But she couldn’t because Susan and Ellen’s bathroom was next door, and because Karmela would turn up on the terrace any minute, demanding coffee.
What was she like this morning? She’d never known Karmela demand anything; she was one of the most courteous and even-tempered people Zina had met. It wasn’t her fault she preferred Greek coffee, which Zina had to make on the stove in a bríki . Sophie and Diana’s endless cappuccinos were just as much faff. Not to mention Jo’s tea. In a pot.
Zina stirred the freshly ground coffee into the cold water and set a gentle heat under it before taking a basket of freshly warmed croissants to the buffet table, where Karmela was helping herself to fruit and yoghurt.
“Good morning, Zina. How are you today?”
How would you be after a sleepless night, then having to get up to make the perfect breakfast? But she couldn’t say it. Of course she couldn’t. Even though there was a tiny part of her that felt Karmela might just understand.
“Fine, thank you, and your coffee is on the stove.”
“It is so kind of you to make it specially.”
Zina turned back to the kitchen before Karmela could see the tears welling in her eyes. What the frigging hell was wrong with her? Emotional, stroppy, jealous even– just because she was the one making the breakfast, not the one sitting on the terrace eating it. She needed to get over herself.
Right now there was nothing she wouldn’t give to be back in Athens. One of her favourite clients had been a large hotel chain whose flagship property had stunning views of the Acropolis from its rooftop dining area. Very often she’d taken journalists and influencers there in the coolness of the morning and eaten delicious food served by wonderfully attentive uniformed waiters. It had been a brilliant way to network; even in the digital age it was meeting face to face that really built long-term business relationships. And it had all been such fun as well.
In the courtyard, a chair scraped against the cobbles, followed by a murmur of conversation. Jo. Super-successful Jo. No doubt the book she was working on would take her career to new heights, while her own had been consigned to the rubbish bin. And Karmela and Jo seemed to be becoming such good friends as well.
Zina stopped short. Could she be part of that? She wanted to be part of that, and they both seemed to enjoy her company. Tears pricked her eyes again; she was so frigging lonely, especially as her Athens girls obviously thought it was funny she was making beds and cleaning bathrooms for a living now. They’d even– even– called her a drama queen for complaining about it. Led by Kassandra who couldn’t even pick up after her chihuahua without squealing about how yucky it was.
She couldn’t see Jo and Karmela being so mean, but neither could she tell them how she felt. They were her guests, and that in itself was the problem. She could never be completely open with them; it would be so unprofessional. Anyway, they’d be gone in three weeks, then she’d be alone all over again. Alone, miserable and bored out of her mind.
No, no, no! This would not do. Zina slammed her palm on the reclaimed pine table, making the milk carton jump and causing liquid to splatter across the surface. Skatá! Everything about the retreat had to be perfect, so she’d better buck up her attitude. It needed to be successful, to make money. More money than Lambros, but that shouldn’t be hard. Not only would she win the profit game, they might at least be able to have some sort of life.
With enough cash in the bank, she could at least employ a cleaner. Unless, of course, the farm sucked up every last euro. Zina wrung the dishcloth she was using to wipe up the milk between her hands, silently screaming in frustration. No. She had to think about the reasons they’d come here. About Lambros’s mental health, about how much better he was. About Mama and how they were making her widowhood just a little bit less lonely. But she doubted either of them recognised the massive sacrifice she’d had to make.
Resisting the temptation to slam the frying pan onto the hob, she placed it there gently, ready for Ellen’s easy-over eggs. Then she poured Karmela’s coffee into its tiny cup and filled a glass with iced water from the fridge. These negative thoughts were getting her nowhere. It was what it was. There was nothing she could do but get on with it. And make a very strong coffee for herself, paste on a smile, then dredge up some positive vibes from somewhere.
Picking up the tray, she went onto the terrace. Already the day was warm, and bees buzzed in the nearby bougainvillea. A couple of sparrows hopped hopefully around the table.
Karmela thanked her as she put her coffee down. “We were just talking about the jukebox game tonight. I am looking forward to it.”
“Have you put your secret song in the box?” Zina asked. “I seem to be a couple short and there are so few of us to play. Perhaps you could remind everyone, Jo. I need them by lunchtime at the latest to find all the music.”
“Sure,” said Jo, returning to her cereal.
“If we are so few,” mused Karmela, “you should perhaps play as well. Especially as the idea is we get to know each other better through our choices.”
What a lovely suggestion. Karmela was indeed an absolute gem, and Zina’s spirits lifted a fraction. “Do you know what? I think I will. But there are so many songs I could choose.”
“I did not have that luxury,” Karmela replied. “I think people mainly discover music as teenagers, and I was a refugee at that time.”
“A refugee?” Pictures of tented camps sprang into Zina’s mind and she sat down with a thud.
“I was born in Sarajevo,” Karmela explained, “and when the war came my parents left. We ended up in Berlin and I had little of the language and none of the culture. It was impossible to make friends and fit in.”
“But that’s awful!” said Jo.
Karmela nodded. “It was at the time, and if I am honest with myself, I was damaged for a long while afterwards too. It is the reason friends are so very precious to me now.”
Zina nodded. “Friends are important. I know it’s nowhere near the same, but I miss my friends in Athens.”
“I expect you do.” There was warmth in Karmela’s eyes, and compassion. “I know we have WhatsApp and everything these days, but there is nothing quite like a heartfelt hug from someone who cares about you. Nothing like talking face to face.”
A heartfelt hug? In her Athens gang they sort of wrapped arms across shoulders as they kissed each other’s cheeks. Carefully, so as not to smudge their make-up. A heartfelt hug sounded like just what Zina needed right now.
The door in the corner of the courtyard opened and Sophie emerged. Zina stood.
“It’s been lovely to chat, but I need to get on.”
“You will choose a song for tonight, won’t you?” Jo asked.
“Of course.” And she would. One that would reveal something of herself too. Nothing like Karmela’s shocking story, but something real all the same. These wonderful women deserved it.
* * *
Jo sat back, swilling the sweet, golden Vinsanto wine around her glass as Zina brought coffee, tea and tiny squares of baklavá , kata?fi and melekoúni to the table. The honey aromas of the pastries mingled with the scent of night-blooming jasmine, old-fashioned carriage lamps casting pools of light across the courtyard. It was a moment of calm she wished she could bottle but instead it was about to be shattered.
When Zina had suggested the jukebox game a week ago, Jo had been privately doubtful but had gone along with it as Zina had been so enthusiastic. Maybe it was everyone’s choice of song being a closely guarded secret making her uncomfortable. Secrets had a nasty way of tying you up in knots.
The group fell silent as Zina positioned herself at the end of the table. “OK, this is how it works. There is a piece of music from each of you, but because we are a small number of people I have added one of my own. I’ve shuffled them on my app, so I don’t know which order they’ll come out, and your job is to guess who chose which song. Then the person whose selection it is needs to say why. It’s a great way to get to know a little more about each other and have some fun at the same time.”
Oh god, they had to explain the reason they’d chosen it. Why hadn’t Zina said? If Jo had known she definitely would have picked something different. Something less personal, less… emotive. She took a gulp of wine. Perhaps she should fetch another glass. She really wanted another glass but it didn’t feel right when Zina had gone to all the trouble of bringing her tea. She just had to hope her song wasn’t first.
Take That’s “Shine” burst from the smart speaker Zina had set in the centre of the table.
Oh, thank god.
It gave her time to work out a plausible story for her own choice. Tweak the truth, perhaps? She didn’t want to perpetuate any more lies than she had to. Yes, that was it. It was simple now she’d stopped panicking. She could say it was her mother’s favourite song.
The music faded. “Any guesses?” Zina asked.
“Hmmm… Take That?” said Diana. “I reckon age-wise it could be Jo.”
“Not me.”
“Zina?” She shook her head.
Diana looked deflated. “Oh. I don’t know then.”
Susan said, “I’m not altogether familiar with the song, but the lyrics sound very positive. Karmela?”
Karmela grinned. “It is me. And it is the lyrics. A little over a year ago I had never heard it, but just before I left Dubrovnik there was a party and my friend Claire said it made her think of me, and how much I had come out of my shell. But when I listened to it properly later I realised it speaks to anyone who does not live their life to the full, for whatever reason. And that is really quite wonderful.”
“Thank you, Karmela,” said Zina. “Now, who’s next, I wonder?”
The mood in the courtyard shifted down a gear as Ella Fitzgerald’s voice filled the air. Jo tipped her head back and gazed at the pinprick stars high above, but even so found herself whisked away to New York. It was a short song, and Zina allowed it to play to the last trembling note.
“That was beautiful,” Susan sighed, as Diana wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. It had to be hers, but Jo didn’t want to be the one to rumble her. Not until she’d pulled herself together a little anyway.
“Was it yours, Susan?” asked Iain, but she shook her head. “Well, we can’t use the age thing because jazz is timeless. But sophisticated. Sophie?”
“Not me.”
“Ellen?”
“No.”
After a brief silence Zina suggested whoever chose the song should confess, and Diana put up a tentative hand.
“Peter and I went to New York for our honeymoon, and we found a wonderful little jazz club off Broadway, and ‘Manhattan’ sort of became our song. And yes, in case you’re wondering, we did go to the zoo and ate baloney in Coney.” Another tear slid down her cheek, but she did nothing to hide it.
“Are you OK?” Karmela mouthed across the table, and Diana nodded as Zina started to play the next tune, the techno beat of Lady Gaga’s “Born This Way” blaring from the speaker.
With the song’s political overtones and status as a queer anthem, Ellen was the obvious candidate, but in fact the choice was Susan’s.
“The title is the name of the singer’s charitable foundation, which inspires young people to build a kinder world. Not everyone was very kind to a bookish, overweight lesbian when I was growing up so it definitely strikes a chord.”
Next they lurched from one end of the musical spectrum to the other, with a Mozart piano sonata, which Ellen correctly guessed was Sophie’s choice.
“Because we had to learn to play it when we were schoolgirls,” she explained. “I expect Diana remembers.”
Her friend nodded. “Which was why I didn’t think I should say.”
Sophie had shown nothing of herself, even with her choice of music. Given she would be doing the same, Jo could hardly be critical. But the others had each revealed something personal, and her own white lie was making her feel increasingly uneasy.
Jo didn’t know the next song, and by the looks around the table, she wasn’t the only one.
“I think it is Iain’s,” said Karmela with some conviction. “If you listen to the lyrics they are about flying.”
Iain’s face was positively glowing as he turned to her. “Great spot! It’s actually one of the lesser-known songs from Top Gun. It’s called ‘Mighty Wings’. And I thought it wouldn’t be quite as obvious as ‘Love Me Love My Dog’.”
Karmela wrinkled her nose. “A little, I suppose.”
For the first time Jo sensed a chemistry between them, but this wasn’t a classroom setting and everyone was relaxed. Was she imagining something that wasn’t there? Or had Zina been right when she’d said the game was a great way to get to know people? She picked up her wine glass, realised it was empty, and put it down again. What if her own choice gave too much away? But no, no, it wouldn’t. Not unless she let it.
The Spice Girls’ “Mama” came next. “We don’t have many choices left,” said Diana, who unlike Sophie, was really getting into the game. “Jo, Ellen, or Zina. And my money isn’t on Ellen.”
“Nor mine,” said Iain.
Ellen grinned. “Then you’d be wrong. I loved dancing around my bedroom to The Spice Girls when I was younger. I was a massive fan. Of this song especially, because it wasn’t about a girl and a boy falling in love.”
“I’m surprised,” said Diana slowly, “that you didn’t choose one of their girl power anthems.”
“If anything,” added Iain, “I would have thought you’d have chosen Lady Gaga, and Susan was the Spice Girls fan. Just goes to show…” He tailed off as Susan began to giggle.
“We really should tell them,” she spluttered. “I’m so sorry, but we did swap songs. Just to make it a bit more challenging. I chose ‘Mama’ because family is so precious to me. I’ve lost both my parents now, so trying to find my Greek relatives is even more important.”
“I knew it!” Iain thumped the table, and everyone laughed.
With the mood so light, Jo desperately hoped her choice would be next, but instead Bruno Mars’s “Just The Way You Are” filled the night air. Zina’s song. Jo looked up at her, swaying gently to the music, expecting her face to look blissful but instead it appeared troubled, and Jo had to look away.
Given the stage of the game, Zina suggested a vote which was split down the middle. “That was my song, and it means a great deal to me. A few years ago, Lambros took me all the way to Budapest to see Bruno Mars in concert.”
“Sounds like he’s a keeper,” said Ellen with a wink, “for a man, anyway.”
“Charming,” teased Iain, rolling his eyes, but Zina moved quickly on.
“So, Jo, as this is your song, would you like to explain why you chose it, then we can all enjoy it.”
Truth or lie? Lie or truth? Jo looked around the table at their eager faces. The faces of people who had almost all decided to share something of themselves tonight.
OK, here goes.
“Not my favourite, but someone else’s.” She took a deep breath. “A friend who died.”
As the laid-back guitar introduction sounded, Jo tried to relax into it. It was a song, just a song, that Pam had played over and again as part of The Style Council’s Café Bleu album. But Jo knew it had been her favourite and hearing it again, she began to well up.
At the other end of the table, Sophie stood suddenly. “As we’ve finished, I’ll say goodnight.” Briskly she turned and stalked across the courtyard.
“Hey, that’s a bit rude,” Ellen called after her.
Diana looked down. “I’m sorry. She’s not herself. I think she’s finding it hard to switch off from worrying about her husband. I’m sure she didn’t mean to cause offence.”
“None taken,” said Jo, but all the same she wasn’t entirely sure Sophie’s action hadn’t been deliberate. She turned to Ellen. “I think in the writing group we’re used to Sophie being a bit… blunt.”
Ellen looked uncertain. “Well, as long as you don’t mind.”
To be honest, Jo didn’t. It had proved a welcome distraction, giving her time to pull herself together. The song filled the still night air. The song that Jo had come to realise Pam had loved so much because it had been special to her and her Eloise. Because Jo knew, without a doubt, that Eloise had been the best thing that had ever happened to Pam. And Pam to Eloise.
The song wasn’t about a perfect relationship; it recognised there might be more to be gained elsewhere, but what would be the point when you already had the person who was best for you in your life? Eloise may have been married to a bullying brute, which she couldn’t change because of her children, but as long as she had Pam lighting up her days there was more right than wrong in her world, as well as in Pam’s.
Tears misted Jo’s eyes. Tears of remembering, tears of loneliness. She looked around the table. At least she wasn’t lonely here. That had to count for something, didn’t it?