The Santorini Writing Retreat

Sunday 17th September

Z ina carefully dried the bríki she used to make Karmela’s coffee and set it on the shelf next to Ekaterini’s gleaming pans. Everyone had plans for Sunday except her. Even her mother was going out later, taking Susan and Ellen to meet more members of their extended family in Kamari. Zina didn’t even have rooms to clean, which was not a bad thing, not really, and the day yawned emptily ahead.

Maybe she should try to catch up on some sleep? She still needed to recover from her drunken stupor on Friday, as well as yesterday’s restless night. When she’d woken with a blinding hangover on Saturday morning, Lambros had already been up and about, presumably in the pistachio orchard. But foolishly as it turned out, she hadn’t been worried, instead spending the day fantasising that in bed that night, even if nothing was said, at least they might touch, ever so casually. A thread to hold on to that would pull them back together.

But when she’d rushed home as soon as Ekaterini left, he’d been nowhere to be seen. Worse, his pillows had gone again. She’d peeped onto the terrace, but he wasn’t there. Only the closed door of the office giving any clue to his whereabouts. Clearly their row wasn’t over after all.

How dare he play cat and mouse with her, coming back into her bed one night and buggering off again the next? Then avoiding her all day, spending every waking hour picking those frigging pistachios. But at some point in the smallest hours of the night, indignation had flickered into fear. Fear this was never going to come right. Then what the hell would she do?

Already it was something of a miracle her mama hadn’t noticed anything was wrong, but it was only a matter of time. She needed at least a truce before that happened and with every day that passed it looked less likely Lambros would even think of brokering one. She’d never known him be so stubborn. It looked like it was down to her. She was the one who would have to give in this time. Oh, it was so unfair, but this had gone on long enough. Best get it over and done with before she changed her mind.

Full of determination, she set off in the direction of the pistachio orchard, then stopped. At breakfast she’d overheard Iain say he was planning to help with the harvest. No way could she bear the humiliation if Lambros ignored her– or worse– in front of one of her guests.

One of her guests. A guest she should look after. That was the answer. Obvious, now she thought about it. She’d just stroll up there and ask if they wanted a cold drink. It was neutral ground and her offer would be a kind and thoughtful thing to do. Then when Lambros said yes, she would perhaps bring a soda for herself. Then she’d ask him how the harvest was going, and he’d tell her. He could never resist talking about the farm. Somewhere along the line he’d realise how much he loved her and all would be well.

Decision made, Zina hurried along the side of the retreat and into the pistachio orchard. This low down the valley the trees had been stripped of their nuts, which were now lying in the drying yard behind the building. She glanced in as she passed; there were plenty of them, so that must be good. It would hopefully put Lambros in a positive frame of mind.

Her father’s old truck was parked on the edge of the orchard about two hundred metres away, and she quickened her pace, the heat of the morning burning into her back. With any luck, in just a few minutes this whole sorry mess would begin to be over, and she couldn’t wait to see him smile when he realised how nice she was being.

But Lambros didn’t smile. In fact, he positively scowled when he saw her. He and Iain were working on adjacent trees, wearing long, thick gloves to carefully twist the bunches of nuts from the branches then put them in wooden boxes to carry to the truck. Iain gave her a cheery wave, but Lambros ignored her until he had finished what he was doing.

He walked slowly towards her, a box of pistachios in his arms. Zina’s mouth went dry. This was so not what she had expected.

Quick! Get the words out.

“I wondered if you guys would like a cold drink?”

“We have plenty of water. Whatever you may think, I am not so stupid as to come out for a day’s work without any.” He had barely broken his stride to say it.

She couldn’t look in Iain’s direction. Couldn’t speak because the dust from the dry, grey earth felt as though it was clogging her throat. She cleared it with a small cough.

“No worries,” she said brightly and loudly enough for Iain to hear. “Just thought I’d ask.”

Zina forced herself to stroll back through the trees, stopping now and then to look at an imagined something between their branches. At first she had wanted to run and find somewhere to weep, but now the slow burn of anger was building inside her, fuelled by humiliation. How dare Lambros treat her like that? There was every chance that Iain had heard him. How would she look him in the eye again? She’d tried so hard to keep their rift private, but clearly Lambros didn’t care. He’d made it perfectly obvious he had no intention of putting this right, so why should he keep it a secret? He’d never even considered how it would look to her guests. Never considered her at all.

God, she hated him! Hated him! It took every last reserve she had not to kick at the aubergines and winter potatoes he’d planted in the vegetable patch as she passed, but now she was nearing the house she had to calm down. Mama’s car was still parked outside and although a part of her longed for her comfort, she still wasn’t ready to share what had happened.

Mama was in the kitchen, tending a pan on the stove, the rich aromas of tomatoes, mint and oregano filling the air as she fried one of the island’s traditional snacks.

“I thought I’d make some tomatokeftédes for your lunch. For Lambros and Iain too, if they come in, although he took a couple of beers and some leftover pitarákia from Friday night with him. He said they might well work through and he can never resist anything with cheese in, can he?” She turned from gently easing the fritters around the pan, looking over her shoulder as she continued. “Are you going to help them? I’m sure they could do with another pair of hands.”

Zina shook her head, her throat too thick to speak. Even if she knew what the hell she could say.

Her mother sighed. “Zina, what’s wrong between you and Lambros?”

“Nothing.” It came out as a squeak.

“That doesn’t sound like nothing. Certainly not when he was sleeping on the terrace last week. And now he’s borrowed a blow-up mattress from Yiannis and put it in the study.”

Skatá! “You knew…”

Even frigging Yiannis knew, by the sounds of it. Why hide their differences anymore, when clearly Lambros didn’t care? Tears scratched the backs of her eyes.

“Of course I knew. For a start, I could hear him outside all night, shifting around. And much as I don’t want to interfere if you don’t want to tell me, I won’t be taken for an idiot in my own home.”

Zina felt about nine years old. “I’m sorry, Mama,” she whispered.

Her mother crossed the room and wrapped her in a hug. “More than anything, I hate to see you hurting.”

“Oh, Mama…” Zina started to sob, the tears she’d dammed up on Friday night flowing freely now, while her mother rocked her slowly, keeping her tight in her arms.

Eventually she calmed down enough to look up. “We had a row on Tuesday. I mean, everyone argues, don’t they? But this one’s going on forever.”

“And why do you think that is?”

“I don’t know.” Zina sniffed, and her mother pulled a large white handkerchief from her pocket and gave it to her.

“Do you want to tell me about it?” she asked. “You don’t have to, but talking things through sometimes helps.”

“You mustn’t tell Lambros you know.”

“If he asks me, I won’t lie, but I have no intention of getting involved. You’re almost thirty, Zina, your marriage is your own affair. Even though it’s hard to keep it that way when we’re all living in the same house.”

“That was my point. That’s what started it. When you were out on Tuesday afternoon I thought we could spend some time together, just the two of us. But he chose to go to help Yiannis instead.”

Mama frowned. “I thought it was something of an emergency.”

“Not that much of one. Yiannis has other friends, and it could have waited.”

“Lambros is a loyal man, you know that.”

“Not to me.”

Mama sat down at the kitchen table and Zina followed suit. “In what way, exactly?”

“It’s always the farm this, the farm that…”

“Life on the land can be like that,” said Mama. “Trust me, when I was a young bride… but that’s by the by… And hospitality is just the same. Animals, nature, guests; they’re all demanding. I can remember being so excited when your father and I traded the pigs and the crops for the apartments and campsite, but it didn’t get any better, especially not in the season. And you and Lambros have both. You haven’t chosen an easy path.”

Zina crossed her arms. “I didn’t choose it.”

“I know. You never wanted to stay on the island and I was proud I had a daughter whose world would be bigger than mine. But I was also proud when you gave up so much for your husband. And for me.”

Zina began to cry again. “At least you understand what I sacrificed. Unlike Lambros. If only he’d just say?—”

Mama held her hand across the table. “It seems to me that perhaps this row is less about Tuesday afternoon and more about resentment on both sides simmering over. You have a lot to think about, agápi mou . Really big questions about what you want from life, and what’s most important to you, because from where I’m sitting it may not be possible to have it all.”

“Lambros has no reason to be resentful. He’s got everything he wanted.”

“That’s not for me to second guess. You either need to ask him, or think it through for yourself, because there must be a reason he’s holding out. To me, it does not seem in his nature.”

As if Zina knew what her husband’s true nature was anymore. But how could she, when he deliberately put barriers between them? She had every right to feel resentful, not him. He’d shut her out. He’d clearly tired of her like he did everything else, and that was that.

Mama stood. “I’m sorry, Zina, but I need to get ready for the big reunion. My interpretation services will definitely be needed today.”

“Sure, sure.” She picked up her phone and began to scroll. Everyone’s frigging perfect lives on Instagram. Mariam in Athens on her father-in-law’s yacht; an interior designer she followed holidaying in the cutest cottage in England; even Resi was at Balos Beach. It was only at her father’s taverna, and the margarita in front of her was virgin, not a real one, but still…

Of course, she could go to see Resi. It wouldn’t be the most exciting of afternoons, but it would stop her nagging to visit the baby. She could have a bit of a chat with her old friend, coo over tiny fingers and toes, then take a dip in the water. It was hardly cocktails in the Plaka like the old days with her Athens gang, but it was better than being here on her own. She might even be able to engineer the odd photo for her Instagram feed and pull at least one positive from this frigging awful day.

Zina quickly changed into her bikini and slipped a short floral-print sundress over the top. After digging out her underused beach bag from the bottom of the wardrobe she added a towel and some sunscreen. She didn’t need anything else. Resi’s dad’s hospitality to his daughter’s friends was legendary, and she was determined to put herself into the mindset to enjoy it.

Despite Balos Beach being such a tiny ledge of concrete and shingle at the base of the caldera’s cliffs, the parking area was almost full, so Zina had to leave her car at the very far end. Dust and gravel caught in her sandals as she walked, but the water looked blue and inviting, dotted with small white boats belonging to the dive school.

She spotted Resi as she approached, sitting under the rattan shelter that covered the taverna’s terrace nursing her baby daughter. Low music mixed with the wash and draw of the waves on the shingle, just centimetres away.

Resi waved. “Zina! Over here! It’s great to see you. Where’s Lambros?”

Zina set down her beach bag and sat opposite her friend. “Harvesting pistachios.”

Resi rolled her eyes. “Good for you for escaping. We can catch up on our news before the boys get back and start talking about football. Again.”

“Boys?”

“Vasilis and Georgiou– they’re taking a quick dip. I don’t suppose you remember they’re cousins?”

Zina shook her head. The size of Vasilis’s family was mind-boggling and she’d never bothered to make the connections. But Georgiou? She’d kind of assumed he’d be gone by now. Well, she would have assumed it if she’d given him a thought.

“You don’t mind, do you?” Resi asked.

“ Skatá , no. We were kids when we were together. It’ll be fun to see him again.”

“That’s all right then. Now tell me, how’s your new business going? Your photos on Insta are amazing. They cheer me up no end when I’m elbow deep in nappies.”

Zina sat back and told Resi about all the good things that were happening, feeling just a little guilty when she saw the look of longing in her friend’s eyes. Before her maternity leave, Resi had been head receptionist at the island’s swankiest boutique hotel and clearly she missed her job. Who wouldn’t? Zina thought. Babies that tiny, however cute, must be so very boring.

“Will you go back to work next season?” she asked her.

“I might… Look, here come the guys.” She swivelled in her seat, turning towards the kitchen. “Babá! You can bring the meze now. I’m starving.” She looked at Zina, giggling. “I always am. God knows how I’ll ever lose my baby bulge.”

“You will when you’re ready.”

“Zina! Good to see you!” Vasilis called. “I won’t hug you or I’d soak your dress.” Zina stood to greet him. Half a step behind was Georgiou. My god, he’d matured well. He’d been good-looking enough as a teenager, but now he had a neatly trimmed beard, and the way his wavy hair was slicked back from his high forehead accentuated his perfectly straight eyebrows and pale grey eyes.

“Now this is a pleasant surprise.” He grasped her hand, holding it just a fraction too long, making her fingers tingle.

“It’s good to see you too, Georgiou.”

“George. Everyone calls me George these days. It’s so much easier now I’m working in New York.”

Show off. But then, he always had been. She’d spent their time together torn between wanting to take him down a peg or two and feeling smug that she was the girl on the arm of the most desirable boy in school.

Resi rolled her eyes and Zina thought it was becoming quite a habit. “Georgiou. You’re in Greece now, remember.”

He shrugged his muscled shoulders, drops of water running down his chest as he reached for his towel. “In truth I answer to just about anything.”

“You work in New York? That must be exciting,” Zina said. God, she sounded like a blushing schoolgirl. Not that she’d been particularly blushing when they’d dated. For a split second she wondered how he saw her now, compared to those American girls. But at least her sundress was a Christina Kontova, not some cheap tat from a tourist shop on the island.

He smiled at her, right to his eyes. “It has its moments. But tell me, what are you doing these days? I don’t see any babies attached to your hip.”

“Until recently I was account director at a marketing agency in Athens, but when my father died I came home, and I’ve just opened a high-end retreat house on the island.”

“Retreat? As in religious? That doesn’t sound like the Zina I knew.”

“No,” Zina laughed. “Creative. I have a group of writers there at the moment, led by Jessica Rose who wrote Only. Ever. You. You’ve probably seen the movie. But also for things like yoga, and businesses, if they need to get away for strategic planning and the like. Small and exclusive. That’s the vibe.”

“What a great idea. Do you have a card?”

“Not on the beach. I only came down to see Resi and have a quick swim.”

He almost pouted. Almost, but not quite. Just enough to be sexy but not ridiculous. “You didn’t come to see me?”

“Sorry, no.”

Resi looked up. “You will join us for meze though?”

“Yes, please do,” Georgiou added. “You can tell me more about this business of yours. If it wouldn’t be an imposition on your afternoon off.”

“I don’t want to bore everyone else…”

“Then don’t,” said Vasilis, ruffling her hair as though she were ten years old. “Let’s just chill.”

“I don’t remember Zina being boring,” said Georgiou.

“You’re kidding!” Resi exclaimed. “When she was basketball captain everything was win, win, win. And if we dared to lose it was never her fault. Even that time she missed the basket in the last two minutes in the Cyclades semi-finals. She was no fun at all.”

“Why play unless it’s to beat the hell out of the opposition?” Georgiou draped his towel over the back of the chair next to Zina’s and sat down on it, picking up a beer. “If I remember rightly, while I was whipping the most successful football team the school ever had into shape, you were doing the same for basketball. Natural winners, both of us. Dragged the others up to our standard.”

It was Vasilis’s turn to roll his eyes. “Oh, please. Without my speed midfield you’d have been stuffed.”

“I always thought you wanted to turn professional?” Zina asked Georgiou.

“Injury,” he replied.

“You only ever had one trial!” said Vasilis.

“Because I was injured. But enough of me. I want to hear all about Zina.” He turned to face her and chinked his beer glass against her iced coffee. “It is so very lovely to see you again.”

The conversation flowed along with the drinks and the plates of meze which appeared every so often: tomatokeftédes , of course, but also thick homemade tzatzíki burning with garlic, and plates of dolmádes . Reluctant as she was to leave the table, Zina knew the reason for her visit would lose all credibility if she didn’t swim. It would be mortifying if Georgiou thought she had really come to see him. His ego was still as healthy as it had always been, but with his success in the corporate world that was hardly surprising, and good for him too.

She stood, pleased she’d kept her figure as she pulled her sundress over her head. “Swim time for me.”

“I’m ready for another dip too,” Georgiou said as he looked up at her admiringly. “Want some company?”

“That would be good.” And it would be. They had history swimming off this very beach that if Zina were a different sort of woman she might blush to remember. But Georgiou knew she wouldn’t be up for that sort of thing anymore. Inevitably Lambros had cropped up now and then as they’d talked. But just for a little while it would be good to spend time with someone who was paying her an awful lot of attention and who made her remember all the good things about herself. Yes, after the week she’d had, she definitely deserved a little fun.

* * *

Jo clambered out of the car, following Karmela who’d leapt from her seat and was already gazing at the huddle of white houses spreading down the gentle slope below. The parched hillside rose in front of her with villas and farms dotted here and there under the deepest blue sky.

“Well, this is pretty,” Karmela said as they started into the village. A wall built of black volcanic stone edged the street on one side, a deep red bougainvillea and white stars of jasmine reaching over the top and tumbling towards them. The jasmine in particular was exquisite, and Jo stopped to take a photo to send to Curtis later. Opposite, a man chipped plaster from the wall of an older property, stopping as they passed so as not to envelop them in dust.

A little further on, the doors of a workshop stood open, the enticing almost salty smell of leather issuing from it. Hanging outside were a dozen or so bags, one a laptop-sized rucksack with subtle gold chasing that was so gorgeous Jo stopped to finger it. More suede than leather, it was soft to the touch but hopelessly impractical for rainy London. Though London, despite Rees’s increasingly furious messages, seemed a million miles away.

“Shall we find a cold drink first?” she asked. “Then explore before supper?”

Karmela nodded. “I think the square is at the end of this street.”

As they continued to walk, Jo glanced up, her eyes drawn to a dark blue dome with a cross on top. Beyond it stood a church, and in front of them, built across the road, was an elaborate bell tower like so many white wedding cake pillars, the bells themselves arranged in decreasing tiers. No wonder a group of Japanese tourists was waiting patiently to take selfies under its arch.

“Megalochori is rather lovely,” she said.

“It is also an interesting place,” Karmela replied. “I read up about it a little when you suggested we come here. The village was almost completely destroyed in the earthquake of 1956 and left empty until the 1990s when there was finally the money and the will to rebuild it. But when you look online there are still a few hidden corners that have been left as they were.”

“Imagine! Losing everything like those poor people did.”

Karmela nodded. “And in minutes, too.”

They continued down the narrow street which was bordered on both sides by whitewashed walls that were punctuated by wooden gates painted every shade of blue. Had Karmela lost everything in minutes too? Jo wondered. From the piece she had written, it sounded that way, and Jo was burning to ask her. Burning to hear her whole story, to understand… It was one of the reasons she’d been so delighted when Karmela had suggested they have supper together today. But where such a conversation might lead terrified her.

If Karmela knew the truth about what she’d done, she wouldn’t want anything to do with her. She was such an honest and forthright person, not to mention a talented writer. If nothing else, she’d be asking herself what right Jo had to try to teach her anything. But on the other hand, what was friendship without honesty? And Jo really wanted her friendship with Karmela to grow.

The square was blessed with a number of cafés and restaurants, drowsing through the lull between lunch and dinner. To their right was an open space surrounded by oleanders and bougainvilleas in bright orange and pink, and even some small olive trees beneath which local cats were hungrily feeding on food some kind soul had left out for them.

Opposite was an art gallery and an ice cream parlour, but just beyond they found an inviting-looking taverna. A handful of tourists were dotted around under a sea of square umbrellas, and a group of people, all dressed in their Sunday best, was leaving, their continuing conversation voluble as they rounded up small children then headed down the street.

Jo and Karmela chose a table with a bright green painted top next to an equally colourful ceramic fountain. Now the terrace was quiet, the only sounds the click of backgammon counters as two men played near the steps to the dark interior, and birdsong from a nearby tree.

A waiter bustled over, notebook in hand. Karmela ordered a beer, but Jo prevaricated. She should really have an iced coffee, but… alcohol would help. Or should she be brave, and try to do this sober? But would that lead to yet another failure?

Stop overthinking it, Jo.

“One small beer will not hurt, even with the car,” said Karmela, as if reading her mind. “I imagine we will be here for some hours yet.”

“Go on, then.” Once again, she’d let someone else make the decision for her. It had become so engrained: her agent with the sort of book she should write; Curtis with the garden– although to be fair he did go out of his way to involve her; and Rees with… everything else. But not the remortgage. She’d messaged him to say she was consulting a financial advisor, so he’d have to wait. He’d called her back and blown a fuse on a voicemail she’d deleted halfway through. Had that been a win? The thought made her just a little more confident. Perhaps it was time for another one.

“Karmela, I wanted to ask you about your Sarajevo piece.”

Her words were all but drowned out by a cacophony of firecrackers that caused a ginger cat balancing on the edge of the fountain to slip, then leap to the floor, shaking its damp fur in disgust. A waiter rushed up to them, pointing at the bell tower at the bottom of the square.

“A wedding!” he cried. “A village wedding! You must see.”

It seemed rude not to abandon their table and stand to watch the procession pass under the arch, led by a violinist and a bouzouki player dressed in colourfully embroidered waistcoats. Next came the bride in an elegant cream silk dress, her handsome face covered in more make-up than even Jo would consider wearing. Both she and her groom looked tense, and Jo hoped that only the pressure of the occasion, and not the prospect of marriage, made them appear this way.

And pressure there was, as most of the village appeared to be following them, the women in colourful dresses and bright silk trouser suits and tiny flower girls like miniature replicas of the bride. Music and laughter filled the air as the couple turned into the church, the sun gleaming from its bright blue dome, just half a shade lighter than the sky above.

As the procession disappeared inside, the women returned to their table. Maybe fate had intervened to save Jo from a difficult conversation. Or maybe not.

“You asked me about Sarajevo?”

She had no escape now. Jo fiddled with the ashtray. “Your love for your home and your friends shone through in your piece. Yet after the war you didn’t go back? Even though you wrote that you’d shut yourself off from hurt and pain, I’m not quite sure I understood and I’d like to know more.” Sweat pooled in her armpits. What had she started? She couldn’t be sure, but whatever happened, this was a conversation she needed to have in order to break the habit of a lifetime. If she could.

“In practical terms, I did not go back because once the war was over my parents separated and my father returned to Sarajevo. Before we left he had been a university lecturer like me, but once we were in Berlin he started to drink. My mother worked all hours helping other refugees and as I was unable to make friends at school, I was stuck in our tiny apartment with this man we had once loved who became increasingly unpredictable. Neither of us wanted to be anywhere near him after that. It was a relief when the war ended and he left.”

“It must have been awful.”

Karmela shrugged. “I guess he had his own problems. Maybe he felt guilty about not staying to fight? But it certainly made me put up the walls faster than I might otherwise have done. I was bullied at school for not belonging and had no one to turn to at home. Once the war was over, I decided to go back to the former Yugoslavia to university and ended up in Zagreb. The Germans wanted the refugees gone, so it made sense for my mother to come too.

“But even there I was an outsider; the others had suffered the war, but we had run away. It set me apart. Or rather, I thought it did. So I stayed apart for the longest time and, without me even noticing, it became a habit. I missed out on so much.”

So Karmela knew what it was to be lonely and friendless, isolated in her own home. They had more in common than Jo had ever imagined. But it would be impossible to base a friendship on lies, especially when Karmela was so open about her own life and experiences.

Jo fingered the metal tray the waiter had left with the bill. Here goes nothing. “So there wasn’t a secret?” she asked. “Your piece talks about keeping a secret.”

Karmela looked at her, her dark eyes sharp yet soft at the same time. “Then perhaps it was clumsy. My lack of skill. But there was something hidden, something buried, that was blighting my life. Like secrets do. But I think you know that.”

Play for time.

Jo picked up her glass, sipped, then put it down.

“How did you find out? Iain, was it?”

Karmela nodded. “He could not help overhearing your row with Rees, and when you sent him away he came to me.” She reached across and lightly touched Jo’s hand. “He did not understand that perhaps you did not want to be seen all red and blotchy. Or that perhaps you just needed time to cry. He was worried about you.”

Jo nodded, saying nothing. At the ice cream parlour across the square, a young man tried, and largely failed, to stop the two small children with him bouncing up and down with excitement. She watched as he checked the contents of his wallet before ordering two small cones. He looked more like a local than a well-healed tourist and she leapt up, ran across, and pressed a twenty euro note into his hand, walking swiftly back to the taverna before he had time to argue.

“You like children?” Karmela asked.

“Yes, but I wouldn’t bring one into my marriage.”

“If you were not married to Rees?”

Jo shrugged. Having kids wasn’t something she allowed herself to think about too much. “But I am.”

Karmela sat forwards. “Jo, you cannot live a half-life. I was guilty of that, and I wasted years. I cut myself off from so much that matters, because I had no idea that it did.”

“You don’t understand?—”

“I cannot if you do not tell me.”

“I can’t tell anyone.”

“Then perhaps you should.”

Jo drained her drink, then stuffed another twenty euro note under the tray with the bill.

“Come on, let’s walk.”

They crossed an open space with a memorial of some sort, then joined a curved path lined with the smooth white walls so typical of the village, overhung by a beautiful red bougainvillea. Turning left up the hill, they passed a house with dirty cream walls, the paint cracked and peeling away. The iron grills on the windows were rusted, in contrast to the pots of pink and white geraniums on the sills, which looked well cared for. Something about the contrast stuck in Jo’s throat and a wave of unbearable sadness washed over her.

The father scrabbling for loose change to treat his children had made her feel the same. She could only imagine how much he must have wanted to buy them the biggest ice cream possible to make them smile. All around her, small but important human emotions were playing out; people everywhere were striving to gather every scrap of happiness they could. She may have money, but they were richer than her in so many ways.

Every scrap of happiness. She thought about her garden at home and the photos Curtis was sending her. And the ones she was sending him… She thought about the progress her little group at the retreat was making. She thought about the brave woman standing next to her, who’d been through so much, but hadn’t been afraid to change when she’d understood what she was missing.

In silence they turned up a side alley, the cobbles that graced the more important streets replaced by shiny, patched concrete. Here the houses were all single storey, some neat cubes of white and others no more than rough walls with random remnants of plaster clinging to them and padlocked wooden doors. One, with an official-looking notice taped to the peeling blue paint, had trees so tall inside they were visible from the street.

They were nearing the edge of the village now. Jo could see the last of the houses and the vineyards beyond. She stopped in front of a property that was no more than a ruin. Clearly, here, no one had come back. Perhaps they had all died– lives wasted in an instant as the earth shook beneath them. She gazed at the collapsed wall, at the gate hanging off its hinges, at the tumbledown shack with weeds growing from cracks in the plaster, and at the concrete staircase leading to nowhere but the sky. Would her life go to waste as well, because of just one moment? Could she allow that to happen?

Karmela stood silently beside her. Silent and strong. Karmela, who had been through so much. Jo clenched her hands into fists.

Now.

Now.

Now.

“What would you think,” she said slowly, “if I told you I didn’t write Only. Ever. You. ?”

Karmela turned to her. There was no sharp intake of breath, no horror in her eyes, only something that might have been compassion.

“I would think you had been really brave to tell me.”

“It would be a brave thing to do, wouldn’t it?”

“It would. Especially as I do not think you have ever told anyone. My guess is that the reason Rees knows is because he was involved in whatever happened too.”

Jo nodded. “Yes. And it would be easy to say that it was his idea, but the reality is I could have stopped it so many times. But I didn’t.”

“Do you want to tell me who did write it?”

Jo nodded. “Remember I said I had a friend who died? It was her book.”

“And you wanted her memory to live on?”

“No… no… it wasn’t like that at all. Karmela, it was an awful thing to do… awful.”

Jo closed her eyes, but it didn’t stop the tears or the flood of indescribable emotions washing through her: grief, shame, anguish, fear. Fear of what would happen now that someone else knew. She covered her face with her hands and sobbed, Karmela’s comforting arm around her shoulder.

What now? What the fuck now?