Monday 18th September
S leep was not Karmela’s friend tonight.
Sighing, she plumped her already plump pillows for what she was sure was the twentieth time. But how had she even expected a good night, given the magnitude of Jo’s confession? The secret was out, albeit in a small way, and although that had the power to change Jo’s life for the better, Karmela knew all too well how disturbing the start of that journey felt.
After their brief conversation outside the ruined house, Jo had given no further explanation, but Karmela had a shrewd idea that Rees was behind the deception and was using it to bind Jo into a toxic relationship. The more she had thought about it yesterday evening, the angrier she had become, but when she had tried to raise the subject again as she and Jo ate dinner in Megalochori, Jo had shaken her head and told her she was too wrung-out to talk about it anymore. Karmela had nodded and told her that her door was always open. And that her mouth was firmly closed.
Was she still angry now? No. Just troubled in a way she could not put her finger on. And very, very tired. Beyond tired. She pummelled her pillows again, rolled onto on her back, and started to count imaginary goats.
In her dream, Karmela knew she was in the flat in Berlin because of the smell of cigarettes and stale alcohol. And because of the heat burning through the kitchen windows, only partly shielded by the broken blind with its orange and brown zigzag design. But then, it could not be the flat because there was no space in the room for her; her parents, sitting on either side of the Formica-covered table, were filling it completely. So she went onto the landing then down the stairs, knocking on every door she passed, but not one of them opened. Running faster and faster. Her heart thudding in her chest. All the while knowing that no one would let her in.
She lay in the soft darkness of her room, feeling slightly disoriented, with the tang of smoke lodged at the top of her nose. But it could not be, not in real life. Not when she breathed in normally. It was just a remnant of the dream and, reassured that the retreat was not burning down, she turned over to go back to sleep.
Except that she could not, because the dream stayed with her, an intense sorrow she half recognised, pressing into her forehead. A feeling she would forever associate with Berlin. A feeling she had never wanted to feel again and against which she had guarded herself so carefully for most of her life. But that was the trouble. Let down those walls, and not only the joy came in, but the pain did as well. And although her head knew it was a price worth paying, at three in the morning it was hard for her battered heart to be completely convinced.
She sat up and hugged her knees. She was hurting. She could not set the feeling aside for one more moment; the dam had burst. She was hurting, hurting so very much, and coping with it as an adult was a new experience. In the past she had been so successful at shielding herself but now she was confronted by this she had no clear idea what to do. When she had first let her memories flow, the pain had been awful, of course it had, but it had been a good pain, a cathartic one. A pain from which, ultimately, she had learnt and which had made her life so much better.
This hurt was entirely different. It was bitter and dark, and backwards looking, not forwards, but could she learn from it too? She could not return to a life of avoiding pain; she had promised herself that she would be open to experiencing everything– both good and bad. She had vowed that she would live life to the full and grab every opportunity it gave her with both hands. Surely what she needed to do was learn how to handle the bad stuff better?
Her analytic brain began kicking in and she decided to break the problem down. If hurt was the effect, what was the cause? Iain’s rejection, of course. So rejection was the real enemy. It was hard enough to put yourself out there, let alone get knocked back once you had.
Was that why she had dreamt about Berlin? The school where no one had wanted to know her. Coming home to that dingy apartment with her father mired in drink, and her mother never there. Karmela’s only way of coping had been to shut herself off from her emotions, and everyone else as well. But shutting herself off was not an option now, she had come too far. She needed a different strategy.
Sleep would be impossible until she had written down these thoughts that were bubbling up, one after another in an impossible tangle. Slipping out of bed, she picked up her notebook from the desk, then curled her legs under her in her favourite position on the sofa.
There, on the page in front of her, were Jo’s notes on dealing with rejection as a writer:
1) It will happen so you need to prepare yourself mentally.
2) Build a support group of other writers around you to share the pain as well as the joy. They’ll all have been there.
3) Mostly you will not be given a reason for a rejection, but if you are and a pattern emerges, you need to consider what is being said.
4) Remember even the most successful authors, like JoJo Moyes and J. K. Rowling, were rejected many times before their stories found the right homes.
5) Allow yourself to experience the emotion: curse, cry, sigh, eat chocolate– rejection only hurts because you care, and caring is good. Feel it, then move on.
Karmela frowned then read them again, and again, reshaping them away from writing but keeping the meaning. Rejection only hurts because you care, and caring is good. That was true enough, so perhaps the rest of Jo’s wise words would help her as well.
One thing was for sure, it would not hurt to try.
* * *
If Jo didn’t do it now, she never would. And she needed to.
“Karmela, do you have a moment?”
Karmela tucked her notebook under her arm. “Sure.”
Jo waited until the others were on their way downstairs then crossed the landing to her room with Karmela following. By the time she reached the sofa her legs were well and truly shaking, and she more or less buckled onto it, leaving Karmela to shut the door behind them.
Jo glanced at the windows. They were both closed too, the air conditioning unit humming gently to keep the heat of the morning at bay. Karmela sat opposite, her eyes dark above smudged bruises. It looked as though she had lost sleep as well. She deserved to know the truth. But more than that, Jo needed to tell it, because otherwise she would hide in a wine bottle again, and she couldn’t do that. She couldn’t let Zina and the group down. However much this felt like free fall, the reality was that she’d already jumped. Now it was time to see if her parachute would open.
“I want to finish what I started yesterday.” Jo had expected her voice to sound strangled, but instead it was strangely calm, almost as though someone else was speaking.
Karmela nodded. “I would like to hear what happened, and to help if I can.”
“Help?” Jo shook her head. “No. There’s nothing that can be done, but your piece made me think. It’s crippling me, no one else knowing. I haven’t written a single word of my new book. I don’t think I can.”
“Oh, Jo.”
“No. No sympathy, because I don’t deserve it. Pam was a dear friend– my mother’s best friend, actually– but I lodged with her when I left uni and we became close as well. She used to read me the tiniest snippets of her book, so I knew full well that it was never meant to be published. That it was too damned personal.”
“You mean that wonderful love story is true?”
“Yes. The forbidden love, the secrecy that had to surround it, the Whitehall civil servant and the politician’s wife. All those years of Pam knowing she was the other woman, that they would probably never truly be together.” Karmela’s eyes were huge, but Jo ploughed on. “So you see, it was an awful thing to do. I should have destroyed the file the moment I found it on Pam’s computer, but I couldn’t bear to. It was the last piece of her I had and I so wanted to read it.”
Karmela nodded. “I get that.”
“And reading it would have been OK, except I told Rees about it. Things were different between us then. He supported me so much when Pam died. I trusted him… But he showed it to a friend in publishing.”
“So I was right. It was him who?—”
“No! He may have started the process, but I could have stopped it at any time. Could have and should have. I just… I don’t know… He convinced me it was a good idea. Said if we changed the names of the characters, because we couldn’t be sure whether Pam had or not… then the publisher suggested we set it all twenty years earlier so it would be more credible anyway. Credible! When it was the absolute truth all along. But of course they didn’t know that, because they thought I wrote it.”
Jo bit down on her lip, the metallic taste of blood in her mouth. It had seemed like a travesty at the time, but also protection for Pam and her lover, so Jo had worked painstakingly through the manuscript, dug into old newspapers, convinced herself that her careful work made publishing the book all right.
“So you did write some of it,” Karmela said. “I wondered, knowing how Rees is, if any of Eloise’s experiences were yours.”
“No, back then things between us were good. Or at least I thought they were. It was only later… and then… I don’t know. Perhaps what Eloise went through almost normalised Rees’s controlling ways for me.” She shrugged. “It took me so long to wake up to what was really happening, Karmela. To wake up to anything, really. Including doing the right thing and stopping the process in its tracks. Instead, I actively colluded.”
“How long after Pam died were you working on the book?”
“Four, five months.”
“You must have been reeling with grief!”
Jo shook her head. “It’s not an excuse.”
“No, but it is a reason.”
Was it? Was it?
Or was she just so grateful for any crumb of absolution she’d clutch at the tiniest semantic straw?
Jo took a deep breath and straightened her phone on the coffee table. “The biggest problem of all… the biggest problem… is that my mum doesn’t know the truth. She was so excited when Rees told her I had a book deal. She kept saying how proud I’d made her. I just… I couldn’t… tell her.”
“So she did not know Pam was writing?”
“No.” Jo’s throat felt so thick she could barely speak. She took a deep breath, coughed, then carried on. “She’ll feel so betrayed, not only that I lied to everyone, but that the book belonged to her best friend, a woman we both loved. Mum and I have always been so close. She’s my rock. She understands about Rees and me… everything. Well, everything else. I can’t be without that support.” Her voice had thinned to little more than a squeak, like a mouse. She even sounded like a frigging mouse.
Karmela reached across the table and held Jo’s hand. “So the one thing you really should do is tell her.”
“No!”
“Yes. Because if she knows how Rees is, she will see the story as I do. How culpable he is in all this.” She put her head on one side. “Tell me, did he ask you to marry him before or after the film deal?”
“As soon as it was optioned,” Jo whispered. “He thought it would be a good way to celebrate.”
“He knew how much money was at stake, more like.” Karmela’s voice was steely. “He likes money, does he?” Jo nodded. “Then you can forget any threats he makes about telling your secret to the world. Only. Ever. You. is the goose that laid the golden egg. He is not going to kill it.”
It took a few moments for what Karmela was saying to sink in.
“Oh,” said Jo.
She ripped her hand from Karmela’s and buried her face in her palms.
“Oh, god, you’ll think I’m such an idiot. I am such an idiot. That never even occurred to me.”
“No, because I bet he has bullied and belittled you so much that you cannot think straight around him. I had a friend who was in an abusive relationship. It was exactly the same; first she isolated him, then shredded his confidence piece by piece. It took something cataclysmic for him to even half realise. That is what happens. That is how they retain their control over you. So no, you are not an idiot.”
“I feel like… like my eyes are slowly opening.” She shook her head from one side to the other. “I always blamed my shyness for not having any friends, but that’s only part of the story. Now you’ve said it out loud I can see how he exploited my weakness to make sure I had no one to turn to. He insisted I used my writing name in real life too… as if the real me had actually ceased to exist.”
“She does exist, though,” said Karmela. “She is here in front of me and she is a wonderful, brave person who has the opportunity to stop existing and to start living.”
“Thank you.” Jo rested her hand on Karmela’s. “But all that changes absolutely nothing. Even if Rees would never tell the world, all he has to do is tell Mum.”
“Then you know how to take that power from him.”
“It’s no good?—”
“I know this is new, and strange, and you will need thinking time. There is no rush to act. But just one thing, one thing, I would ask you to do. Try to imagine this from your mother’s point of view. Yes, she will be shocked. And most likely hurt. But I would bet a great deal of money she would also walk to hell and back to release that horrible man’s hold over her precious daughter.”
Jo nodded, but her chest was tight, the panic only just below the surface. She needed to breathe, breathe, breathe. Then run her wrists under cold water and breathe again. And she couldn’t do that with Karmela here. Karmela, who was so assured. Karmela who knew the answer to everything– or at least thought she did. Even if this time she was wrong.
“Thank you, Karmela. I’ve kept you too long from your work.”
Karmela stood. “Friends are more important than word count.” She placed her hand on Jo’s shoulder. “See you at lunch.”
“Yes.”
The door closed behind her and Jo sat rigid, gazing at the polished grain of the wood. Then slowly, very slowly, she took two enormous breaths before spinning her phone on the table, watching it illuminate. Karmela was wrong. She had to be. But it wouldn’t hurt to do what she’d suggested and imagine this from her mother’s point of view. It wouldn’t hurt to imagine, even, what it might feel like telling her. Jo waited for the breathlessness to choke her again, but it didn’t happen. Something else had taken its place. Something undefinable. But it was there.
She had two hours until lunch. Two hours to get her shit together after one of the most intense conversations of her life.
She couldn’t do it.
But maybe she could. If she really, really tried. While she was every bit as wrung-out as an old rag, the something new was taking shape and growing. And it was tough and shiny, like steel.
Slowly she walked to her desk and turned on her laptop. Two hours to make a start. If not on her book, on something even more important. A letter to her mother, telling her the truth. She’d probably never have the courage to send it, but once it was written…
Well, you never knew.
* * *
Zina read the message from George, as he now called himself, for a second time. It had come, like any other business enquiry, through her Instagram account. And it was a business enquiry, but she’d been toying with the idea of inviting him to see The Retreat House anyway and this would make it a hell of a lot easier to explain to Mama what her ex-boyfriend was doing here.
Hi Zina. Good to see you again yesterday. I’ve spoken to our European HR director in Frankfurt and she could be interested in sending the exec team to your retreat. She’s asked me to take a look, so how are you fixed this morning?
This morning was a definite no; it wouldn’t do for Georgiou to see her in the old shorts and T-shirt she wore for cleaning. Then there was lunch service… but this afternoon? That could work.
She looked again at his profile. George, not Georgiou. Which should it be? Would calling him George be pandering to his ego? Or would it simply mark that they had a different relationship now? A mature one. It somehow separated the attentive and attractive man from the boy who’d left her behind without a word or a backward glance all those years ago. Not that she had any intention of rekindling more than friendship. Obviously.
Let’s say 3pm.
Even if Ellen and Susan lingered on the terrace over coffee as they often did, a business meeting was a valid excuse to leave them to it. But she didn’t want to be all hot and sweaty when he arrived; that would be disrespectful and make it look as though she didn’t care. About winning his business. So before pressing send she changed the three to a four.
Having explained to Mama that George now worked for a multinational financial services company that might use the retreat, Zina opened her wardrobe doors wide, looking for inspiration. Her work clothes from Athens were mostly packed away in boxes, and anyway, they’d make it look as though she was trying too hard. But she had a beautiful cream silk sleeveless shirt she could team with a short denim skirt that would achieve exactly the look she wanted.
Zina strolled back to the courtyard with ten minutes to spare. Would George come? He hadn’t replied to her message, but he didn’t need to. This was a business arrangement, nothing more. No doubt it was the prospect of high-level executives filling The Retreat House that was making her so nervous and excited. Nothing to do with the messenger.
But why had he done this for her? People didn’t normally call their colleagues while they were on holiday. Not if they didn’t have to. Certainly not someone in a different office. He really had put himself out, which was kind of sweet.
It was also sweet that he arrived carrying a box of expensive chocolate truffles and took her hand between both of his as he shook it.
Then rather confusingly, he looked into her eyes and said, “So beautiful.” He held her gaze for a fraction too long, then glanced around the courtyard. “What you have created here is so beautiful.”
Oh, so he wanted to flirt, did he? Her stomach clenched, but not in an unpleasant way. What would be the downside of playing along? If Lambros caught a glimpse of George being super-attentive, it might just make him stop sulking and end their stupid row.
“Well yes. I do like things to be easy on the eye.” She half raised an eyebrow before bending to pluck a shrivelled basil leaf from the otherwise perfect pot. Glancing over her shoulder she explained that she wanted the overall vibe to be one of serenity; conducive to creative thinking.
He laughed. “I think even I could be creative here. Are you going to show me around?”
“We can’t go into the bedrooms because they’re occupied, but we can look at the studio and other communal spaces.”
“Shame about the bedrooms.” It would have been crass if he’d winked, but he didn’t. He was classier than that and clearly knew his game. Time to put the brakes on a little. Back to business.
“Especially the group leader’s, but I know Jessica will be working on her next bestseller. The lounge area of her suite is designed to double as a breakout area. My own idea, and it works really well. Of course everything in the rooms is high-end. Shabby chic, but quality all the way.”
“That must have been quite an investment. You’ll get it back, I presume?”
God, she hoped she would. “People pay for luxury and exclusivity. And confidentiality, of course.”
He nodded. “Too often, people aim too low, or fail to differentiate. But of course, you know all these things, having been a marketing director.” Or close enough. Zina didn’t correct him. She was pleased he’d remembered and that he recognised her as a fellow professional, as well as an attractive woman. Both made a welcome change from “domestic drudge”.
Seeing the retreat through George’s eyes was a joy. He exclaimed at the highly polished antique furniture in the indoor bar and dining area and the carefully chosen cushions on the cracked leather sofas; he commented on the shade of blue she’d chosen to paint the shutters around the courtyard and the modern art on the staircase. Things barely anyone else had even noticed. Zina’s heart swelled with pride.
In the studio she explained that the room could be laid out to the group leader’s exact requirements. “Not just tables,” she told him. “Next month it will be yoga mats, and we have easels as well for the artists. The space is designed to be as flexible as possible.”
“It’s businesslike yet relaxing at the same time. And the light from both ends is spectacular.” He strolled towards the window that looked across the orchard and up the hillside. “Oh, such a wonderful contrast to New York,” he sighed.
“You like it there though?”
“It will do for the moment. It’s important to gain international experience so I can push my career to the highest level, but Greece will always be home.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. Just perhaps not Santorini. Far too many of my family around for a start, and it can get a bit claustrophobic. It’s why I’ve taken an apartment above the beach, rather than stay with my folks. They weren’t best pleased, but I have my privacy there, if you get what I mean.” He flashed her a quick grin. “Anyway, enough about me. Tell me, Zina, do you prefer it here or in Athens?”
“Athens for sure.” The words were out before she’d had time to think about them.
“Then if you don’t mind me asking, why did you come back? I know you said your father died, but is that really a reason? And to create something so wonderful here… I assumed you wanted to stay.”
How could she answer? How could she tell him the truth? How could she expose the reason for Lambros’s rapid exit from the corporate world to someone as successful as George? No way on god’s earth could she do that.
“It’s complicated and I won’t bore you with it, but obviously I wanted to support Mama in her grief. She sends her regards, by the way.” She hadn’t but it was the right thing to say. “Now, can I offer you a beer, or some coffee? Then, if you think the retreat may be of interest to your company, I can go through how the pricing works.”
A half-smile played at his lips. “Of course.” He turned back to the window, pointing. “Is that your husband?”
She joined him and together they watched a shirtless Lambros unloading a box of nuts from the back of his truck, his tanned body dripping with sweat, made faintly ridiculous by that stupid sun hat of his.
“Yes,” she told George. “I think I mentioned it’s the pistachio harvest.”
“Personally, I prefer an air-conditioned gym to work my muscles but I guess it takes all sorts.”
His hand was in the small of her back. A gentle touch. A brief one, but a sure one. In the moment before she moved away, Lambros glanced up at the window, his face showing not a flicker of emotion. She couldn’t even be sure he’d noticed her, damn the man.
Zina stepped back into the room, straightening a chair under the table. George’s footsteps followed her, but she couldn’t look at him, although she wasn’t quite sure why. Something inside her was stirring, something above and beyond her harmless flirtation. Something she shouldn’t want, and it added a layer of complexity she didn’t need. She’d only been playing, after all.
“A beer would be nice, if you can spare the time. And Zina, the way you said ‘complicated’ back there… I get what that can mean. I really do. And although I respect the fact your personal business is personal, we were close once, weren’t we?” His hand rested on the top of her arm. “You can trust me, you know.”
The man was definitely kinder than the boy. Sensitive. Caring. The look in his eyes only for her.
“Yes, we were.”
Fleetingly she returned his touch, before setting off smartly down the stairs. There was nothing she could tell him, of course. But it made her feel so much better he’d noticed and wanted to help.