The Santorini Writing Retreat

Wednesday 20th September

S tanding at the patio doors, Karmela sipped her espresso, watching the orange-red of the sunrise fade to golden streaks across the pearl-grey sky. She was missing her morning walks with Iain and Sybil, but after Saturday’s awkwardness she had made the excuse that she was getting behind with her book and needed all the time she could muster. At least that much was true, even if the real reason was the R word looming large in her thoughts.

She had been thinking a great deal about the first item on Jo’s list of manuscript rejection hacks: prepare yourself mentally. But how? In terms of the publishing process, she understood how that might work. She had read a blog written by an agent, revealing the number of submissions she received and how few were accepted, so statistically speaking, obviously rejections would happen.

Karmela sipped her coffee again, cradling the small cup in her hands. Like anything, the more you were rejected the easier it became. Practice makes perfect. And you could set your expectations accordingly. But did that mean you had to go into every new relationship expecting it to fail, just so it was easier when it happened? With that mindset, why would you even bother? To her, that sounded a whole lot like the old Karmela, the one who expected nothing from the world, and it was a place to which she would not return.

Her recent life experience did not support that either. Since Dubrovnik, people had not rejected her; in fact the exact opposite was true, which was still a thing of wonder. Here at the retreat, she got on with everyone perfectly well and in Jo, Karmela felt she had made a new friend. Zina, too, although on the last couple of evenings…

So was it a numbers game? You could have many friends, but only one significant other. But was that thought even helpful? Oh, she had to… had to… find a way of managing this awful feeling, of stopping it from dragging her down and overwhelming her. Because at times it did, and then she felt as though she was drowning, with no possible foothold to reach for the shore.

Should she just give up on the idea of dating and save herself the trouble? Lots of people remained happily single and she was sure she could be one of them. Her life was pretty busy as it was, with her full-on job, her frequent trips to Dubrovnik and Sarajevo and her increasingly hectic social life.

But was being busy actually living life to the full, as she had promised herself she would? Her mother was always busy, and Karmela had a strong suspicion she used it as a shield against emotional involvement. So busyness in itself was not the answer. The range of experiences was important, and damn it, she wanted to feel love. Real, all-encompassing love. Passionate love. She was forty-three. She had to at least try. But the cautious Karmela was still sufficiently close to the surface to want to minimise the potential for hurt. Obsess over it, even. Was that cheating in some way? Or just common sense?

Oh, she was getting nowhere– nowhere– and wasting so much time. She turned to the second point on Jo’s list; build a support group around you– they will all have been there. Well, not where she had been, exactly. Did that matter? Her experiences of war had been very different to her neighbour’s in Dubrovnik, but they had bonded over them in the end, and more than anyone he had helped her to crawl out from her protective shell when it broke.

Was there support here in Santorini? There was Jo, of course. It sounded as though her marriage had been one long catalogue of rejection though she must have loved Rees at some point so that must have hurt. Karmela was sure she would have coping strategies she could share, but right now she had far too much shit of her own to deal with.

Then of course there was Zina who was younger than her but who had been married for a number of years. That had to bring its challenges, did it not? Experiences from which she could perhaps benefit? But Karmela had the strangest feeling that all was not well in Zina’s world either. Last night especially, she had been so withdrawn– polite and helpful when serving dinner, of course, but rushing off straight afterwards with barely a word.

Oh, she knew support amongst friends worked both ways, but at times it was just not possible. Which was most likely why Jo’s advice had been a group. Like the book club in Dubrovnik. There had been four of them in the inner circle, as they had jokingly called it, and that had been perfect. Back in Sarajevo, she and Nejla and Emina had made three. So here? Was there anyone else? Lovely as they all were, Karmela just did not feel close enough to any of them to burden them with her troubles.

Resolutely, she turned to the next piece of advice on Jo’s list: to watch for a pattern in reasons for rejection. Although Karmela’s first instinct had been to want to know why Iain had pushed her away, she had pretty soon decided it would be pointless. But what if she had been wrong? What if knowing would actually help her come to terms with it?

She heard Susan and Ellen outside in the courtyard. How could it be breakfast time already? She rushed to the bathroom, picked up her toothpaste and squeezed a neat ball onto the brush. As she leant over the basin, a tear dripped from her nose. It was all very well being logical, but even her body knew she was hurting– pointlessly, she was sure, because the Iain boat had already well and truly sailed. She had to find it in herself to look forwards, not back. They were two thirds of the way through the retreat already, so she needed to refocus. One more push and the end of her first draft would be in sight.

* * *

Jo looked at the multi-coloured Post-it notes strewn around her, evidence of a whole morning’s work. Each and every one of them contained a scribbled thought or idea about coming clean over who really wrote Only. Ever. You. , but she was no closer to working out how to do it. Every direction she turned she found yet another obstacle.

One thing was certain: she was going to divorce Rees. But to be completely free of him, this had to happen first. She clenched her hands into fists then released them. The backlash from readers could be vicious. Let’s face it, would be vicious. They’d feel cheated, and rightly so. It would be the end of her writing career, but strangely she didn’t mind. In fact, the thought was something of a relief. If they sold the house on Wimbledon Common she’d have more than enough to live on while she worked out what to do with the rest of her life.

Already an idea was beginning to form, but if there was too much collateral damage from telling the truth it could be a non-starter. She was coming to realise that what she loved most of all was mentoring new writers. But who would employ her once they knew she wasn’t a best-selling novelist? And that she was a total fraudster as well?

FFS, Jo. You’re getting nowhere fast.

She typed a quick message to Karmela then walked into her lounge, gazing out of the window over the drying yard and the pistachio fields that rose up the slope. Below her, Lambros was turning the wheel of a horizontal cylindrical drum filled with freshly harvested pistachios, while water trickled from a pipe along the top. Every so often a rattle of de-husked nuts tumbled into the metal tray below, presumably destined to join their fellows on the drying floor.

Hearing footsteps on the stairs, Jo turned away and opened the door.

“I’m sorry if I disturbed your work,” she said.

Karmela smiled. “Friends over word count. Every time.”

“I’m honestly not sure what I’d have done without you. The more I think about it, the more I realise just how much I owe you. And now I’m asking for even more help.”

Karmela beamed. “What can I do?”

“Since I spoke to Mum yesterday, I’ve been trying to work out what to do now. I know what I want to achieve but have no idea how to get there. Well, I can’t say I have no ideas”—she gestured towards the notes scattered across her desk and on the bed in the next room—“I just don’t have any that will actually work.”

Karmela sat down on the sofa. “Starting with the end result is good. Tell me what you want.”

“To leave Rees in such a way that he has no hold over me.”

“That is reasonable enough. So to do it, you need to go public about not writing Only. Ever. You. ”

“You make it sound so simple, but it’s really not.”

“Legally speaking? With the copyright and whatnot?”

“No. Pam left everything to Mum and she’s happy to make the rights over to me anyway. Once I’ve divorced, of course.”

“So tell me exactly what the problems are.” She leant forwards, clasping her hands together.

“First and most important is trying to protect Pam’s memory, and of course her lover, because she’s most likely still alive. I know you’ll say that everyone will take the book as a work of fiction, but Rees knows the truth and I’m sure he’d have no compunction in selling his story. Both for the money, and to get his own back.”

“I think you are probably right. But if you are worried journalists and the like could uncover Eloise’s identity, could we perhaps try to do it first and warn her? How many people in your parliament?”

Jo frowned. “Six, seven hundred?”

“And you know when Pam and her Eloise met?”

“Yes. The year, at least.”

“So there will be some politicians from the time without wives, and some whose wives have died since. Others who will not fit the circumstances. We could always contact the rest and…”

“And what?”

Karmela frowned. “We would have to word it carefully, which will need more thought, even once we have found them all. We certainly need time to research it. What is your next biggest concern?”

“It’s the whole thing about how people will react, readers in particular. They’re going to feel so cheated. Especially the lesbian community because the book’s become pretty iconic. I mean, I’d be pissed off if it turned out the author who’d made a name for herself out of one of my favourite books hadn’t written it after all.”

“To me, it would not matter so much. To be honest, I struggle to remember the titles of some of the books I have read, much less who wrote them. But perhaps I am in the minority. We could ask the rest of the group. And Susan’s queer and a total book geek, so she?—”

“No!” Jo stood up, then feeling a little foolish, sat down again. “How would I get through the next ten days with them knowing? And what about the damage to the retreat if they demanded their money back? Besides, it would only take one of them to go to the newspapers.”

“None of them would. Not Susan; she is too loyal. And Iain… well, it would not occur to him. Diana is far too nice, and Sophie…”

“What about Sophie? I’ve always had the impression she doesn’t particularly like me.”

“I have wondered about that myself once or twice, but have come to the conclusion that she is either a bit moody or up and down with the stress of her husband having dementia. It must be awful, especially when— Jo! Wait a minute. I am sure Diana said he used to be an MP. Sophie must know people. She might even be able to help us.”

“I can’t, Karmela. I can’t…” She put her hand over her mouth, feeling slightly sick. Oh god, if she couldn’t tell four more people, how would she ever be able to tell the world? But it was because she cared about what these particular people thought of her, because she valued their good opinion, that it felt so very tough. It wasn’t like telling strangers and she just couldn’t do it.

“But I could.” Karmela thought for a moment. “In a sort of oblique way. Like when you first told me, you said ‘What would you think if…’, or something like that. I could raise the idea metaphorically. Maybe talk about celebrity books with hidden ghostwriters, and move on from there. Then at least we would have some sort of idea what their reactions might be. Perhaps I could do it over drinks before dinner. You do not even have to be there, if you prefer.”

Jo bit her lip. The downside of Karmela’s proposal was pretty limited, and at least she’d have some idea of what she’d be dealing with in a wider context. It might just rule some of her ideas out. And if Karmela was right, and the fallout wasn’t as bad as she feared, it might rule others in. If. A very big if . But at least it would move her one step closer to her goal. She looked again at the multi-coloured papers spread across her room like so many flightless butterflies. She had no better idea. Her only option was to trust Karmela, and she absolutely did.

* * *

Zina picked up another glass from the washer and began to polish it.

Ekaterini nudged her gently. “You look done-in. I’ll finish those if you want to put your feet up for a couple of hours before prepping for dinner.”

She shook her head, but the idea was more than tempting. “You have your own work to do.”

Ekaterini took the tea towel from her hand. “I’m worried about you, Zina. Bags under your eyes, no spark. You’re not”—she made a rounded gesture across her stomach—“ énkyos are you?”

Zina’s eyebrows shot almost to her hairline. “Good god, no.” That would be the last thing she needed. “There’s just so much to think about at the moment.”

“Well, thinking is something you can do sitting in the shade with a cool drink. Off you go, and I don’t want to see you again until five o’clock.”

“Thank you.” Zina turned away quickly so Ekaterini couldn’t see the tears in her eyes.

Leaving the kitchen, she paused. Ekaterini was right; her bed was calling, but Mama would be at home and would doubtless want to chat. She would ask her how things were with Lambros, which was something she really couldn’t face right now. But perhaps… perhaps… instead she should try again to break the impasse. Return to the pistachio field. Right now, before the dregs of her resolve drained away.

His truck was parked almost at the top of the orchard, and she quickened her pace, eager to get this over with. A distant figure emerged, carrying a box of nuts. Skatá! It was Iain. What was he doing out here again? Shouldn’t he be in his room writing, like the others? Damn the man. How could she speak to Lambros when he was here? She couldn’t let him witness her rejection a second time.

A sob escaped her throat, and she stepped further into the shadows while she tried to control it. The trees were barely tall enough to disguise her presence, so she dropped to her haunches, drawing slow circles in the grey dust with her fingers. This was just too awful for words, and she didn’t know how to start mending it. The husband she loved with all her heart was becoming a stranger before her very eyes.

Viciously she wiped away a tear, leaving a grainy smear of dirt on her cheek. She was in a proper mess, inside and out. She couldn’t risk anyone seeing her like this, but neither could she stay skulking beneath the pistachios. It would only take Jo to look out of her window and she’d be rumbled. With a heavy heart she turned and threaded her way through the orchard towards the farmhouse.

The moment Zina opened the kitchen door, Mama turned off the radio and stormed across the room.

“Zina, how could you?”

Zina stepped back. She’d never seen Mama this mad. Not even close. What the frigging hell?

“What are you talking about?” she asked in a shaky voice.

“You don’t know? You don’t know! Did you not know it was wrong, or did you think you would not get found out? I expected better of you, my only daughter.”

“Found out?” Her words faded to a pathetic echo as she thought of Georgiou. They’d done nothing wrong, but what else could it be? “You think… me and Georgiou…”

“I don’t think. I know .” Mama’s face was inches from hers. “Calandra’s daughter saw you at Balos yesterday, cavorting in the sea. I don’t think I’ve ever been more ashamed.”

“ Cavorting? ” The word came out somewhere between a squeak and a scream. “If you must know, we were arguing. Because he wanted me to do something I never would. He wanted me to cheat on Lambros.”

“Well that wasn’t what it looked like.”

Zina folded her arms. “That’s what it was.”

Mama stepped back a fraction. “What were you doing with that man anyway? Chasing after him all the way to Balos beach? I thought it was odd when you said you were going there.”

“I wasn’t chasing him. I was… I thought… I just thought… it would be nice to have some company.” Oh, that sounded so weak, and Mama was still looking daggers at her. “Some attention, if you must know, with Lambros being?—”

“Zina, Zina, don’t you ever change?” Her mother wagged her finger. “Why is everything always about you? God, I blame myself, I really do. But with only one child, of course your father and I doted on you. We made you the centre of our world. Made you expect it.”

“Expect it? I had to fight to make you notice me, especially when Babá was in the room. And you’re just the same with Lambros. You’re all over him and you ignore me. No wonder I feel left out. It’s just not fair.”

Her mother’s lips set in a hard line. “Will you stop and listen to yourself? You sound like a six-year-old. I was so proud when you came back here, when you sacrificed so much for your husband. I thought my little girl had finally grown up, but now I can see I was wrong. I’ll say it again: not everything is about you.”

Zina’s head was spinning under the weight of her mother’s words. To be attacked like this, by the one person she thought she could rely on to be kind to her. Her very foundations were crumbling.

“I don’t have to listen to this—” But her angry words finished in a choked sob.

Mama put her hand on her shoulder. “You do if you want to have any chance of saving your marriage. I’ve stood back until now. I’ve tried so hard not to interfere when it’s breaking my heart, seeing the two of you hurting so much…”

“Lambros isn’t hurting.”

“Of course he is, you stupid child. Perhaps I should just bang your heads together and be done with it.” Sighing, Mama guided her to the table. “Come on, sit down. Let’s talk about this properly.”

Zina perched on the edge of the chair, gripping the wooden seat between her fingers. “OK,” she said slowly. She supposed she had nothing left to lose, and who knew? Mama might even be able to help.

“All right,” said Mama. “Let’s start at the beginning. You said you’d never cheat on Lambros and despite what I was told I believe you. But do you still love him?”

Zina nodded. “Of course I do. I’m… I’m so lonely without him, but he’s built up this wall and I don’t know how to get past it.”

“You’ve built up a wall too, Zina, and the longer this goes on, the higher those walls will get. One of you needs to make the first move.”

“I did. On Sunday. I went up to the orchard to see if he wanted a cold drink and he was really nasty to me. In front of Iain, as well.”

Mama frowned. “That doesn’t sound like Lambros.”

“I know, I know. I was so frigging hurt. And then I got angry. Then when I went to see Resi on the beach, and Georgiou was there… I promise you, Mama, nothing happened. I didn’t encourage him. Not deliberately, but he was paying me so much attention.”

“There you go again, Zina. Attention. Let’s focus on Lambros for a moment, shall we? The way he’s acting seems out of character to me, but almost having a breakdown would change anyone, wouldn’t it?”

“He told me he was back to himself now we’re here.”

“But think, Zina, is he? Has he changed in other ways too?”

Maybe. Subtly. Yes, she was sure he had, but she couldn’t really pinpoint how. Oh god, why not? If her marriage was that important… But they’d both been so wrapped up in their work, and if she was honest she knew things hadn’t felt right between them for a while. Which had made those flashes of closeness all the more precious when they’d happened.

But now she could see that they hadn’t solved anything. All they’d done was brush this whole thing under the carpet. She put her head in her hands. “It’s going to be a long road back, Mama. What’s more, he’s going to have to want it as much as I do, and I’m not sure he does.”

Her mother nodded. “It will most likely be the most difficult thing you’ve ever done. I think that at the root of it all is you’ve both had a massive shift in your expectations from life; you both thought you’d be high-flyers in Athens with the world at your feet. But it didn’t work out that way for Lambros, which meant you had to give up your dreams too. But you chose to do it for him, Zina. Remember that.”

“How could I have not?” Tears filled her eyes again, and Mama wrapped a comforting arm around her shoulder.

“Cry it out, agápi mou . Then you can go and freshen up while I phone Calandra and tell her to make sure her daughter stops spreading lies about mine.”

“Thanks, Mama,” she sniffed. What good would more tears do? She wasn’t entirely sure she accepted, or even understood, everything her mother had said. Those painful, painful words. She stood, wiping her eyes. “I think I’ll just sit on the terrace for a while and think things through.”

Her mother looked up at her. “That sounds like a very good idea to me.”

* * *

Jo’s hand shook as she stood at the carved oak sideboard that served as the honesty bar and poured herself a generous measure of wine. No way could she let Karmela do this alone, but she couldn’t do it without a glass in her hand either. While she was wary of letting her wine habit get the better of her again, this was a whole new level– a one-off. She needed that drink to stop her running away.

She almost hadn’t made it down here in the first place. Instead she’d clung to the edge of the basin, fighting for air, terrified the panic could descend again at any moment. As she’d breathed slowly in and out she had reminded herself how much she could rely on Karmela because she would make sure nothing went wrong. Yet it would take only one tiny misunderstanding… No. She mustn’t think like that. The discussion would be purely hypothetical. This wouldn’t come back to haunt her… until later. When her story came out. Then this little group of people who were becoming dear to her would realise they’d been used and lied to as well.

So much for the trust they were all so proud of, the trust that made sharing their work and their thoughts not terrifying, but a joy. It made the feedback the group gave each other sincere and valuable. How could she expect them to trust each other, when she wasn’t prepared to do the same?

She returned the wine bottle to the fridge, then joined the others. They were clustered around two small tables pushed together on the far side of the courtyard, a corner which was both out of the stiff evening breeze and also gave them a view of the glorious pinks, purples and oranges that washed the sky as the sun settled towards the horizon. In front of them were bowls of small black olives and pistachios, which Iain was explaining had been grown by one of Lambros’s friends. Susan scooped up a couple of olives and declared them absolutely delicious.

“If I had my way, we’d be eating goat tonight,” said Ellen. “Except the ones here are too darned clever to end up in the roasting dish.”

“Why, what happened?” Karmela asked.

“I was working at the edge of the olive grove on my watercolours. There’s some sea rocket growing in an old wall there, and it’s so delicate it took me a while to capture it, and a number of attempts. I was completely absorbed, then I heard a sort of coughing sound behind me. I jumped out of my skin, and do you know what it was? A goat was eating one of my discarded pictures.”

“It must have been pretty realistic to tempt a goat,” said Iain, as everyone laughed.

There was a brief silence as he leant down to pat Sybil, who was lying at his feet. Jo held her breath for what felt like forever, then Karmela spoke.

“I was reading a blog online today and it posed an interesting question: how would you feel if it turned out that a book you loved had actually been written by someone other than the author? Some people got quite passionate in the comments, but personally, most of the time I find it hard to remember who wrote the books I read.”

“I know what you mean,” said Diana, “and the older I get, the worse it is. But going back to the blog, I guess it would depend on the circumstances. If they’d deliberately set out to steal someone else’s work, like in Yellowface , I think I’d be pretty damn cross.”

“But even then, it was not clear cut,” said Karmela. “The book was greatly changed by the time it was published so in many ways it had become a joint venture. And the waters were muddied by the whole cultural appropriation debate.”

“That book certainly split opinion at the library,” said Susan. “On all sorts of levels. But theft aside, I’m never sure about the cultural appropriation thing, because while I do understand the damage misrepresentation can cause, I firmly believe authors’ creativity shouldn’t be limited by their backgrounds. Why have imaginations otherwise? Why do research? Taken to extremes it would mean we wouldn’t have any wonderful historical fiction like Karmela’s writing, because it would be outside her lived experience.” She picked up another olive and popped it into her mouth.

“And no fantasy novels,” added Iain. “Can’t say I’ve come across many hobbits or elves in my everyday life, and I don’t suppose Tolkien did either.”

“Neither has Rebecca Yarros ever ridden a dragon,” said Susan. “At least, not as far as I’m aware.”

Oh no, the conversation was drifting from where Jo needed it to go. And as she did need it to go there, she had to push it back on course.

“That’s an interesting debate in itself, but we’re moving away from Karmela’s initial question.”

Iain nodded. “On that I agree with Diana. If we’re having a discussion about the morals of passing off someone else’s book as your own it would depend on the circumstances, but the reality is that it’s hardly something I’d lose sleep over, although I’d probably like to see reparations made to the person whose work it was.”

Diana nodded. “That’s another aspect, isn’t it? More often than not, it’s not someone’s mistake, it’s how they put it right. When Sophie and I went for our spa day they served us a truly disgusting lunch– stale bread and salad all dried up– but when we pointed it out they not only brought us fresh plates, but took a good amount off our bill.”

“I guess another thing,” said Susan, “would be how much I loved the book. If it was a cherished favourite, like Only. Ever. You. I’d be gutted.”

A lump formed at the top of Jo’s chest. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak.

What now? What the fuck now?

This was a moment like no other she’d ever experienced, a clear fork in the road: ignore it, or do the right thing? She glanced at Karmela, who was opening her mouth to speak, but Jo cut across her.

“Then let’s suppose, Susan, it was Only. Ever. You. ”

Susan’s eyes met hers. Only the chatter of the sparrows, roosting in the tree that shaded Karmela’s terrace, filled the courtyard, the jasmine-scented air around them cloying and still.

Susan swallowed hard. “Was it?”

“Yes. I… I had a friend who died. It was her book.” Jo’s eyes dropped to the table. She was frozen in the moment; unable to feel, barely able to breathe, let alone speak. Free falling, free falling again. Except this time it was going on forever. But Karmela released her parachute.

“Jo shared the whole story with me on Monday and it is complicated, as these things often are. Please do not judge her until you have heard everything.” She stood and walked around the table, wrapping her arm over Jo’s shoulders. “You need a moment, I guess.”

She did, but the others deserved an explanation. She couldn’t leave them hanging like this. Her voice breaking, she looked up at Karmela. “Please, tell them.”

“How much?”

“Everything.”

“OK.”

Karmela’s words washed over her. Her story. Her life. Pam’s sudden death. Her finding the manuscript on Pam’s computer and wanting to read it, despite– and perhaps because– she knew how personal it had been to Pam. Her intention to destroy it afterwards, but…

“I knew it!” Sophie burst out. “I knew it from the first moment we read it for book club. You stole it from her! You stole the story from Pam!”

Jo’s mouth hung open. God, did that really happen to people? She touched her jaw in something close to wonder. Her thoughts cascaded, flying too fast for her to grasp, failing to crystallise into anything coherent.

Sophie.

Pam.

Sophie. The MP’s wife.

“You don’t deny it?” Sophie slammed the table with her open palm, setting the glasses jumping.

Jo shook her head, unable to take her eyes off Sophie. So this was where the sniping came from. This was the real reason she was here. This was why Sophie’s story and Diana’s about their motives for coming to the retreat didn’t quite match. “You’re… you’re Eloise.”

Sophie stood, gripping the edge of the table with both hands. “As if what you’ve done already isn’t bad enough. Nobody knew that. Nobody! Have you any, any idea at all what it’s like to read your own story in a book like I had to? I was sick, physically sick.”

“I’m sorry, I?—”

“Sorry isn’t enough and it never can be. You took something precious; something that should have been mine and Pam’s alone and you stole it. Made an absolute fortune from it. You… you… you desecrated her memory and I hope you rot in hell!”

Sophie shoved the table so hard that Jo was aware of Iain grabbing it to keep it stable as Sophie stormed away. Her room door slammed, the sound ricocheting around the courtyard like a gunshot.

Karmela was still gripping Jo’s shoulders, and for half a moment Jo wondered if it was in case she, too, decided to take flight.

Susan’s voice came from a long way off. “You mean, that wonderful story is true?”

Hauling herself together, Jo managed to nod. “Much of it, yes. I honestly had no intention of publishing it, but I told my now husband about it and he… but it really is my fault. I could have stopped it at any time and I didn’t.” Jo hung her head, unable even to pick up her glass, despite her throat being dry as a desert, leaving it to Karmela to continue the story.

When she finished speaking, Iain filled the silence. “I had the dubious pleasure of meeting Jo’s husband a couple of weeks ago and I can vouch that the man’s a controlling bully. A young woman mired in grief would have had no chance against him.”

“But I still should have…” Jo petered out. She’d said it a thousand times. It didn’t make a jot of difference. She should have, but she hadn’t, and that was the end of it.

“Are you all right?” Susan asked and Jo nodded. She wasn’t. She couldn’t be. But neither could she crumble completely. For the sake of the group, for Zina and her retreat, she had to hold it together.

“Despite all the upset,” Susan continued, “I’m glad you did what you did. The happiness the story has given so many people… The courage to be themselves and not have to hide like Anna and Eloise did… The way it put being lesbian centre stage… Whatever the rights and wrongs, Only. Ever. You. deserved to see the light of day.”

“But it was wrong. I am just so sorry everyone.”

Ellen gripped Jo’s hands. “Will you stop saying that? You’ve been brave and dignified this evening. For my money you have nothing to apologise for. You’re a victim here too, of your husband’s bullying and greed. Domestic abuse stinks, and you’ve earnt our support.”

The others nodded, even Diana, who was looking incredibly pale, raking the pistachio shells within her reach with her fingers and making a small mound of them.

“So what happens now?” Iain asked.

“We carry on with the retreat,” Karmela replied. “I cannot say ‘as if this never happened’, because that is impossible, but I hope we will all come out of it stronger and closer.”

“I meant in terms of Only. Ever. You. ”

“I wanted to make the truth public,” said Jo, “the whole truth. But not if it’s going to cause Sophie more hurt. Things will just have to stay as they are, so I would very much value your discretion.”

“But, Jo?—”

“No, Karmela, we went through this when we were wondering if we could track Eloise down. I won’t ruin someone else’s life just to make mine better.”

Zina appeared from the kitchen. “Come on everyone,” she called. “Tonight’s starter is kefalotyri saganáki , and it’s not half as nice cold because the cheese goes greasy.”

“I’m not sure I can eat,” said Jo in a voice that sounded unlike her own.

Diana stood, and reached over to pat her arm. “Me neither, but we should.”

“A big glass of wine will help too,” added Iain. “And I can tell you all about the time I made the grave mistake of taking Sybil on a Royal Navy yacht. You’ll never believe what she did. Ellen’s goat has nothing on her.”

Jo nodded. Speaking would only unleash a well of tears, but as the little group crossed the courtyard, despite everything, she knew she was among friends, and that would give her the courage to get through the evening. Tomorrow would no doubt be bloody, but for once she would have to let tomorrow take care of itself.