The Santorini Writing Retreat

Friday 22nd September

F rom behind the safety of her privacy glass, Karmela watched Iain and Sybil set off along the track towards the gully. Although the greyhound was trotting happily at the end of her lead, sniffing the air as she went, her master’s head was down. She remembered his use of the word sadly yesterday. At the time she had thought it British politeness, but now it looked as though he had meant it.

Was Iain’s dejected appearance down to her? Most of the group’s energy had returned by the time they had met for the feedback session yesterday afternoon, and not for the first time, Iain had failed to bring anything to read. But neither had he added much to the critiques, which was out of character, and Karmela was sure Jo at least had noticed too.

Their conversation about Sarajevo had shaken her so much that it had most likely shaken him too. Yesterday had proved far too hectic to give it proper headspace, but now, in the quiet calm of the morning, she knew she had to try to unravel it. And she could, safe in the knowledge that Zina was helping Jo in a very practical way, with nothing she could add to the situation at this point.

What had shocked her most was the idea that anything from the war still had the power to hurt. She obviously had not dealt with it as effectively as she had thought. Were the ghosts not sufficiently exorcised by the visits she had paid to Nejla over the last year? But what could she do? Perhaps there always would be a scar. Perhaps erasing it completely was impossible. But recognising it, and learning to live alongside it, that should be achievable, and even the acknowledgement felt like a win.

As should Iain’s reason for rejecting her– on one level at least. He was right; these particular circumstances were unlikely to occur again. It was not because of anything she had done. Or how she was. It was not because of the present, it was because of the past, and the fact he believed she would be unable to forgive him.

But who was he to make judgements like that on her behalf? She pondered the thought as she turned from the window to treat herself to a second espresso. It was a rare indulgence, but one which was sorely needed this morning. But perhaps… perhaps… Iain had put those judgements on her because he could not forgive himself.

She pictured herself as a child, looking up at bombers in the sky. Of course it had never happened like that because they had left Sarajevo far too soon for her to have seen them, but she could imagine it. She could imagine herself huddled with Nejla and Emina, gripped by fear as those terrible machines that brought death and destruction rumbled and whined overhead. But they were just machines. With men inside them. Not even the men who gave the orders. Even further up the chain of command were the men who had decided that bombing her city was a good idea in the first place.

Damn it! Iain had just been a cog in the industrial-scale wheels of war. He could have said no and refused to bomb civilians, but someone else would have taken his place. And then she saw Sarajevo from above, a pilot’s eye view. Perhaps it had all been too remote to think of the people at all. Until, years later, when one of them had been given a name.

God, this was some mess. Perhaps, deep inside, Iain was a mess too. She thought of her Dubrovnik neighbour, a teenager when he had fought in that very same war, and for whom it had never really ended. She understood that perfectly; knew it was part of who he was and that sometimes she could help him, and sometimes not. That was the deal and their friendship was worth it. But to have a closer relationship with someone the same? That would be so much harder to cope with. Two sets of scars; his and hers. And not remotely as cute as the sets of embroidered towels and pillowcases in the wedding gift shops in the big department stores.

Espresso cupped between her hands, Karmela began to pace the room. She did not know, she really did not. But she was still drawn to Iain; she still really liked him. And if she could accept what he had done, then the only barrier to them being together was inside his head.

So what was stopping her telling him so? That most basic of human fears: rejection. Back where she had bloody well started, and no further forward at all.

Sighing, Karmela picked up her notebook and pencil, flicking to Jo’s wise words on dealing with the subject. As she did so, she remembered the dream she’d had the night she had first considered them; the dream in which her parents had filled the room in that tiny flat in Berlin, leaving no space for her. Squeezing her out. The dream… the dream… was not only about rejection, she could see that now, but about memories packed into dusty suitcases, the locks long rusted shut. Those suitcases contained memories which, even over the last year, her mind had refused to access.

Rejection. It had not only been at school, it had been at home as well. She allowed the thought to sink into her. It was not just the dream, it had been real. All too real. Her father hiding in the bottle, her mother in her work. No space for her in either of their lives.

The thought was new, but familiar as well, as though it had been hiding just around the corner of her mind, waiting to pounce. Or to be let in. The real reason, perhaps, that she had been so desperate to get her mother to talk about their shared past. It was not just to make Mama’s life better, but to address her own unacknowledged need as well. To understand why she had mattered so little. Why she had not been loved.

Karmela closed her eyes and sat back on the sofa. Outside, the chatter of the birds in the trees celebrated the new day. She remembered walking to school in Berlin beneath linden trees packed with sparrows, her fear increasing with every step. What would they find to taunt her about today? Her mispronunciation of an unfamiliar German word? The button missing from her cardigan?

The worst thing had been the girl who hid her packed lunch. Every single day. Food was so scarce in their household that Karmela had been afraid to tell her parents. Instead, she had hoped against hope that her mother would have some kind of reaction when she said she did not want to take lunch to school anymore. But she had not even noticed. Most likely, she had already left for work and her father had shuffled to the supermarket for a cheap bottle of vodka.

The pain of it all was crawling back as she remembered. Her only shield had been the slow withdrawal of herself from everyone, including her parents, all the while hoping and praying they would notice. She remembered the cold realisation that they had not, and would not. She remembered the intense loneliness she had buried by working so hard on her lessons that by the time the war was over she was top in almost every subject. That was how she had discovered her love of history books, because of the joy in being transported from the present into a place and time where she could not be hurt.

But her past, her past… it was not neatly dealt with at all. It was… How had she put it to herself while she was watching the ants? A work in progress. Something still festering that was affecting the present and stopping her getting what she now realised she wanted with all her heart.

Sranje! She had to persuade her mother to talk. Her mother was the only one left who shared her memories of the war; her own particular memories. Not mortars, bombs and sudden death, but the grinding bleakness of Berlin for a refugee family– if you could even call what they were a family.

Was that the reason her mother held her at arm’s length, both physically and figuratively? Karmela had never seen it quite so clearly before, why their differences still played out in every interaction. The truth of what had happened in Berlin was impossible for Mama to face, because if she did so she would need to accept the harm she had done to her child.

It felt like too much to ask, so should Karmela accept the impasse? Would talking to Mama make things even worse? Could it be better to make peace with the fact her relationship with her mother would never be as good as the ones Jo and Zina had with theirs? Should she accept the comforting thought that her mother had shown she understood enough of her daughter to send her here and encouraged her to write? To follow a new dream?

Or should she, for both their sakes, try one more time to put the past to bed?

* * *

Five to three. Zina reluctantly closed her notebook and tucked it into her bag, along with her phone. She’d had a productive half hour in the retreat’s dining room after lunch service, checking the current whereabouts of her London contacts and pulling the strands of Jo’s story together. Now the time had come to turn her attention to her marriage, and she felt scarily unprepared. But as well as Karmela’s advice, in the last twenty-four hours she had begun to realise something important from working with Jo.

Karmela may have talked about understanding the other person’s point of view, but Jo had the knack of really feeling it– just look how she was with Sophie. Watching her, it had occurred to Zina what a powerful skill it was. Was it something that she could learn to do? This afternoon would be a very good time to at least try.

Jo’s comment about how na?ve she’d been when she was younger kept coming back to her as well. Zina had always considered herself streetwise, but that didn’t mean she was aware of her flaws. Lying awake last night, she’d realised Mama was right; she did have a chronic need to be the centre of attention. Now she was wondering what else she didn’t know about herself. Who did Lambros think she was. Had he not been talking to her because he’d come to hate her for faults she didn’t even know she had?

God, that was frightening. What had Karmela said? Be open and honest with him and hope he will be the same with you. But his honesty could prove to be deeply uncomfortable. Or worse.

A chill ran through her. Whatever he said, she’d just have to take it. And resist the temptation to bite back.

As she rounded the corner of the retreat she could see that at least he’d turned up. He was leaning on the fence of the goat enclosure, the one they’d been mending together not so very long ago. Even that simple task had caused some niggles between them. How the hell were they ever going to mend their marriage? She stopped at the thought, forcing down the lump in her throat. They would get there. They had to. Whatever it took.

He didn’t turn as she approached, so she joined him at the fence, leaning on it about a metre or so away.

“How did the pistachio harvest go?”

Lambros continued to stare straight ahead. “A good crop. Very little damage. Thank you.” Formal. Cold.

“That’s great news.” Zina forced as much warmth into her voice as she could muster.

“You haven’t asked me to come here to talk about pistachios, have you?”

“No, but I’ve missed hearing about the farm.” She expected a smart comeback, something about her never paying attention before, but it didn’t happen. After a moment she carried on, “I’ve missed you . We need to sort this out.”

“I’m not sure I see the point. You think I’m a failure, that I’m unstable, that I can’t stick at anything. Why would you want to stay married to me?” Clipped as his voice was, he couldn’t hide the bitterness. Lambros was never bitter. Did he really believe she thought those awful things?

“That’s not true!” Well, maybe the not-sticking-at-anything part, but the rest…

Now he did look at her, although his eyes were hidden beneath the brim of his sun hat. “Isn’t it? It’s what you said.”

“I didn’t!” She hadn’t, had she? Had she? Putana! If she had in the heat of their argument, no wonder he was still angry. “When? What did I say?” She was within an iota of putting her hands on her hips, but that wouldn’t help. The last thing they needed was another row, and she muttered an apology.

He kicked at the dirt beneath his feet. “Zina, you told me I was unstable. You actually used the word. Twice. But it’s not just that; it’s the way you behaved towards me, even before the row. It took me a while to see it for what it was, to understand.”

“I’m not sure I do. Understand, that is. I came back to Santorini for you. I built up a new business to support you.” She said it as gently as she could, despite being tempted to remind him of everything she’d given up. But this so wasn’t the moment. She had never, ever, known him to be like this and it was frightening her. She had to suppress her instinct to fight back. Think we not me . We not me .

She started to rephrase her words, but he began speaking. “You set up the retreat to rub my nose in it, more like. To prove you were the success and I was the failure by making a stupid competition out of it all. And I won’t live like that, Zina. Not anymore.”

What was he saying? That they had no future? Zina’s legs were trembling, her fingers gripping the fence. “I… I just wanted to make it fun,” she whispered. “Why didn’t you tell me you felt that way?”

“Fun? You thought it was fun?” He looked at her sideways, eyes still hidden by that wretched hat. Then he shrugged. “I guess I never said anything because… well, I don’t really know. I didn’t want it, but I didn’t know how to stop it either. Perhaps we let a lot of resentments get out of hand.”

We. Was that a good sign, or was she overthinking it? Keep it simple, simple. And honest.

“That’s what Mama said. That this whole thing wasn’t so much about Yiannis and his ATV, but about everything we’d allowed to build up. At first I didn’t think… I couldn’t see… what you had to be resentful about. But now I can. Especially how you’ve explained it. I’m just so sorry I made you feel that way. I didn’t mean to.”

Silence. A long one. “Thank you, Zina.” That stiff formality again. How was she going to break through? Her instinct was to reach out and touch him, but despite the fact she could see every bead of sweat above his top lip he seemed too far away. Had the wall grown too high after all? Had she left it too late? Was he going to keep pushing her away, again and again? The lump in her throat was real.

Skatá! Where was her backbone? They were speaking to each other, for the first time in over a week. That had to mean something. Perhaps there was some common ground as well. Just like Karmela had told her to look for.

“How about we talk about those resentments? Work out what we can do to stop them from building up again.”

Lambros sighed. “Sensible as that sounds, I’m not totally sure it’s a conversation I’m ready for right now. I feel… I feel…” He stood up straighter. “How’s the retreat going?”

“In all honesty? There’s been a massive curve ball. It turns out Jo didn’t write her bestseller after all.”

“Really?”

Zina went on to explain a little of what had happened, while Lambros nodded, asking the occasional question. They were talking. Normal talking. A no-pressure conversation. No pressure was important to Lambros, she knew. Or rather she ought to have known. She’d been too frigging wrapped up in herself again, and it needed to stop. It had to stop. She had to channel her inner Jo, if she could find it. She certainly needed to up her game if she wanted to stay married. Make the biggest possible effort to put herself in Lambros’s shoes.

A half-smile played around his lips as she finished talking. “That must be making you happy, being able to do your proper job again.”

“It does. But not half as happy as standing here chatting to you.”

He sighed and kicked at the dirt again, then looked at her sideways. “Me too. I’ve missed you as well, Zi. But I don’t want to sweep our problems under the carpet or we’ll just end up back where we started.”

He wanted to try too. He wanted to try! Elation swept through her, but she kept it in check. “Then how about… how about, every day we come here at three o’clock to talk everything through?”

“And the rest of the time?”

“Be nice to each other? And accept things aren’t going to be normal between us straight away. Give each other space to adjust, because the conversations we need to have aren’t going to be easy.”

He nodded. “I do need time to think and to process that you want to try. I’d geared myself up… I was convinced you’d be asking for a divorce.”

She grinned at him. “You must be joking. Have you ever known me give up without a fight?”

Slowly he shook his head. “I don’t suppose I have. And this time I’m glad of it. Really I am.”

* * *

At the end of such an intense week, it felt natural to Jo that the little group would drift apart for the evening. Susan and Ellen had in any case planned to have dinner with their newfound family, accompanied as always by Panora; Iain had said he was taking Sybil for a long walk on Kamari beach; and when Sophie claimed exhaustion, Diana decided to stay at The Retreat House too.

Jo was glad it was just the three of them in the taxi, heading for Zina’s favourite winery, which apparently had a terrace overlooking the caldera where they could witness one of Santorini’s famous sunsets. Working together this afternoon, Zina had really come into her own. It was hard to pinpoint exactly what had changed; it was almost as though she was being completely true to herself. Although it hadn’t been exactly obvious before. It didn’t matter; whatever it was, Jo could now see that Zina could become as good a friend as Karmela.

As soon as they arrived, Zina led them through the winery’s museum and down a steep flight of steps, then across a tasting room that felt like a cave, and onto the terrace. Jo stopped in her tracks. A stunning view of the caldera unfolded in front of them, the colours of the cliffs exaggerated by the rays of the lowering sun. Every shade of orange and ochre through to rich gold glistened in the last of the light, and below them the sea was the deepest blue she had ever seen.

It was a breathtakingly perfect spot, with tables set out over three terraces on different levels, the winery itself built into the rock behind and below, a stark mixture of local black stone and white-painted walls which all but sparkled. Their vantage point was directly above the harbour, the cliffs around it like a giant pair of encircling arms protecting the quayside hundreds of feet below. Directly ahead were Fira and Firostefani, a muddle of white buildings climbing to the caldera’s highest point, and in the distance across the water, Oia, for all the world like a thick layer of icing on top of a cake.

The manager escorted them to a front-row table protected by a large square umbrella. Within moments, three glasses of rosé appeared, along with a dish of olives, some bread and an oval plate of a yellow purée made from fava beans, which he explained were grown by his good friend Yiannis Nomikos, and were the best on the island.

“They won’t be when Lambros manages to grow his,” said Zina after he’d gone.

Karmela sat back, nursing her drink. “How did it go with him this afternoon?”

“Difficult. Especially at first. But we’ve made a start. Like you told me, Karmela, we’ve found some common ground. A starting point we agree on. So we’ve set aside time to meet every afternoon to talk things through.”

Karmela reached across and hugged her. “Go you! I have a feeling that with your tenacity you will be fine.”

“Yes, but I need to remind myself to see things from Lambros’s point of view as well. Mama tore a strip off me for always wanting to be the centre of attention, but I wasn’t ready to listen. Now I can see how right she was. I had a real lightbulb moment when you told me to think we not me . Not only that, but working with you, Jo, and seeing how empathic you are has really opened my eyes. So many big life lessons. I have so much to thank you both for. At almost thirty I really should know myself much better.”

“It is not only you,” said Karmela. “I am going through something similar. I thought by facing up to my past last year my life was sorted. Job done.” She laughed. “But now I find it is no more than a work in progress.”

Calm, competent Karmela, looking so uncertain. After all Karmela had done for her, Jo wanted to help if she could. “Work in progress?”

“Like dealing with rejection. I was so hurt by the girls in my school in Berlin I vowed I would never let that happen again. It was the biggest reason I shut myself off; if I had to be an outsider, it would be my choice. But when you open up to the positives of getting closer to people, there are downsides that come with it too, and rejection is definitely one of them. I’m forty-three and I have had so little practice.”

“Is it submitting your manuscript you’re worried about?” asked Jo.

Karmela shook her head. “In time I will be, but I am sure the tips you gave us will help. In fact, I am trying to use them in other areas of my life.”

Jo frowned. “I’m not sure all of them translate.”

“Me neither, but some are a good starting point, like working on the reasons you are being rejected. But perhaps… perhaps that is where I have made a mistake which will probably affect the group and I am truly sorry.”

Zina leant forwards. “Do you want to share?”

Karmela took a sip of her wine, the last rays of light catching the glass and making the liquid shimmer. Across the caldera, the sun was dropping beyond the islands that formed the fragmented far rim, a golden ball in a perfectly orange sky, the sea a greyish bronze below them. Finally she nodded.

“Three heads are better than one, and anyway, I cannot count the times I have almost talked about this with you both over our nightcaps. Almost, but not quite. It is Iain, you see. We were becoming fond of one another, but then he decided it was not what he wanted.”

“I knew it,” said Zina. “Just seeing you on your morning walks, it was obvious.”

“It was?” Karmela looked surprised.

“The way you were together… your body language, I guess. You just looked like a couple.”

“What happened?” Jo asked.

“He gave me no explanation, but the more I thought about it, the more I wanted one. So yesterday I plucked up the courage to ask him. Actually, it was the advice I gave you, Zina. I realised I was not following it myself.”

“So what did he say?” Zina sounded breathless, excited almost, to hear the rest of the story, while Jo, aware of her friend’s pain, was uneasy about pushing her like this.

“I read a piece in class about growing up in Sarajevo and how one of my best friends was killed in the bombing near the end of the war. It turns out Iain was one of the pilots involved in those raids and he said he knew I would never forgive him. I was so shocked when he told me that I did not disagree.”

“And was he right?” Jo asked as gently as she could.

Karmela shook her head. “I do not think so, but there is so much to unpack around this, and it is all very complicated. I need to talk to my mother about what happened during the war too, but that will not be easy either. The trouble is… Oh, I know I can be honest with you both… The problem was not only my classmates, it was Mama too. I need to understand why she behaved towards me as she did, but I am sure that is the last thing she wishes to discuss. I am not close to her, like you both are to your mothers. She will not let me be.”

“Oh, Karmela,” said Jo. “I am so sad for you. For you both, really.”

Karmela shrugged. “I have tried to change things over this last year and although we have made some progress– she sent me here, after all– there is still no real closeness and I am at a loss about what to do next.”

Zina reached across and gave Karmela a hug. “If you need to talk through what you might say to your mum, I’m here. I’m not bad with words and especially after all you’ve done for me, I’d love to be able to help.”

“Thank you.” Karmela sounded choked.

A hush descended on the terrace as the last rays of the sun disappeared behind the islands, the sky flooding with ochre, pinks and the deepest of purples. Jo held her breath. This was beauty in nature on an altogether epic scale and it made her feel so tiny, so insignificant. If that was the case, perhaps her problems were insignificant too.

The next week would no doubt be one of the toughest of her life, because if Zina’s plans came to fruition then her story would come out. Sophie was prepared to take the risk on the basis her name would remain secret for as long as possible, and had agreed it was better done while they were all at the retreat. That way if anything went wrong, they could deal with it together, and at least they were remote from the eyes of the world.

And Jo would have her two new friends beside her. Friends she could absolutely rely on. Friends who had not judged her. Friends who were doing all they could to help. Karmela had said that three minds were better than one, but to Jo they were more like her mum and Pam’s three-legged stool: stable and strong. They may be but three small people beneath this incredible sunset, but they were important to each other. Already the bonds felt real.

The ring of Zina’s mobile split the silence, and apologising she rushed from the terrace. Jo glanced at Karmela, who was gazing out to sea.

“Aren’t we small?” she whispered.

“That is exactly what I was thinking. It puts everything into perspective.”

As the last orange-gold rays faded to a glow on the horizon, people around them began to gather their belongings to leave, but a waiter appeared with a bottle of wine that was almost pale orange in colour, and a wooden platter of cold meats and cheese. Zina arrived behind him, rubbing her hands.

“Great, I’m hungry and we certainly have something to celebrate. That call was from a journalist with The Times who is prepared to break the story, and they’d like to interview you by video call on Monday morning.”

“Interview me?” She knew she shouldn’t be so silly. She’d known this was going to happen, but now it was real it was absolutely terrifying. She closed her eyes briefly, Zina’s hand snaking into hers.

“Don’t worry. We’ll prepare a crib sheet and I’ll be sitting with you, just off camera, the whole time. You can do this, Jo.”

Karmela took her other hand, nodding in the direction of the sunset. Small, insignificant beings. Small, insignificant problems. But a growing friendship that was anything but.

Jo took the deepest of breaths. “Thank you. Thank you both.”