Sunday 24th September
I t was almost ten o’clock on Sunday morning. Home or away, 10am was the time for Karmela to have coffee with her mother. In front of her on the low table was a decaf Americano and her phone was in her hand. Should she, or should she not, speak to her mother about rejection, and about Berlin? The stakes felt higher now than they had ever been.
But even if she decided to do it, what could she say? How to start this most difficult conversation? She had run it around her head so many times, but not a single decent answer had presented itself. Perhaps it would be better to wait until she was home? But was she only considering that because she was afraid of Mama rejecting her again? The bloody R word. Now she was aware of it, it was everywhere. At least she was having more practice at dealing with it.
The phone in her hand rang, making her jump. She swallowed hard.
“Good morning, Mama.”
“Ah, Karmela. Have you had a productive week?”
This was always her mother’s main concern, but as she was paying for Karmela to be here she had more than a vested interest. “I am a little behind on word count,” she admitted, “but I still have a week to make it up.”
“And the quality of the words? It isn’t all about the numbers. What does your tutor think?”
“She is very happy with my work. She said it is almost of publication standard already.”
“Now that is marvellous,” said Mama, with what sounded remarkably like a happy sigh. “I am already looking forward to seeing my daughter’s name in the window of the bookshops in town.”
“Oh, Mama, it is so very far from a done deal. There is a whole submissions process to get through first, and no doubt rejections before the book is finally accepted.” Sranje! This was it. This was her opening. If Karmela believed in cosmic intervention, this would surely count as a sign. It may have “proceed with caution” in flashing lights, but it was worth a try.
“I have realised I am not good at coping with rejection.”
“Whyever not?” It was the question her mother had been almost guaranteed to ask– and in that brisk tone as well.
“Because I am not used to it. You know that after Berlin I shut myself off from people and things that could hurt me. But by avoiding rejection, I have not learnt to deal with it.” Best to keep her mother’s part out of the conversation; she would see how the land lay first.
Her mother tutted, and Karmela had a mental picture of her rolling her eyes. “You have a tendency to blame Berlin for everything.”
“I am not blaming Berlin. It is the explanation.” Karmela took a gulp of coffee. “I need to process it, Mama. To understand, so I can move forwards.” Despite herself, she was afraid that how close she was to tears would show in her voice.
“You are blowing this out of all proportion. Very few refugees had a good war, Karmela, and I should know because I spent all my time helping them.”
“But not helping me.” She swallowed the words back down. Or helping her father. Mama had left them both in their own private hells, but had she acted that way so she could deal with, or avoid, her own? It was a new thought. An intriguing one.
“Sorry,” she said. “I know it embarrasses you when I become emotional.”
“Don’t be so silly. Can’t you talk to your tutor about this submission and rejection thing?”
“She’s given us some notes.”
“Well, there you are.”
In for a penny, in for a pound. “But they do not work for every situation. Certainly not in my personal life, as I discovered this week.”
“Would you like to tell me what happened?” Had her mother’s voice softened just a little, or had she imagined it?
“There is a man here, Iain. I might have mentioned him.”
“Yes. The one with the rather delightful-sounding dog.”
“That is him. A few weeks ago he asked me on a date, then changed his mind. At the time I thought it was nothing, but I actually realised it was quite hurtful, and that is what made me start to think about rejection. I needed to know why, so I asked him.”
“And?”
“He was in the English air force, part of the NATO operation that bombed Sarajevo. He thought I would not forgive him.”
“Whyever not?”
“Emina. He might have killed Emina. And before you say anything, yes, it was a long time ago, and for me I am not sure how much it does matter, but it is clearly an issue for him, so it would come between us.” Karmela sighed. “And that makes me sad.”
“So you really do like him?”
“Yes. He is clever and funny, in that self-deprecating way some British men have, and he is kind as well. I believe he likes me too, especially now I know his reason for stepping back.”
“You say he’s an intelligent man? Well, of course he likes you. And I can see how a long-distance relationship might be suitable; you are used to living your own life day to day so you would find anything else too claustrophobic.” There was a brief pause. “So, the question is, what are we to do about it? You say Emina is the problem?” Stripped back to its most basic elements, she supposed it was, so Karmela agreed. “Let me look in my diaries,” her mother continued. “I am fairly sure I recorded her death. And the NATO operation did not kill many civilians, if I remember rightly. They used precision bombing to target the Serb military.”
“I did not know you kept diaries.”
“Only during the war. We were living through times of international significance and I wanted to make a record. But it will take me a while to find them. They’re in a box in the garage somewhere, and I haven’t seen them in years.”
“If you could try, Mama, that would be wonderful.”
“Leave it with me. I’m going out to lunch, but I will start afterwards. What are you doing today?”
“Writing. Then this evening we are all having supper at a taverna on the beach.”
“Good. I hope your day is productive. And I will let you know what I find.”
After her mother rang off, Karmela sat motionless on the sofa. Diaries. Her mother had kept war diaries. What Karmela would not give to read them. They could hold so many answers… But knowing Mama they would only contain the facts. Her mother’s emotions were as locked away as her own had been. And probably always would be. Tears burnt in the back of her eyes again. Oh, she should be used to her mother by now. Used to her being so closed to her. At least she had offered to help in a practical way with the Emina question.
There was nothing more she could, or should expect. Karmela sniffed, walked to the bathroom and grabbed a hunk of toilet roll to wipe her eyes. She needed to let this go. She needed to do what everyone else seemed to: accept rejection and the pain it caused and carry on the best she could. Not try to resolve every little wrinkle. Zina knew she could never have everything she wanted in life so she was focusing on getting the most important part right. And Jo and Sophie were ploughing ahead with revealing the truth about Only. Ever. You. , despite the obvious risks. Maybe she, too, needed to accept imperfect solutions. And get on with her bloody book.
As she opened her laptop, Karmela was almost smiling to herself. Even if her relationship with Mama would never improve, she had plenty of friends around her. Friends she cared about, and who cared about her. Friends who accepted her as she truly was. Even with Jo in England and Zina in Greece, even though in some ways they hardly knew each other, she had a feeling they would continue to play important parts in each other’s lives.
Perhaps Mama’s coolness was not so important after all. It was time to move on, and if the thought did leave a hole in her heart, then so be it. One day she would learn how to heal that as well.
* * *
This time, Zina found herself looking forward to her hour with Lambros. The previous afternoon had felt so terribly awkward, especially at first, and had left her wrung-out as a wet rag. She had sensed at one point that Lambros had been close to tears, but most of the time he’d struggled to look at her, his eyes hidden by the brim of that damned sun hat.
He’d been telling her how, in part, he’d prolonged the distance between them because he’d had no idea how he’d cope with what she might say if they spoke. How he’d feared she’d either insist on a divorce, or that they returned to Athens, so he’d have to choose between his marriage and his mental health. How he’d needed to build up the strength to deal with it. Because their row, and what she’d said about him being unstable, had forced him to face the fact that he could never be the man she wanted him to be.
Of course she’d said that wasn’t true, but he’d snapped at her, telling her not to lie. Then said gruffly it was her turn to get something off her chest. Which she had. Not about him, but about herself. How Mama had forced her to realise she was an attention junkie, and she was going to do everything she could not to be that way in future, but she would need his help.
Then, like Friday, after more than half an hour of leaning on the fence, he’d suddenly changed the subject, asking her about her night out with the girls. And she’d told him– including how she’d boasted his fava beans would be the best on the island. And he’d replied that he’d been thinking perhaps he might be better growing something else, like white aubergines; that maybe the conditions here weren’t right for the beans. By the time the hour was up things had felt a little more normal between them, and they’d walked back to the farmhouse together for a quick drink with Mama on the terrace, before Zina had headed back to work.
Today was Sunday so they had all the time in the world, but would Lambros want it? Would she? The intensity of the conversations they needed to have was so draining. But at least they were having them.
Zina had spent the last hour or so briefing Jo on her interview tomorrow, and when she came down the stairs from her suite, Lambros was waiting for her in the courtyard, cool bag across his shoulder and a picnic rug folded neatly on top of it.
“I thought you might need some refreshment,” he said.
She grinned at him. “Great idea.”
He smiled back a little shyly, reminding her of when they had first been dating. “And a walk? Maybe a little walk to find a shady spot?”
Zina’s heart flipped. His whole demeanour was completely different to the last two days. Maybe the potential to have longer than an hour would take the pressure off. She needed to keep reminding herself how important that was for Lambros. To break up the heavier parts of their conversations with lighter stuff.
“Do you have any plans for later on?” she asked him. “I mean, do you need to rush off anywhere?”
“No. And I’m hoping you don’t either. Yesterday was tough and I want today to be more relaxed.”
“I have all the time in the world. Look.” With a dramatic flourish she took her phone from the pocket of her denim skirt and switched it off.
Lambros nodded. “Good call.” Then did the same.
They set off through the vines, the gnarled trunks trained in circles low to the ground in the traditional kouloúra manner, leaves drying reddish brown against the dusty grey earth.
“The money came in for the grapes,” said Lambros. “And a good price too. Did you see?” She nodded. “These old vines delivered, but there will never be enough to make our own wine.”
“I think, perhaps, that we can’t make everything. At least not at once. Are you still planning to start your own label with the pistachios?”
They chatted about the farm as they walked across to the dry gully, then up the slope on the other side and between the ragged rows of olive trees. At the top of the rise the sea came into view, sparkling in the afternoon sun. Zina all but gasped; it was so very beautiful– humbling in fact– and she normally took it completely for granted. Had Jo and Karmela talking about how the sunset made them feel small made her notice nature more? Or was it, could it be, to do with being in the here and now with Lambros?
He stopped next to an olive with a thick, knotted trunk, its branches casting an almost perfect circle of shade as the silvery leaves whispered in the breeze. “How about here?”
“It’s perfect. It’s so easy to forget what a beautiful place this is.”
Lambros looked up from spreading the rug. “Too easy to forget everything that’s important and get too caught up in the daily grind. We need to promise ourselves not to do that, I think.”
Zina sat down next to him. “To make time for us.”
She watched as he took off his sun hat, then opened the cool bag and extracted a bottle of her favourite wine. Not local, but a sauvignon blanc from Macedonia she’d discovered in Athens. Oh my god, how thoughtful. How hard he was trying.
He paused, corkscrew in hand. “We talked yesterday about the resentments that built up between us, and afterwards I started to think about how that had happened. Before we’d have a blazing row and be done with it. Everything out in the open. But I think, when I became ill, I didn’t have the mental energy and you backed off. Am I right?”
Zina considered his words. “Not consciously, but I suppose I did. Was that wrong?”
“It was kind, beyond kind, like everything you did. I know what you gave up, Zi. And you were right yesterday that I should have been more conscious of how hard it was for you instead of just thinking about myself. I got wrapped up in my recovery, in my own head…”
“Maybe we both got too wrapped up in ourselves and we need to be really aware of that going forwards. But things haven’t only changed because of what happened to you; a large part is because we’re living with my mother and that’s meant we have to keep things in, and it’s hard to find the right time to discuss them when we’re alone.”
Lambros handed her a glass of wine. One of her mama’s best glasses, she noticed. If Mama knew she’d have a fit. “And the last thing I wanted was to turn our bedroom into a battleground. Which is really ironic.”
“I think that was probably down to me.”
It made such a difference seeing his eyes, seeing that slow, easy smile. Reaching across the rug she took his free hand, praying he wouldn’t pull away. Instead he folded his fingers over hers, and gave her a squeeze. Just that one touch lit a flame in her very depths. But surely it was too soon? They weren’t even sharing a bed, and there was so much more they needed to talk about. She mustn’t be impatient. She needed to be in tune with what Lambros wanted too.
They sat in silence, a healing silence, until Lambros sighed.
“This is bliss.”
“We have to make more time for us.”
“Zi?”
“Yes?”
“You said just now about going forwards. I’d really like to begin to talk about that future. I know it sounds a bit silly, but I need to know what it might look like so I can believe in it.”
She looked up at him. “I need to believe in it too. I was so scared when I thought we might not have one.”
“Then we agree. But before we start there’s one thing I need to make clear. I’m stronger than you think, Zi. Stronger than I thought I was. All the time this has been going on I was waiting to tip back into that dark place again, but it didn’t happen. Normal stress, normal anxiety, but not that. So please don’t treat me like I’m weak or walk on eggshells around me. Once we’re back on an even keel, I think it’s healthier for both of us that we row. I’m strong enough to take it.”
“Oh, Lambros.” Tears filled her eyes. “I don’t need a superman.” But what did he need? “What I mean is, it’s wonderful that you’re truly better and it’s everything I hoped for when we came here. That you would be comfortable in your own skin again and believe in yourself.” She looked down and took a sip of her wine. “And the way you’ve thrown yourself into the farm, how much you’ve had to learn… How patient and kind you are with Mama. I haven’t even told you how proud I am of you for all that. It’s one of many things I need to put right.”
“ We need to. It’s not all about you, Zina.” He winked, squeezing her hand tighter and she thought her heart would burst. There was so much to put right, but as long as they both kept making an effort it would be OK. Better than OK.
“So,” Lambros said, “going forward, we need rules.”
“Space and time for each other.”
He nodded. “Talk about our frustrations.”
“No more little contests between us.” She glanced sideways at him, “Mind you, I may have to take up basketball again to satisfy my competitive streak.”
“As long as it means I don’t have to split every sodding invoice between the farm and the retreat. It does my head in.”
“One business, two halves.”
“And one goal,” said Lambros.
“What’s that?”
“A home of our own. However long it takes.”
“God, yes. I mean… was The Retreat House a mistake, do you think?”
“No. Just look at what you’ve created. It’s a masterpiece; every little detail perfect. I’m every bit as proud of you as you say you are of me.”
“You are?”
“Of course I am. And you could look at it as a trial run for designing our own home.”
“A home where we can do what we want, when we want. Including arguing. And making up.”
Slowly he began to run his thumb up and down her index finger as he held her hand. His touch was electric and she wanted more. So much more. But what did Lambros want? Her eyes met his and his pupils were huge and loaded with passion.
He put down his wine and with his free hand touched her cheek. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he spoke. “May I… kiss you?”
Yes, oh yes! She leant into him, nuzzling his cheek, the roughness of his afternoon stubble sending thrills through her skin. After a moment she tilted her head and found his mouth, his kiss every bit as hungry as hers.
Eventually their lips parted, and he took her wine glass gently from her hand, tipping her back onto the rug, her body tingling from head to toe as he leant over to kiss her again, his hand resting on her thigh where her skirt had ridden up. She closed her eyes, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. Like every argument they’d ever had, the making-up would be glorious.