* * *
Ordinarily, I’d have loved the walk across the island. It’s everything I imagined Greece would be and more. Almond and fig trees, ropes of deep-pink bougainvillea, rows of vines like the furrows on a newly ploughed field and ancient, gnarly olive groves. Donkeys and goats are tethered under wizened trees and bushes are bent double by the wind. And everywhere, the scent of warm herbs and the chirp of cicadas.
We pass a handful of small stone buildings. Farmhouses mostly, Simone explains. The locals eke out a living from the olives and vines, though tourism is catching them up.
‘One of the big Greek hotel chains is reported to be sniffing around looking for sites but so far they haven’t found anything, thank God. The last thing we want is the place overrun with rampaging British chavs on package holidays. Can you imagine?There’ll be Irish bars and fish and chip shops springing up everywhere.’
‘You’re here,’ I want to say. ‘Why should you and Felix be the only people who get to enjoy this beautiful island? What gives you the right to build a sodding great villa on one of the prettiest parts of Pelagia and leave it standing empty for most of the year?’ But I bite the words back before they have a chance to pour out of me, because one thing I’m learning about my privileged hosts is that it’s one rule for them and another for the rest of us and if you don’t like it, you can lump it.
‘Want to see the lighthouse?’ Simone asks, stopping by a track that forks off to the right. ‘It’s the perfect Insta spot.’
Dominic and I nod, and we follow her along the stony path which soon starts to climb up through scrubby bush. The sun is high in the sky and beads of perspiration drip between my breasts and shoulder blades. There’s a sheen of sweat on Dominic’s forehead too, but Simone looks as cool and unruffled as if she’s just stepped out of an air-conditioned room.
The track swerves to the left and, suddenly, the lighthouse is towering over us, as tall and slender as a Doric column.
‘It’s not manned anymore,’ Simone says, stepping up to the lighthouse and laying her hand on the creamy stone. A huge diamond on her ring finger glitters in the sun. ‘It was automated about thirty years ago.’
‘So it’s still used?’ I ask.
‘It is. The rocks under these cliffs are treacherous. Apparently, you can see the lights up to twelve nautical miles away.’ She pulls her phone from the pocket of her shorts. ‘We should do a selfie. Actually, Amber, can you do the honours?’
‘No problem,’ I say, jaw clenched. Simone tucks her arm into Dom’s. As I step back to make sure they’re both in shot, Simone laughs. ‘Careful! You don’t want to get too close to the edge.’
I turn automatically, and my stomach flips. The sight of an almost sheer drop onto the rocks below is vertigo-inducing. Something moves in my peripheral vision and I take a single step closer, my legs planted hip-width apart for stability.
‘Look, there’s a goat!’ I exclaim, pointing to where a white goat is tearing leaves from a bush on a narrow ledge about ten feet below us.
Simone is unimpressed. ‘There are hundreds of goats on Pelagia. Maria’s mother once told me there were ten to every person on the island. But I suppose they’re not exactly a common sight in…where is it you live again?’
‘Catford.’
Her mouth turns down in a moue of distaste. ‘Catford. Exactly. We should make a move. It’s almost twelve.’
‘Wait,’ I say, whipping my own phone out. ‘Can you take a picture of me and Dom?’
I grab Dominic and turn on my most sparkling smile for the camera. Simone takes a couple of photos and hands me the phone back.
‘We should do one of the three of us, too,’ I say graciously, determined to be the better woman. I hold the camera at arm’s length and snap away, then examine the screen, pleased with the results. Dom’s in the middle, an arm around us both. With her mahogany hair and heart-shaped face, Simone could be my older sister.
‘A rose between two thorns,’ Dom jokes. Simone bats him playfully on the arm.
I scroll through the photos Simone took of Dom and me. They are blurry and so badly framed that in the last one she’s cut me out altogether.
I have a feeling it wasn’t accidental. But why would she be so petty when she must know I’d see what she’d done? My heart skips a beat as the truth hits me.
She doesn’t care if I do.
17
AMBER
The others are already halfway down their first bottle of wine when we arrive at the restaurant, hot and dusty, half an hour later. The place looks like somewhere you’d see on the Greek Tourist Board’s website. A hand-painted wooden sign above the pergola reads Kostas’ Taverna, the letters faded by the sun. The tables are arranged under a pergola heavy with acid-green vines bearing bunches of grapes. Threaded through the vines is jasmine, the flowers like little white stars against the foliage.
‘It’s a bit basic, but the food isn’t bad,’ Simone confides as we take our seats.
I drink in the blue and white checked tablecloths, the candles in jam jars and the carafes of wine.
‘I love it. It’s so…Greek,’ I declare, and Dom squeezes my shoulder and laughs.
