Heat reddens my cheeks. ‘I’m, um, thirty-four?’
‘Did you hear that, darling?’ he calls over his shoulder. ‘Amber’s only thirty-four. Just a baby.’
Even though I tell myself he’s only joking, his gaze unsettles me and I’m glad when Simone reappears, her expression tight.
‘Supper will be ten minutes. Where’s Willow?’
‘In her bedroom planning how she’s going to save the world, I expect. I’ll ask Maria to fetch her.’
‘Maria is busy. Fetch her yourself.’
Felix takes a large slurp of his wine and doffs an imaginary cap. ‘Anything for you, my sweet.’ He deposits the wine glass on a rattan table and saunters off, his hands in his pockets and his flip-flops slapping on the marble tiles.
‘How is Willow?’ Dominic asks. ‘I haven’t seen her since Felix’s fiftieth last summer.’
‘What, our own little Greta Thunberg?’ Simone’s voice lacks any trace of warmth. ‘Trying.’
‘Mrs Pearson?’ A small woman wearing an embroidered white shirt and black trousers, her dark hair coiled in a low bun, appears at Simone’s side. ‘The appetisers are ready.’
‘Thank you, Maria. We’re on our way.’ Simone extends a Pilates-toned arm and tells everyone to follow her into the villa. ‘It’s just a kitchen supper tonight, nothing fancy. We didn’t think you’d want a heavy meal after all that travelling.’
Dominic must see the disappointment on my face. ‘Don’t worry. Maria’s kitchen suppers are legendary. Veritable banquets by anyone else’s standards. She’s easily the best cook on Pelagia.’ He blows the housekeeper a kiss and, blushing, she shoos him away. Simone rolls her eyes.
As we step into the kitchen, I see what Dominic means. A long, wide table is groaning under the weight of dishes of stuffed grape leaves and pitta breads, Greek salads and creamy dips, zucchini fritters and bowls of plump black and green olives. Felix is filling glasses with red wine the colour of mulberries. A girl is at the sink, her back to us. Her fine blonde hair falls in a loose plait down her back. She’s dressed from head to toe in black, from her baggy hoodie to her scuffed Converse.
‘There you are,’ Simone says with a huff.
The girl – Willow, I assume – finishes filling her glass with water from the tap, then turns around.
For a second, a look of pure joy fills her face, but, just as quickly, she clocks me and glowers. I pull out a chair, pretending not to notice. Everyone sits except Willow. Simone tsks and snaps at her, ‘Are you going to have something to eat or not?’
‘Not hungry.’ She drains her glass, slams it on the counter and stalks from the room.
In the silence that follows, I pluck at the skin between my thumb and forefinger, wishing I was back in my shabby buthomely house share, not in this ridiculously opulent villa where I feel completely out of place.
8
AMBER
Felix waves his wine glass towards Willow’s empty chair.
‘Don’t mind her, Amber. Seventeen’s a tricky age. She’ll come round.’
Simone offers me a plate of spinach and feta pie and I take a piece even though my appetite has vanished.
‘Was it something I did?’
‘Not at all. She’s a spoilt little madam who should know better.’ Simone’s eyes glitter in the candlelight. ‘You’re too soft with her, Felix. She needs boundaries.’
‘Ah, give the poor kid a break. It can’t be much fun being stuck here with us old farts for company.’
‘She didn’t have to come.’ Simone pops an olive into her mouth. ‘Vic and Barney have the right idea, leaving James and the twins at home. Am I right, Vic?’
‘You’re right,’ Victoria says, clinking glasses with her friend. ‘Holidays with kids are so overrated. So what’s this about Greta Thunberg?’
‘Willow’s decided she’s an eco-warrior, which basically means she’s become a militant vegan, watches our recycling habits like a bloody hawk and is constantly lecturing us on our carbon footprint. Even though she was quite happy flying herefirst class.’ Simone shakes her head. ‘At her age I was too busy trying to sneak into clubs to worry about saving the planet.’
Even Felix laughs at this, and while he tops up everyone’s glasses my fingers find the amber pendant around my neck. I rub it between thumb and forefinger absent-mindedly. At seventeen I was juggling my schoolwork with a part-time job and looking after my gran. By then, her bronchitis was so bad she couldn’t even shuffle from her bedroom to the living room of our tiny council flat without her oxygen tank. Every breath was an effort, every conversation a rattling wheeze as her scarred lungs struggled to take in enough air to keep her heart beating. Other kids in our sixth form threw themselves into organising Pride events or anti-fracking protests. I didn’t have the time or the headspace to campaign about anything. My hand drops to my lap.
