PROLOGUE
If someone had told me twenty years ago, I’d end up living alone in Greece, I would have told them they had the wrong person. I mean, me, Tilly, going off and leaving her familiar life behind? No way, buster. You’ve got the wrong girl. But here I am. On the face of it, it sounds as though I’ve embarked on a wonderful adventure – which in a sense, I have. But there’s no denying that I wouldn’t be here at all if it wasn’t for the devastating collapse of my marriage.
My plan wasn’t to come to this tiny Cretan town as yet another tourist. I wanted to immerse myself in the culture, to experience how real life was here. And being part of life means helping your neighbours out. So it is that a couple of weeks after arriving here, I find myself setting off early for Michail’s house. Michail is a gentleman of a certain age who last night had a fall I happened to witness, before he was whisked away to hospital. It just so happens he has a cat and chickens that need feeding, so yours truly offered to help.
After all, it’s how the world works, I’ve always thought. People helping each other. It’s meant getting up earlier than I’ve become used to latterly. Stopping to pick up a coffee along the way, I walk along streets that are stirring with faint sounds of Greek life, the sun rising above the rooftops. On reaching Michail’s humble house, I unlock the blue-painted front door. But as I go through and into the garden behind it, to his chickens, it most definitely is not early and a positive chorus of squawking is coming from the hen house.
It stops as soon as I open the door and the birds come hurtling out. After throwing down some corn, I go inside to feed the cats – this morning, five of them have arrived for breakfast. It’s true what they say here – there is never just one cat. Then as they eat, I cast my eyes around the place. In the low sunlight coming through the small window, I take in the unwashed plates and pans, the half-open packets scattered across the worktops, the general air of neglect that makes it clear to me that Michail isn’t really coping.
I push up my sleeves, fill the sink with warm water and start washing up, before starting on the rest of the kitchen. Not once does it occur to me that it isn’t my place to do this. After that’s done, I clean the window, still humming happily to myself, then I scrub the floor and gather a bag of what is very obviously rubbish to take outside.
That done, I stand back and survey the results. A sense of satisfaction fills me. I mean, not just is it clean, but I like to think this will be welcoming for Michail to come home to. Stepping out through the back door, I stand there for a moment. While I’ve been cleaning, the blue sky has become obscured by grey cloud, the pleasant early morning warmth replaced by a cool breeze rippling through the air. But as my new friend, Nicos would say, it is October. I gaze around the garden, at the tree on which lemons are ripening, some straggly tomato plants, the similar houses on either side that hint at a simplicity of life here which as a tourist would simply pass you by.
It comes as a shock to realise I haven’t so much as thought about Gareth, my soon to be ex-husband, for over two hours. Continuing this theme of distraction, I contemplate starting on cleaning the next room – just to give it a quick once-over, you understand. I mean, I wouldn’t want Michail to think I’ve been judging him.
I turn to go back inside. But as I do, the steps catch me out and I trip, banging my knee against the door frame.
‘Fuck,’ I mutter, tears of pain filling my eyes. Then, glancing down, I notice one of my shoes is caked in chicken shit.
Standing there, I suddenly freeze. Exactlywhyam I doing this? I mean, I haven’t come all this way to look after a stranger’s chickens and cats, or to clean up their house, when I have a personal crisis of my own going on.
But that’s the kind person of person you are,I tell myself.You care. For frick’s sake, wouldn’t the world be a better place if more of us did?It’s what I believe – what I’ve always believed.
But this time, it’s like I have another revelation – a massive one. You see, there’s a reason I’ve always filled up my days doing things for other people. It stops me thinking about my own life; about the emptiness between the surface-level clutter. About the truth, which is that I’ve lost myself.
The thought is like a sucker punch, just as a gust of wind blows through the open door. I look up again just as rain starts to fall.
After closing up the house, I lock the door and pocket the key. Then, cursing myself for not bringing a jacket, I head back down the street towards the room I’ve rented. But with each step, the skies are visibly darkening, the rain falling in large, heavy drops that intensify just before the heavens open.
In no time, my sodden clothes are clinging to me. Even my sandals are soaked as the sloping narrow road becomes a stream. The little white houses suddenly look less welcoming as I shelter in a doorway and wait for the weather to pass. But as I stand there, alarm fills me as far from letting up, the rain becomes heavier, the stream down the narrow road by now a river.
Deciding to make a run for it before it gets any worse, I set off again, breaking into a stilted kind of run as I splash through the water. Once or twice I lose my footing, then I feel my feet go from under me. That’s the last thing I remember as I’m pitched backwards: the rain, my feeling of powerlessness. Falling, before my head hits something.
A voice calls out that seems to come from far away. It’s a voice I dimly recognise – or at least, I think I do. It’s followed by silence.
I’ve absolutely no idea how, but the rain subsides. Then it’s as though the years wind back until I find myself at the beginning – where all this started.
1
Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.
GEORGE SANTAYANA
Confusion fills my head. What’s going on? I should be in Crete – shouldn’t I? On my way back to my rented room in Andreas’s house. Not in England, on a fine summer evening, watching a much younger version of myself just days away from making the biggest mistake of my life.
I remember thinking back then,right then,how much I bloody loved my life. I loved Gareth, too – not to mention my parents, for paying for our spectacular wedding that was coming up. The church wedding my dad wouldn’t have considered any alternative to; the marquee reception in the picturesque grounds of a country house hotel. Lizzie, for planning the hen night I was dressing up for.
I watch myself study my reflection, my hand going to my face, smoothing skin that was faintly wrinkled last time I looked. I pinch myself. This has to be a dream. How else can I possibly be here in Lizzie’s flat again, the week before my wedding, watching myself get ready for my hen party?
More to the point,why?I can remember how I felt that day, the emotions that washed over me as I stood there. One that overrode the excitement and sense of anticipation I should have been feeling. One that with my wedding looming, shouldn’t have been there.Doubt.
As I watch myself standing in front of the mirror, Lizzie came bursting in. Emotion overwhelms me for the sister I’ve since lost, who I miss desperately.
‘Come on, Tilly! You’re going to be late!’ Wearing a cropped psychedelic top and orange shorts that showed off her tan, her fair hair subtly streaked, she was the essence of summer. She thrust a cheap version of a veil at me. ‘Put it on. Actually, on second thoughts, I’ll do it.’ She snatched it back and fastened it into my hair, then rummaged in my make-up bag and produced a pink lipstick. ‘You need this,’ she ordered.
I looked vaguely ridiculous, but where Lizzie was concerned, there was no point protesting. My sister satisfied, we stepped out into the June sunshine, my veil attracting more than a few whistles as we headed into town towards the bar where we’d arranged to meet my best friend Jasmine and some other friends.
Jasmine.We used to be such good friends. But life took us in different directions; last I heard she was living in Dubai.
