Christos hates giant gold watches. He feels they prove nothing except as a signal to the happy pickpockets in Athens’s busy tourist spots, who love fat gold timepieces and track their owners faithfully.
‘I know, but tomorrow I’m having a break,’ Bernard insists. ‘I want to go out on a boat.’
‘But you’ve paid for the retreat,’ says Christos, dumbfounded.
‘I pay for lots of things,’ says Bernard imperiously, ‘but I decide where I spend my time.’
If he thinks this is going to impress Christos, he is wrong.
‘The retreat is important,’ says Christos, wondering if this is another man Rose will have to threaten to kill.
People do things for Rose that they wouldn’t do for other people.
For example, the builders worked so hard on the site when they were renovating. If ever there was a day when the sense of mañana overcame the various craftsmen at Villa Artemis, Rose went up to talk to them.
People went back to work very quickly on those days.
She definitely has a gift.
‘I am not sure I can do this for you without running it by Ms Talisman,’ Christos says to Bernard, delaying.
‘Running what by Ms Talisman?’ says Rose, appearing cool and immaculate after a brief lie-down in her room with the air-con on full blast.
Bernard isn’t even the slightest bit dismayed by her appearance.
Bernard does exactly what he wants. He feels he’s earned the right.
‘I was telling this good man that I wanted to hire a boat and crew to see the island tomorrow,’ Bernard begins. ‘I used to have an Oyster 825 myself,’ he goes on. ‘Lovely sloop, twenty-six metres long, full crew obviously, and she was—’
‘Grazia is going to be here tomorrow on the terrace,’ says Rose, steel in every syllable. ‘She’d be upset if you weren’t. But, you might not want to be here when she talks …’ Rose pauses and stares meaningfully into Bernard’s eyes. ‘Then that is up to you, Bernard,’ she says coolly.
She leaves.
Bernard’s tanned face has flushed, Christos notes.
‘Maybe find out about the boat anyway, so I can plan for another day,’ Bernard says and scurries off in the direction of his suite.
Rose, thinks Christos, is a rare treasure of a woman.
Under the verandah on the terrace, the sea breeze is cooling them all. For the last part of the afternoon, Rose changes her style. She can see that the guests are exhausted from the heat and from expectation.
‘India,’ she says gently, ‘let’s start with you.’
She can see India quail under her gaze.
If it’s possible for a tall person to shrink into their chair, then India shrinks, one hand anxiously playing with apurple sparkly pen with what looks like a tiny plastic Hello Kitty on top of it.
‘India, can you tell us what trouble brought you here?’
Silence falls.
The cicadas are making their rhythmic song and only a goat can be heard bleating in a field nearby.
‘Er …’ India flounders. She has so much to say but doesn’t want to say it now.
How stupid would it sound? I feel like a kid living in an adult world. I’ve never had a proper career. I’ve had more boyfriends than hot dinners.
She’d had too much wine the evening she’d applied for the island retreat, blindly wrote off in the hope that Rose Talisman, heroine of her twenties, could fix her. Her heart had been somehow broken by the idea of never having a relationship where she could have her own little Lily-Blossom.
