Mama Tati, who has a honey stall, presses a jar of her latest honey into Adriana’s hands.
‘Take it!’ she commands.
Mama Tati is one of Xanthe’s grandmothers, the strong women who run the village and let their husbands think that they run the village.
Adriana hugs her and she and Christos walk on.
They’re offered free coffee, have to promise to come back another day to try out a new olive oil, and spend five minutes admiring the latest pots to come from the local ceramicist’s kiln.
They finish up in a sun-bleached wooden café stand with turquoise-coloured chairs and tables. Small fishing boats are tied alongside them and the smell of the fruits of the sea fill their nostrils.
‘Iced café,’ says Christos, putting two little pottery cups on the table where his wife is sitting.
‘I’m worried,’ reveals Adriana. ‘Rose says not to, that it’s going to be all right, but how can it be? All these years we’ve kept this big secret and now if it comes out, it’s going to look as if Rose cannot be trusted. If she lies about the past, how can anyone believe her? It’ll ruin everything we’ve set up here, it will ruin us.’
‘If Rose says it’s going to be fine, then I for one believe her,’ says Christos. ‘She’s very impressive, your sister. Like you, my beloved.’
Adriana leans into him.
‘I hope you’re right,’ she says.
Back on the terrace, there’s no escaping Rose.
The group have barely settled into their seats before Rose has India in her sights again.
‘I think we need to reframe the way you look at relationships,’ Rose says, ‘and concentrate on what you get out of these connections, India. Do you think you put too much emphasis on finding a true love or “great love” as you call it?’
‘Isn’t everyone looking for love?’ India replies, feeling instantly hemmed in at having to explain her choices.
Rose has a way of angling her head that signals understanding.
‘People look for lots of things – emotional security, financial security, safety, acceptance,’ she says gently. ‘The list goes on. But there is a particular type of emotional reward some people get from love: the glow of love itself, the focusing of all of your hopes on one person you have chosen.’
India nods. She can buy this idea.
‘Is this what you feel when you fall in love, India? As if this one guy alone holds the key to your life?’
India nods again. She sounds like an idiot when Rose explains it all back to her but she’s still reeling from thinking about Lily-Blossom.
‘We’re all a by-product of our history,’ Rose goes on earnestly. ‘Your mother has a world view that tells you how to live – to be a lovely butterfly – what was it?’
‘Fragile unicorn-butterfly,’ recites India. ‘It’s stupid, right? Really stupid.’
‘Yes and no,’ says Rose thoughtfully. ‘It’s your mother’s theory and it’s worked for her but it shouldn’t be yours just because she advises you to behave the same way. You don’t have to be a fragile unicorn-butterfly. You’re funny, India,’ Rose says. ‘Funny, sparky, enthusiastic. And clever.’
‘I’m not clever,’ India says flatly. ‘I was terrible at school. That’s why I took so much time off and watched your show with my friends.’
‘Intelligence is not simply about how well you do at school,’ Rose says. ‘There are so many types. You say your stepmother is an interior designer. Where did she learn this?’
‘It’s a gift, she sees things totally differently. It’s vision, it’s—’
‘It’s not something she learned in school at the age of fourteen, is it?’
India laughs. ‘No. She did study it but she has natural ability.’
‘As do you,’ says Rose. ‘Look at your clothes today – everything you wear is a piece of art. Can you not see that?’
India looks down, almost bewildered. This is not how she’s ever looked at how she dresses.
