Sandy sighed. ‘I didn’t know it was her until she arrived. She booked under the name of Rebecca, not Becky. The little bit of personal information I ask for – basically name, any writing history and what people hope to get out of the retreat – didn’t throw up any red flags. Have to say, I think that was a deliberate ploy on Becky’s part because there was no mention of her bestselling book or the fact that she has a huge social media following. I have to admit I’m not sure either why she is here – maybe just putting “I’m on a writing retreat” on her Instagram is some sort of cachet in her world.’
Guy looked at his watch just as the distant sounds of the town hall clock striking the hour in the old town could be heard. ‘Go to bed. I’ll do the lights here and then lock up. Sleep well.’
Sandy looked at him doubtfully. ‘Shall I lock up and you see to the lights in case Becky puts in a late last-minute appearance and you come face to face?’
‘I’ll risk it,’ Guy said. ‘See you in the morning.’
‘Goodnight then,’ Sandy said and began to make her way indoors and up to her room.
Cleansing her face and getting ready for bed, her thoughts were centred around Becky, hoping against hope that she would not become a disruptive influence on the success of the retreat for the others.
12
Sunday started with a leisurely breakfast on the terrace for everyone except Becky. The six of them were still sitting there at eleven o’clock and the first informal morning session morphed into a general discussion about books and writing. Becky hadn’t put in an appearance, and as it wasn’t obligatory to attend these informal meetings, Sandy didn’t have a conscience about going ahead without her.
Becky sauntered in at twelve thirty, just as everyone was starting to think about choosing their lunch. She said a general ‘Hi’ to no one in particular, got herself a coffee and wandered around talking on her phone.
As everyone tucked into a delicious bowl of pasta with a creamy mushroom sauce, followed by a slice of a decadent strawberry tart, Becky had another black coffee. ‘Saving myself for dinner tonight,’ she said.
‘Our Antibes aperitif walk this evening will help work this off,’ Isobel said, glancing around at everyone. ‘We are doing that as a regular evening thing, aren’t we?’
‘Definitely,’ they all replied as one.
‘Great. Sandy, will you join us tonight?’
‘Not tonight, thank you, but another night.’
‘I’ll take you to my favourite cocktail bar – they have happy hour from five until seven,’ Becky said. ‘You’ll love it there.’ Her phone pinged as she spoke. ‘I’ll catch you all later, I simply have to answer this,’ and she turned to go into the villa.
Slowly they all drifted off to do their own thing for the afternoon: Isobel to edit her book, Lorraine to write, Helena and Mandy said they were going to go and sit on the beach for half an hour before coming back to do some writing. Liz almost said she’d like to join them on the beach before deciding she’d spend the time alone thinking and hoping for inspiration for the book.
Finding a quiet spot away from the several families who were enjoying Sunday afternoon in the sunshine, Helena and Mandy spread out the rug they’d remembered to bring and sat listening to the gentle rhythmic sound of the waves lapping the shore. Helena took out her phone and took a couple of photos of the beach and the coastline to send to her mum. ‘I sent her a quick text yesterday to say we’d arrived safely, but I still feel guilty that I’m away this week.’ She typed a message and sent the photos.
‘Are you going to send Teddy a “wish you were here” photo?’ Mandy asked.
Helena glanced at Mandy, who looked back at her innocently.
‘I could, I suppose,’ Helena said, not telling Mandy she’d already sent him a text message to that effect.
‘And you could sign off with a couple of kisses. He might get the message then that you’re in love with him.’
Helena sighed. She longed to tell somebody about her and Teddy, and Mandy was her best friend. They were here for a fortnight, so it wasn’t as if Mandy could let the secret slip to anybody at home, but she’d have to swear her to secrecy when they got back until Helena had told her mum herself – and sorted out Leon.
‘He knows,’ she said quietly. ‘I told him on New Year’s Eve and we’ve been seeing each other ever since.’
‘You kept that secret,’ Mandy squealed. ‘You could have told me.’
‘To be fair, we haven’t told anyone yet,’ Helena said before quickly telling her about Leon asking Teddy to look out for his sister and Teddy’s subsequent promise. ‘I know Leon did it with the best of intentions, but I’m so cross with him. Teddy and I could have been together ages ago.’ Helena sighed. ‘I’m waiting for Leon to either come home or video call me, when I shall tell him exactly what I think of his interference.’
* * *
Liz decided a wander around the garden would help her to think before going up to her room and her laptop.
She stopped to admire the fountain, wondering if she could fit one in her own garden; the sound of water was so relaxing. The oleander bushes dotted throughout the garden surprised her with their white instead of the more ubiquitous pink or red flowers. A large olive tree hung over the path in the far corner of the garden, its gnarled and twisted trunk telling Liz it was old, probably older than the villa itself. She stood for a moment or two alongside the olive tree, looking at the view up the garden towards the villa. Terracotta tiles, walls painted white with a tiny hint of pink the sunshine was currently highlighting, shutters a lovely faded olive green, it looked like a well-loved Provençal home. A house that would have stories to tell.
Liz took her phone out of her pocket and took a couple of photos of the house, the olive tree and the fountain, before closing the camera app. Deep in thought, she began to make her way back indoors, the phrase ‘what if’ beginning to ask questions as a fragile story idea started to take root in her mind.
In the hallway, Liz stopped to look at the photos and the books. She smiled when she saw a couple of her own books there, including her latest. Honestly, it was a wonder that she had even managed to write that book at all. Maybe it had been so hard writing through the death of her marriage before the divorce proceedings even started that she had exhausted her creativity.
