11

They travelled in a cloud of dust. Past white houses topped with flat roofs, guarded by grapefruit trees, mandarin and orange. Past carob bushes, where the ripening pods poked through like blackened fingers. Past shimmering silver olive trees, green almonds. Three children cradling one dog, a woman pulling a wagon filled with grey sacks. And as they travelled further, the dust subsided, the air became fresher and the land began to fall to the sea. Until finally the twinkling strip of azure light that was the Mediterranean came into view.

Muscle by muscle Helen began to relax. Shoulders unhunching, fingers unfurling, eyes drifting from one thing to another. Everything passed as if she were watching a film. A series of images, as harmless as a muted TV.

She recognised the turn into Kyrenia from the morning, but Kaveh didn’t take it. He continued instead along the coast road, where rickety roadside stalls selling oranges were more frequent than houses. Eventually he took a left turn, continuing on until the road narrowed to a lane, curved left and stopped. Up ahead stood a shack, outside it two plastic tables with two fat ashtrays. From beneath one table a dog eyed them without raising its chin. Next to the dog sat a man, so still he could have been painted in.

Kaveh brought the bike to a standstill. He nodded at the empty table and disappeared inside. Still clutching her helmet, Helen slipped into the tableau as quietly as possible. Across the track, beyond a strip of scrubby grass, lay the ocean. She stood and stared. The waves rolled in and rolled out. The breeze came from the west, where the sky was orange, and within moments she understood why Kaveh had brought her here. This was exactly the kind of place she needed to be. Soon enough the sun would set, the tide would turn, the moon would rise and the day would eventually leach away – lost, like every other day, among the sands.

And then she would be able to go back to Caro. Go back and pour them both a glass of wine and – what? Apologise? She laid the helmet on the table and the word slipped away. She could barely think it, let alone say it. She wished things had gone differently, but it was wrong. She believed that what Caro was doing was wrong. So how could she apologise for being honest? She took out her phone, then, without looking at it, put it away again. They’d had disagreements before. Rows even. Show me two women who haven’t come to blows over half a lifetime, Helen had always said, and I’ll show you two acquaintances, not friends. It wasn’t possible to be so close to someone else without seeing all their warts. And that was the titanium thread of their friendship right there, Kay included. Their ability to forgive in each other everything that fell short. But this?

A salted breeze touched her face, and with it Helen felt the salt of her own tears. It was too much. Caro’s selfishness, she felt, was too much.

Kaveh came back with wine. He didn’t comment as he put the glasses down. He took out his cigarettes and she picked up her glass and together they sat, him smoking, her sipping, the sun waning.

Here I am, she thought. Sipping cold wine by the Mediterranean Sea, and I never want to leave. She lifted her chin and looked at Kaveh. Lucky Kaveh, who didn’t ever have to leave. Who always had…this. ‘Have you always lived here?’ she asked quietly.

He shook his head. ‘I was born here and then we had to move.’

Surprised, Helen turned to him.

He shrugged. ‘I am Greek Cypriot. This part is Turkish. We were moved to the south when I was a child.’

‘Your family?’

‘The whole village.’

‘Oh.’ She didn’t know what to say.

Kaveh smiled at her, leaning forward as he tipped ash.

‘So…now you’ve come back?’

He nodded. ‘Yes, I came back.’

For a long moment Helen looked at him, but his expression was inscrutable. She turned back to the safety of the ocean. ‘Are you married?’

‘Yes.’

One little word – yes – causing such a thump of disappointment.

‘But’ – his voice was soft – ‘she is in the south.’

Slowly Helen turned to him. ‘She didn’t want to come back?’

‘No.’ And he didn’t take his eyes off her.

Helen stayed silent. Then, because it was the only way she could say what she wanted to say, she turned back to the waves. ‘Do you miss her?’

‘No.’

The man at the other table got up, raised a hand to Kaveh and then lumbered away, the dog following. Helen watched, almost surprised that he could, and had, moved.

‘Where is your husband?’

Yes, she knew that was coming. She placed her ringless hand on top of her ringed hand. ‘Somewhere in Nepal,’ she said, watching the dog.

‘Nepal?’

She could hear the surprise in Kaveh’s voice. ‘He’s just climbed Everest.’

Kaveh let out a low whistle. ‘This is impressive.’

‘Is it?’ Helen turned to him.

‘Isn’t it?’ As he stubbed his cigarette out, he looked at her in a way that she hadn’t been looked at for at least twenty-five years, and it torched everything up to the last five seconds of her life. Her stomach liquefied. ‘Do you miss him?’ he asked.

And meeting his eyes, she said, ‘No. No, I don’t.’

Who looked away first? She didn’t know. She just knew that now she was looking at the ocean and his hand was on hers. Warm and rough, their fingers entwined, pushing against each other like limbs.

‘Let’s take a ride,’ he said.

*

They travelled back up the coast road and turned inland. Although nothing had been said, Helen had made her decision. Wherever he took her she would go. She had one life under the stars, and she would go. She laid her head on his shoulder and thought of her namesake, wondering if this was how it had been for her also. Had it been just one look from Paris that had started it all?

The engine slowed. Helen looked up. Kaveh was preparing to turn off the main road. Up ahead, nestled against the mountain, she could see a cluster of houses growing up the hillside like a blocky white vine. Instinctively she knew that this was where they were going. She laid her head back and pressed closer against him.

Within minutes they had reached the village, Kaveh threading the bike through narrow streets where moss grew in the shaded aqueducts, lilies and roses bloomed in tiny front gardens and scarlet geraniums waved from window boxes. In the square a group of old men, sitting under the shade of a pomegranate tree, played backgammon.

Kaveh stopped in front of a small, flat-roofed house. Without speaking, he took her hand and led her inside, where it was cool and dark, and straight up the stairs into a shuttered bedroom. Here he turned, put his hands either side of her face and pulled her into a kiss.

A kiss that she didn’t feel the start or the end of. That swept them onto the bed and into an embrace that closed the world down and zoomed his copper-coloured skin up so very, very close. She put her lips to his arm and his shoulders, pressed her cheek against the brutal stubble of his chin, threw her arms around his back.

And the unbelievable joy, the tangle of limbs and the film of sweat. The wine on his breath, the soft lobe of his ear, his silver, silver hair, curling damp at his neck. She could have cried. She could have laughed.

Hours passed.

Making love, sticking to sheets, tracing freckles and scars and hairlines. The sun set and the moon rose and they still hadn’t covered the life-maps of each other’s bodies, and it was astonishing to Helen. The way his fingers traced her caesarean scar, the spread of his hand across her breast, his tongue in her mouth. Silver light flooded the room. Stars twinkled and, finally replete, Helen fell asleep to the dry whispers of a million cicadas.

Kay hadn’t registered the full-sized Daniel Craig or the gun he pointed at her. She was lip-synching along to ‘Murder on the Dancefloor’ while reading the blurb on the back of a Your Five Weeks to Sugar-Free DVD. Giving up at Week One, she put it back and picked up Butterflies. And immediately there she was, back at the old dining table, mock GCSE papers spread out, Wendy Craig burning the dinner on the boxy TV set in the corner of the living room, her mother serving peas and salad cream, her father in his overalls, knees black with grease. Her mother serving peas and salad cream? These days her mother would be as likely to wear a pea as serve one.

Her hands trembled as she tried to stuff the DVD back into place. Just this morning, her mother had thrown another fit, and this time she’d hit her target. Craig had been characteristically good-natured but, listening to him on the phone, Kay could tell he was shaken. It was unforgivable what age did. Unforgivable. Her gently spoken, patient mother slapping faces like a madwoman? The thought of it had her shaking her head. No. No. No. No. When it was her turn she’d take a bottle of champagne, rent a Porsche and drive it off the cliffs up at Hunstanton. Thelma and Louise style. Except she wouldn’t drag Helen and Caro along, obviously. Not unless they wanted to come… This thought made her smile, made her wonder how Cyprus was going. Okay, she presumed. Caro’s appointment was tomorrow, and after the initial mix-up over the rooms she hadn’t heard anything more. Tomorrow she’d be joining them. Mountains to her east, ocean to her west. No laundry. No cooking. No shopping. No cleaning. Another smile, much broader, which was still plastered all over her face as she turned and bumped into Daniel, who wobbled precariously and probably would have fallen if a gangly limbed member of staff hadn’t rather resourcefully grabbed his revolver.

‘Careful,’ the boy grinned as he straightened up 007. ‘Or he’ll shoot.’

‘Good,’ Kay drawled. ‘Get it over with.’ And she wheeled her empty shopping trolley past him, revelling in the astonishment on his face. God, she loved being fifty!

She was here for groceries, basic provisions for Alex and her parents, a few frozen dinners and plenty of toilet roll. So where to start? She looked up, caught a glint of something sparkly and turned her trolley. Ladies’ Fashion, of course. Where else?

The glint turned out to be a gold fringe on a scarlet sarong. Probably the most useless and inappropriate garment she’d ever seen, designed for the Shakiras or the Chers of this world, not the Kay Pattersons. Oh, but it was lovely. Her fingers trailed the tickly gold fringe. It was wavy and colourful and lovely and… And she had a pull-over towelling robe thingy that would work just as well. Reluctantly she let the fringe slide through her fingers and walked on to Household Items. Five minutes wasted, brushing her hand over the fake fur fleeces and sequinned cushions, stopping to smell the smelly candles, and she’d reached the end of the aisle. Tesco at night, she thought, as she found her trolley wheeling itself towards the magazines – Climbing World, Carp Fishing, Scootering: What Flicks Your Switch? – was a prairie of possibility. Everything within reach. Because what, for example, was to stop her from right now buying Climbing World and transforming herself into a human stick insect? Or buying that DVD? Quitting sugar and increasing her energy levels to a degree whereby she could actually cope with her life? Or buying that sarong?

This time she was in charge. Manoeuvring the trolley through 180 degrees, whizzing back and throwing the sarong in her trolley. No need to even check size. Perfect. Yes, everything was possible! And what was more, she was certain that everyone else who came here at this ridiculous time of night had come to the same secret conclusion. Why else would they be here? And where else, nowadays, would they find this feeling of solace and hope?

She’d even begun to recognise faces. A white-haired man with a nose of red veins who always lingered at the engine oils. A nurse, still in uniform, who sat in the magazine aisle flicking through Hello. These people didn’t come here to shop. They came to escape from jobs or marriages or kids. From life. Just as she did.

Or had.

Before mobile phones.

Because now, as if answering a cue, her phone had started ringing. Approaching the end of the freezer aisle, Kay stopped short. It was late enough to panic. No one rang her at this time except her father. Scrambling through a handbag-sized snowstorm of receipts, trolley tokens and open tissue packets, she grabbed for the phone.

Caro’s name flashed up.

‘What’s wrong?’ she said, leaning over the trolley to wheel forward with her elbows.

‘Can you talk?’ Caro answered.

‘Well…’ The directness of Caro’s response had stalled her. ‘I’m in Tesco,’ she started.

‘Tesco!’ As Caro digested this information, there was a rush of air, a barely disguised sigh of annoyance that Kay heard all the way across Europe. ‘Why,’ Caro breathed, ‘are you in Tesco at this time of night? You’ve got a plane to catch in the morning.’

Kay smiled. Caro sounded just like Caro. So whatever was wrong wasn’t that bad. She slid back the cover of the nearest freezer and, as she stood looking at its frozen contents, experienced a small rush of excitement. She did have a plane to catch tomorrow! Somewhere warm.

‘Kay?’ Caro’s voice was patchy, crumbled. ‘You are still coming, aren’t you?’

‘Of course I am. I just have a few last-minute things to sort.’ Like breaded haddock or fisherman’s pie? What would her father prefer? (Alex was easy. Lasagne, shepherd’s pie, breaded chicken. Repeat ad infinitum.)

‘Right. Well, I wanted to warn you, because obviously I won’t be here when you arrive tomorrow…’

‘Okay.’ She picked up a carton of Captain Haddock’s Individual Fish Pies.

‘Helen knows.’

Kay turned the packet over. Captain Haddock had a ridiculous face. ‘How?’ she asked, unsurprised at how unsurprised she was. Caro and Helen had never been able to stay out of each other’s business. Why would this time be any different?

‘It’s…’ Caro paused. ‘It’s a long story.’

‘Can you shorten it?’

‘Okay.’ Caro paused. ‘Okay, well, someone told her.’

‘Someone told her?’ Fish pies in hand, Kay glanced around the aisle, as if the person who had told Helen were hiding behind the frozen peas. This she was surprised at. ‘Who,’ she breathed into the phone, ‘does she possibly know out there that could have told her?’

‘There’s a guy,’ Caro said, ‘that works here—’

A guy? Kay nodded.

‘—and this morning Helen had a sailing lesson with him.’

She pressed her lips together, the twitch of a smile beginning. A guy, who Helen had had a sailing lesson with? Helen had gone sailing? Kay looked again at the picture of Captain Haddock on her fish pies packet, and she wanted to laugh. Would have, if it hadn’t been for the ominous silence at the other end of the line. ‘Oh,’ she managed.

‘Well, anyway, that’s the summary.’

She nodded. Caro’s voice was neutrally efficient, but she wasn’t fooled for a second. ‘So,’ she said carefully, ‘how did she take it?’

‘Exactly as I thought she would,’ Caro answered tersely. ‘Which is why I’m ringing.’

‘Right.’ Kay threw the fish pies into her trolley, reached across and added the haddock fillets.

‘We had a row.’

‘Okay.’ Of course they did.

‘Quite a bad one.’

‘Right.’

‘And the long and the short of it is that, as always, Helen claimed the moral high ground. She doesn’t think I should be doing this. She thinks it’s wrong, Kay. She said that for once in my life I should try to think of someone other than myself. She actually said that!’

‘Oh.’ Kay closed her eyes. The distances that remained, even between the closest of friends. Hadn’t she said the same thing herself to Helen about Caro? And wasn’t it impossible to tell Caro that?

‘Anyway.’ Caro’s voice was very small. ‘It’s eleven here and she hasn’t come back.’

Kay flicked her eyes back across to the large clock behind the rows of empty tills. Helen should be back. Then again, at university she could remember the many times when Helen should have been back and wasn’t. The difference being they were young and free then. The difference being it was half expected then. ‘Do you know where she is?’

‘She sent a text saying she’s all right.’ Caro sniffed. ‘I’m guessing she’s probably with him.’

‘The sailing guy?’

‘She doesn’t even know him, Kay!’ Caro’s voice fell low. ‘You know you hear about women falling for men abroad?’

Kay looked down at her trolley, to the crinkly eyes and white beard of Captain Haddock. ‘How old is he?’ she said.

‘I don’t know!’ Caro answered, surprised. ‘About our age I suppose.’

She smiled. Our age was middle-aged, so now she didn’t know if she was worried about Helen or jealous. What she did know was that, unlike Caro, she wasn’t at all surprised. Out of the three of them it was Helen, it was always Helen, who was most likely to do something like this. ‘So,’ she said. ‘It’s not a toy boy thing?’

‘No!’ Caro didn’t pause. ‘But it could well be a passport thing. I mean, as far as I can tell, he’s an odd-job man. He’s seen Helen and he’s latched onto her. And she’s angry with me, so she’s vulnerable. But she’s also married, Kay. It’s not right that…’

It’s not right… She thinks it’s wrong… Kay sighed. She’d always been the bubble in the spirit level of this friendship. Always in the middle, persuaded to lean this way or that. For as long as she had known them, Caro and Helen had been engaged in unspoken, passively aggressive combat. Each of them trying to outdo the other. It had started with Lawrence, but where it would end she didn’t know. Only that she didn’t want to be there. Suddenly weary of it all, she said, ‘Helen’s a grown woman, Caro. Like you are.’

Caro didn’t respond immediately. Only after a long pause did she say, ‘Don’t you have an opinion?’

Did she have an opinion? No, she wasn’t sure she did. The news of Helen’s possible tryst was reaching her like radio signals from a faraway star. A beep on the horizon of the frozen goods aisle. Interesting, certainly, but still galaxies away from school reports and frozen dinners and an email that may or may not spell the end of her teaching career. ‘Helen,’ she said, ‘will be fine. It’s her life, Caro. Her marriage. Just like it’s your life.’

But Caro didn’t answer.

Kay frowned. Poor Caro. Choosing the colour of her child’s eyes from a computer screen. And now this. Exactly what she’d wanted to avoid. ‘Are you okay?’ she said. ‘Are you having doubts?’

‘No, not at all,’ Caro answered quickly. ‘Anyway,’ she added, ‘it’s done now. All frozen and waiting, so to speak.’

Kay shivered. She looked across the freezer and a hundred black eyes from a packet of frozen prawns looked back at her. The note of false bravado in Caro’s voice hadn’t gone unnoticed. She could hear how much she was going to be needed. No one was an island, not even Caro, no matter how much she believed she was.

‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ she said. ‘And—’

‘Yes?’ Caro’s voice was like a rope, desperately lassoing itself onto what Kay was about to say.

‘I hope it goes well,’ she said.

Swifts and swallows woke Helen. Black flecks swooping circles against the cool morning sky. A dog woke her, sharp barks snipping at the edge of consciousness. The smell of Kaveh’s skin woke her, a remnant taste of salt on her lips. She turned over, pushed her nose deep into the flesh of his shoulder and breathed him in. Then she fell asleep again.

Minutes later her phone woke her, a low, insistent buzz thrumming in her brain. She sat up, groggy and damp, floating above herself. Using the sheet as cover, she stumbled across the room and found her phone. It was Jack, calling through WhatsApp.

She swiped answer video call, and the first thing she thought when his face filled the screen was how pale he looked. He was at the kitchen table, and she could see that behind him the sky was dull and cloudy. She glanced out of the window in front of her, and it seemed incredible that her sky should be so blue and his so grey.

‘That lasagne,’ he said before she could speak. ‘I think it must have been off, Mum. I’ve been really sick.’

Helen frowned. She was still half asleep and for a moment she had no idea what he was talking about. ‘What do you mean?’ She was looking at her kitchen, thinking how foreign it appeared.

He leaned forward, all pinched white. ‘The lasagne was out of date, Mum. I think I’ve got food poisoning.’

‘Have you been sick?’

‘Three times!’ he sulked, as if she was responsible. ‘Should I call the doctor’s? Have you got the number?’

Helen blinked. Half a continent away, and her eighteen-year-old son was asking for the phone number of a building less than five miles’ walk from where he was sitting. Was he really doing that? She put her hand over her mouth and stifled a huge yawn. ‘Do you feel sick now?’ she said.

‘No,’ he responded warily.

‘Well, when was the last time you were sick?’

‘About one… I think.’

She sighed. ‘Why don’t you go back to bed? Sleep it off. If it’s food poisoning it sounds like it’s out of your system.’

‘Who’s that?’

Helen yawned again. ‘Go back to bed,’ she managed. It was all she wanted to do herself.

But Jack had leaned right into his phone and his eyes, so listless before, lit up now. ‘Who,’ he repeated and raised a finger to point just above her shoulder, ‘is that man, Mum! In bed behind you! Who is that?’