Ariadne was standing by a roaring fire in Chloë’s drawing room and on the table a pristine embroidered cloth was ready to receive plates of canapés. It was the book club’s annual party. Champagne was cooling while the members carried in dishes of salmon mousse, filo pastries, pakoras and sweets for their feast.
‘Business first,’ she announced, wanting them to make their Christmas reading recommendations before indulging in the goodies and getting too sloshed to do anything but gossip.
Hebe had another of her bad heads and wasn’t up to joining them. Ariadne had insisted they must make an appointment to see Dr Makaris in the morning. Tonight everyone was dressed up for the gathering, because the weather was unseasonably warm after the terrible storm.
It was going to be another mild Christmas, she thought, barbecue weather, picnics on the beach, but part of her longed for crisp frosty-morning walks on the North Yorkshire Moors, and the little cottage near Helmsley, with just the two of them enjoying a simple dinner, after Midnight Mass in the old stone parish church.
‘Penny for them, Chloë,’ said Dorinda. ‘I thought you might be going home to your daughter. We’re off tomorrow to see our new grandchild, Poppy, and all the family. You can’t beat a proper Christmas in England, can you?’
‘This is our home now,’ said Chloë, curtly.
Ariadne felt a sudden chill in the air and changed the subject. ‘What has everybody brought to read?’ she asked. No one spoke, not wanting to be first. ‘A Child’s Christmas in Wales by Dylan Thomas,’ Della offered.
‘Oh, not that again,’ Dorinda muttered. ‘We seem to have it every year, or Laurie Lee’s Cider with Rosie.’
‘I brought a poem, “Snow” by Louis MacNeice,’ Natalie said. ‘It’s only short, but it catches a winter atmosphere.’ She read it beautifully.
‘Thank you,’ Ariadne said, with relief. ‘That was lovely.’
‘But it’s really not about Christmas, not like T. S. Eliot’s “The Journey of the Magi”.’ Dorinda sniffed again.
Ariadne was finding it hard to shut her up.
Saved by the doorbell. ‘Sorry I’m late.’ Mel walked in, out of breath. ‘Irini’s got a cold and I had to wait for Spiro but I’ve brought some Greek Christmas bread.’ It was a large spiced loaf, decorated on the top. ‘It’s very traditional here and this is Irini’s recipe,’ she added. ‘I’ve got my piece from Elodie Durrante’s novel, The Winter Bride.’
‘I hope it’s not full of sex again,’ Dorinda said. The others exchanged glances and rolled their eyes.
Ariadne was sick of the woman’s complaints. ‘Elodie wrote about Christmas in the country. I’ve seen some of her journals. She could be very poetic at times. Don’t judge her by her later work. I, for one, will be glad to hear it. Santaniki owes so much to her generosity.’
One by one they read their pieces, some short, others a bit tedious. She could tell they were all dying to hit the dining table. It was then that Simon burst in.
‘Ariadne, your house is on fire! Your neighbour smelt smoke and saw flames in the kitchen!’
Everyone jumped up to make way. ‘Oh, my God, Hebe’s in bed. She’s taken one of her sleeping pills. If the smoke gets to her—’ Ariadne screamed.
‘Don’t worry. Clive, Norris and the neighbours called the local fire station. It’s well equipped for forest fires. They’re at the scene now.’
Ariadne’s villa was downhill, closer to the shore and the harbour. She could hardly breathe with panic – darling Hebe. At least the house was unlocked. No one needed to lock their doors here.
‘It’ll be all right.’ Simon tried to comfort her, and Chloë wrapped a shawl around her shoulders. ‘Get into the car – it’ll be quicker.’
*
The fire engine was blocking the drive. Hoses were pumping water. The mayor and farmer, Yannis, was among the volunteers, busy dousing the building.
‘Hebe! Where’s Hebe?’ Ariadne shouted, over the noise of the engines. ‘Hebe?’
Clive rushed over. ‘She’s okay, safe. We got inside and pulled her out, but she’s a bit confused. It was lucky I was walking Bella at the time and saw the flames.’
Ariadne’s only thought was to find Hebe. The house could go up in flames, as long as Hebe was safe. ‘Oh, my dear,’ she cried, seeing her partner sitting in Clive’s lounge, her hair dishevelled and smelling of smoke, her pyjamas covered with a man’s dressing-gown.
‘Is this a dream?’ Hebe asked.
‘No, love, there’s been an accident. The decorations must’ve set the house alight. Clive and Norris got you out.’
‘Where am I?’
‘Next door. It’s going to be fine.’ Ariadne patted her hand, shedding tears of relief that her beloved Hebe was safe.
Yannis and Spiro came to say everything was under control and mostly contained in the kitchen and living room.’ Big mess, Kyria Ariadne.’
Everyone stood around, shocked, as all the rugs and smoky furniture were laid out in the olive garden. The windows were blackened and downstairs was uninhabitable, but the staircase was intact. Ariadne knew things could have been far worse.
‘We’ve been upstairs and checked the rooms,’ said Clive. ‘Your office was untouched and your bedroom.’
‘I didn’t realise you had only two rooms upstairs,’ Norris interrupted, giving Ariadne a funny look as he turned away.
‘You’re coming with us,’ Simon insisted. ‘We’ve plenty of bedrooms. The clear-up can wait until morning, I reckon.’
‘We’ll help,’ offered Della and Natalie.
‘I’ll come down to look at the damage again in the morning,’ Spiro said. ‘I can bring Youssef and his cousin, Amir, to help.’
‘You’re so kind, all of you. I can’t believe it – our home is in ruins.’
‘Homes can be rebuilt,’ Clive said. ‘Lives cannot. Norris, your house will be empty. Aren’t you off home tomorrow?’ he added, as Norris was walking away with Dorinda.
‘Sorry, but we don’t want their sort in our home. There was only one bed in that house, you know…’
‘So what?’ shouted Della.
‘You know what that means,’ Dorinda replied. ‘Those two aren’t just friends. We’ve been deceived by them pretending to be relatives. It’s disgusting.’
‘What is disgusting is your narrow-minded view of the world. This is the twenty-first century, and there are many kinds of love,’ Della replied, wagging a finger at them in fury.
Dorinda puffed herself up. ‘Not according to the Bible. We don’t hold with such unnatural intimacies.’
‘Oh, go to Hell, you poker-faced hypocrite!’ yelled Della. ‘What do you know of life? You make me sick.’
‘The feeling is mutual. We all know what you are, missy.’ Dorinda dismissed Della with a flick of her hand. ‘A drunkard through and through.’
‘And you are a fat-arsed killjoy, who wouldn’t know fun if it jumped up and bit you.’
‘At least I don’t prop up a bar, or live in a den of drinkers and sodomites, who show little respect for this season of Advent.’
‘Come away, Dorinda. The less said the better. These people don’t know how to behave themselves.’ They stormed off down the track to their villa.
Ariadne had heard all of this, but was too choked with smoke and exhaustion to respond, even to get anything from upstairs.
‘Bed for you two ladies. Hebe doesn’t look well,’ said Chloë, ushering them away from the scene.
Hebe looked at their house. ‘How did that happen? I woke with such a headache. I made myself some tea downstairs… I can’t remember.’ Her words drifted away.
Ariadne felt sick. Hebe was forgetful. She might have lit a match and left it. If only she had been there to supervise. It was then she realised all the Christmas music had been in the living room and her digital music centre was destroyed. Downstairs was a mess of charred remains. Christmas and their reputation lay in ruins.
‘Come along. Things will look better after you’ve had a good sleep.’ Natalie took Ariadne’s arm and led her away, like a child.
Ariadne knew that nothing would look better in the morning.