One of the Girls(48)

She eyed the saganaki ruefully – it was only worth having when it was hot. ‘Give me a minute.’ She took one final, delectable bite, then clambered from her seat. No one asked where she was going, so she didn’t say.

She crossed the cobbled square, where tourists milled at the edge of tavernas, studying the menu lecterns. Dusk had given way to night, and the square was lit with lamps and long strings of bulbs, giving a beautifully festive feel.

Eleanor moved towards the church, the waft of incense drifting from the open doors. She stood with her back to one of its towering stone walls, beside an ancient lemon tree in fruit.

‘So?’ She wondered whether this had anything to do with the news that Lexi was pregnant. Had Lexi told him a moment ago on their video call? Had Bella given the game away?

Ed’s voice was low, clipped. ‘There’s a woman on the hen do.’

‘Six of us, actually. It’s sort of, like, the point.’

‘Ana.’

‘Yes, I’m sharing a room with her.’

‘Who is she?’

‘A friend of Lexi’s. They met at a yoga class—’

‘Yes, yes. Lexi’s talked about her. But what do you know about her?’

‘You’re being odd.’

‘Eleanor. Just tell me what you know,’ he demanded, failing to hide his impatience.

‘Okay, well, she’s from Brixton. She’s a sign-language person. An interpreter, that’s the word. For her job. That’s what she does. Her sister is deaf, so she—’

‘Does she have children?’

‘Ana? Yes. A son. Luca. He’s fifteen. She doesn’t look old enough—’

‘Oh God …’ Ed said, his voice strangely distant.

‘Ed?’

There was a long silence.

‘Why are you asking me about Ana? About Luca?’ As she spoke, a memory she’d not thought about in a long time began to rise to the surface.

Ed’s voice was quiet. ‘Ana is short for Juliana.’

Eleanor hadn’t heard that name spoken in years, and even then it was whispered behind the closed doors of her father’s study.

‘Oh,’ she said, looking across the square towards the taverna. Her gaze fixed on Ana, who was sitting close to Lexi, their heads leant towards one another. ‘It’s her, isn’t it?’





39

Fen

Fen folded her arms across her chest. It had been so long since she had felt this way, as if she were ashamed of her entire body: the boyish haircut; the tattoos; the holes she’d pierced through her ears and nose; her too-broad shoulders; her high, small breasts flattened within a sports bra.

His voice, hissing in her ear: You disgust me.

These thoughts were so old, so well-worn, she was surprised they could still hold any power.

That was the thing about fear: avoiding or running from it only magnified it. To overcome fear, Fen knew, one had to face it. It was as simple – and as hard – as that.

She looked across the table at Robyn. Fen replayed the moment she’d come across her at the swimming hole, Robyn standing aloft the rocky boulder, toes curled over the edge. Fen had seen the tremble in Robyn’s bare legs, the breath moving high in her chest. Robyn had stared down at the long drop, but she hadn’t stepped back.

She’d raised her chin, set her gaze on the horizon.

Jumped.

To overcome fear, one has to face it.

Fen took a breath. Stood.

There was a moment where the ground seemed to sway a little, but she lifted her gaze, set it straight ahead.

‘You okay?’ Bella asked, brows dipped, a hand rising as if to reach for her.

‘I will be,’ Fen said, almost to herself. Her legs carried her away from the table, crossing the taverna and delivering her into the dimness of the restaurant. The indoor tables were empty, the bar area clear.

She made herself keep moving. She knew this thin corridor with its open brickwork, stacked wooden crates, and scent of cooking oil drifting from the steamy kitchen. Her heart was beating hard and high in her chest as she allowed herself to feel it, all of it. The fear. The rage. The shame.

She heard footsteps coming from behind her, leather soles against stone. His.

Nico.

Her hands were shaking. Maybe she couldn’t do this. Face him. She began to turn, but there was nowhere to go. She caught the scent of his aftershave in the air – felt her stomach turn. She froze.

A tray of cutlery glinted on top of the stack of crates. At the centre was a meat knife with a wooden handle. On instinct, Fen reached for it. The blade glinted silver as she felt the thrilling secret press of metal against her thigh.

Nico, holding a stack of cleared plates, emerged in the corridor. He needed to pass right by her to enter the kitchen. He changed the angle of his hips, saying, ‘Hello, madam,’ moving to step around her.

Hot-cold panic flushed through her chest. They were face to face. His body an inch from hers.

He’d almost passed her when she finally spoke. ‘Do you remember me?’ The question came out like a bark.

He blinked. Cocked his head. He looked as if he were going to shrug, say No, but then his gaze lowered, eyes travelling towards her left hand.

The knife.

His eyes widened, registering it.

He looked up, right at her face.