Page 94 of Hot Greek Summer

‘Morning,’ she said, blinking in the bright sunlight. ‘What time is it?’

‘A little before eight,’ Frankie said.

Winnie nodded. ‘No signs of life over there yet?’ She nodded towards Stella’s balcony at the end with a knowing lift of her brows. Stella and Angelo had barely surfaced from their love nest since their return to the villa.

‘Not yet,’ Frankie smiled. ‘I’ll be surprised if she makes it to the gallery with us this afternoon.’

‘I really hope she does,’ Winnie said. Corinna had hand delivered the stiff ivory and gilt preview invitations a couple of days ago, fizzing about a new exhibition opening there next week. Much as they appreciated Corinna’s invitation and understood that she was trying to help them re-integrate, all three women were filled with a healthy dose of trepidation at the idea of mingling with the locals at all.

‘Do you think people are ever likely to forgive us?’ Frankie asked. ‘Because I’m not sure how much longer I can handle being the local pariahs.’

As far as the majority of people on the island knew, they were still guilty of ending the island’s run of good fortune by burning down that blessed arbutus bush. Only Corinna, Panos and Hero were privy to the truth; the latter only because Panos had known about her stash of gin and taken her into his confidence.

‘Hopefully, in time,’ Winnie said. She knew exactly what Frankie meant; she felt the coolness from the islanders whenever she went shopping or across to Panos’s bar; people were never rude, exactly, but they kept their smiles for other people and their exclusion hurt. ‘At least we’re not likely to run out of gin now. That’s something, right?’

Frankie sipped her coffee and sighed, and on the balcony below, Seth Manson listened to their conversation and wanted to kill Mikey for the trouble he’d caused.

‘Does this dress look all right?’

Frankie turned to look at Winnie outside the gallery. ‘It’s fine,’ she said. ‘Will you stop with the nerves, you’re making me nervous.’

‘I can’t help it.’ Winnie straightened her white linen dress over her thighs.

‘I told you we should have had a drink first,’ Stella said, resplendent beside her in killer high heels and a black silk dress painted with red peacocks. She looked sickeningly healthy, with the kind of self-satisfied glow usually reserved for honeymooners.

‘Because smelling of gin is always a good way to make people like you,’ Frankie said, laughing and pushing the door open.

‘On this island, anyway,’ Stella murmured as they stepped into the busy, thankfully air-conditioned room.

‘Ladies, you made it!’ Corinna made a bee-line for them and enveloped them in perfumed hugs. They each appreciated her no-holds-barred greeting; she made no apology for the fact that they were her friends. ‘Smile, my darlings,’ she murmured. ‘Chins up and boobs out.’ She stilled a passing waitress and hooked three glasses of champagne for them, promising to come back and find them for a chat later as she melted back into the throng.

Winnie sipped her drink, and it was only then that her eyes settled to the exhibition, and to the name on the easel by the door welcoming them in.

Jesse Anderson.

Her heart contracted painfully. Predictably, he’d slipped straight back into avoidance mode after their night together – in fact she hadn’t seen him at all apart from those fleeting moments at the mayor’s funeral. He seemed to have gone to ground; she’d even taken to spending a couple of hours a day in the room he’d given her in the hope that he’d come to her there. Tentatively drawing up fresh jewellery designs based on the flora and fauna of the island, Winnie had discovered peace and solitude, all the time underscored by bittersweet, unrequited longing.

‘Shit. We can leave if you like,’ Frankie said, following Winnie’s gaze.

‘Don’t run away,’ Stella murmured on her other side.

Winnie looked from one to the other. ‘Are you two playing devil and angel?’

Her friends caught each other’s eyes and shrugged, and Winnie took a good glug of fizz and squared her shoulders.

‘Let’s just get this over with,’ she said, moving to the nearest wall to look at the preliminary sketches that accompanied a nearby sculpture.

‘Wow, he’s good.’ Stella stood admiring the charcoal drawings of a huge black and white cat. Jesse had managed to capture the lithe essence of motion in the animal’s movement, while in other images he’d encapsulated the level of relaxation only a lazy feline can hope to reach.

Winnie nodded, recognising the cat in the images as the same one who’d dozed on the armchair in her workroom the day before. ‘He is.’

The sculpture itself was equally vivid; more so. He’d chosen to show the cat sleeping in the branches of an olive tree, his chin flat along a branch, his limbs dripping casually down.

Glancing around the room, Winnie thought she caught sight of Jesse himself, but when he turned it was someone different altogether. Surely he’d come to his own exhibition?

‘Is that our donkey?’

Winnie followed Stella across to the life-size sculpture. It was, without doubt, The Fonz.

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