With their purchases tucked away, they continued wandering along the shaded alleyways, blue flashes of the harbour glimpsed in the distance. They stopped for ice creams, served in wide waffle cones and doused generously with melted dark chocolate, and strolled to the harbour edge to eat them. There, tourist boats were returning after a day of island-hopping or snorkelling, and they watched crowds of holidaymakers with sun-pinkened faces and beach bags hooked over arms filling up the tavernas.
Ana’s phone buzzed – the holiday atmosphere dissolving when she saw it was a message about Luca. Her sister said he seemed withdrawn and surly – not his usual self – and refused to talk about the suspension from school.
Luca was fifteen years old – not yet a man, but no longer a boy, lost somewhere between those two worlds, where Ana was unable to reach him. She had a fierce urge to be home, in the cool of their flat, Luca sitting opposite her at their small Formica table. She wanted to be able to look him in the eye. Talk. Find out what was hurting him.
‘Everything okay?’ Eleanor asked. She’d stopped a few paces ahead of Ana, crumbling the end of her cone into the harbour where a shoal of tiny fish darted across the filmy surface, mouths opened.
‘My son’s got himself in some trouble at school.’ She paused. ‘He’s been suspended. He’s not the sort of kid who gets suspended. Maybe all parents say that. But he’s not. My sister thinks he’s lost his way.’ Ana’s ice cream was melting, dripping a puddle of liquid chocolate onto the concrete. She tossed the remains of it into a bin, then sucked her fingers clean.
‘What do you think?’ Eleanor asked.
‘Luca’s hanging out with this crowd of friends. He looks up to these boys – but they’re not like him. A bit older, a bit tougher, you know? He’s not himself when he’s with them.’
Eleanor nodded. ‘What’s Luca interested in?’
‘He’d tell you football, computer games, cars – like the other boys – but they’re not his passion.’
‘What is?’
‘I’m not sure he knows yet. He used to love art – he’d spend hours sketching these wild, beautiful pictures of dragons and sea monsters – but I’ve not seen him pick up his sketch pad in a long while.’
‘Maybe he’ll come back to it. He’s so young.’
‘Was your passion always sculpting?’
‘No. I only started in my twenties. Wish I’d found it sooner because it gives me a place to go, somewhere to put my mind when everything else feels too noisy.’
Ana realised how much she liked this woman. She was smart. Perceptive. Forthright. ‘Tell me about your work. Do you have a studio?’
‘Of sorts. It’s a garage I rent. I love it though. In summer I roll up the door, let the light flood in. In winter all I need is a gas heater.’
‘And thermals beneath your overalls.’
Eleanor’s head tipped to one side. ‘Yes. How did you know that?’
Ana hesitated. A couple of years ago, she’d read an interview in a magazine about Eleanor’s sculpting process, which she’d torn out, keeping it in a private file with a slim collection of other documents. Eleanor had been wearing blue overalls in the profile picture and explained that she layered thermals beneath them so she could keep working in all conditions.
Ana made her face look easy, careful not to give herself away. ‘Lucky guess,’ she said.
21
Bella
That evening, the hens ate dinner on the terrace, the table filled with bowls of herb-flecked couscous and blistered stuffed peppers. Bella’s foot still throbbed from the scorpion sting and, deciding she needed more alcohol on medicinal grounds, she reached for a bottle of retsina.
She glanced about in search of other glasses that needed topping up, but they were all full. She rolled her eyes. There had been a time when she and Lexi would have skipped dinner altogether, voting for alcohol and dancing over food and talking.
If you can’t beat them, join them, she decided, stabbing her fork into a slice of grilled aubergine and dropping it into her mouth. It dripped with a sweet, honeyed flavour. ‘Eleanor, what magic have you drizzled over this to make it taste like a meadow? A fragrant, smoky meadow.’
From the far end of the table, Eleanor glanced up, as if surprised to be spoken to. ‘Seasoning and dried herbs I found in the cupboard.’ She shrugged as if it were no big deal – as if the skill of turning a humble aubergine into a magnificent flavour-drenched meal was something that all humans possessed.