“Ta-da.”

  “Darling, I told you I invited Kate,” said Lana. “You’ve forgotten, that’s all.”

  “Who else is here?” Jason sighed. “Jesus, Lana, I told you—I need to work.”

  “No one’s going to disturb you, I promise.”

  “As long as you didn’t invite that prick Elliot.”

  “Hello, Jason,” I said, from behind him. “Lovely to see you, too.”

  Jason was startled and had the grace to look embarrassed. Kate roared with laughter. Lana laughed, too. So did Agathi.

  We all did—apart from Jason.

  And so I come to Jason.

  I may as well admit it’s impossible for me to write about him with anything approaching objectivity. I’ll do my best, of course. But it’s difficult. Suffice to say, Jason wasn’t my cup of tea. Which is a very English way of saying I couldn’t stand the man.

  Jason was a funny chap. And I don’t mean amusing. He was handsome—well-built, with a strong jaw, clear blue eyes, dark hair. But his personal manner was a constant puzzle to me. I couldn’t tell if he was being deliberately brusque—that’s a polite word—and didn’t give a damn that he was being rude. Or if he just wasn’t conscious how he made other people feel. Sadly, I suspect the former.

  Agathi in particular resented the way Jason spoke to her. He used such a condescending tone with her, as if addressing a servant, when it was clear she was so much more than that. She would glare at him: I was here before you, her eyes screamed, and I’ll be here after you.

  But Agathi never spoke out of turn. She never criticized Jason to Lana—who remained blind to all of his faults. Lana had a stubborn habit of always seeing the best in everyone—even the worst of people.

  “Okay,” Kate said. “I’m going to unpack. See you lot at dinner.”

  She downed the rest of her champagne. Then she slung her bag over her shoulder. She left the kitchen.

  * * *

  Weighed down by her bags, Kate descended the narrow flight of stone steps to the lower level.

  The summerhouse was at the end of the swimming pool. The pool was made of green marble, surrounded by cypress trees. Otto had it designed to blend in with the original architecture of the main house.

  Kate liked staying down here—away from the main house, it offered her privacy, somewhere removed, where she could retreat.

  She let herself into the summerhouse and dropped her bags on the floor. She considered unpacking but it was too much effort. She caught her breath.

  Kate felt like crying, suddenly. She’d been feeling emotional all day; and just now, the sight of Lana and Leo together—so happy in each other’s company, such easy, intimate affection—made her feel a pang of sorrow, mingled with envy—and strangely tearful.

  Why was that? Why, when Leo took his mother’s hand, or touched her shoulder, or sweetly kissed her cheek, did Kate want to cry? Because she felt so desperately lonely, herself?

  No, that was bullshit. It was more than that, and she knew it.

  It was being here, on the island—that’s what bothered her. Being here, knowing what she had come to do. Was it a mistake? A wrong idea? Possibly … Probably.

  Too late now, she thought. Come on, Katie, get it together.

  Something was needed to steady her nerves. What did she bring with her? Klonopin? Xanax? Suddenly, she remembered the little present she’d left herself, last time she was on the island. Could it still be here?

  Kate hurried over to the bookcase, running her fingers along the spines. She found the battered yellow book she was looking for:

  The Doors of Perception, by Aldous Huxley.

  She took it from the shelf. It fell open at the right page—revealing a little flattened bag of cocaine. Her eyes lit up. Bingo.

  Smiling to herself, Kate emptied the cocaine onto the bedside table. Then she pulled out her credit card and started chopping it up.

  8

  In the kitchen, Agathi was using a small, sharp knife to deftly gut a sea bream. She pulled out the murky gray entrails in the sink. Dark red blood mingled with running water as she washed out the cavity.

  She could practically feel her grandmother’s hands working through hers; her spirit guiding her fingers as she performed this familiar motion. Her yiayia had been in her thoughts all afternoon—in her mind, the old woman was inseparable from this part of the world. Both of them had a slight wildness, a touch of magic. Her grandmother had been rumored to be a witch. And Agathi could feel her presence here. She could sense her in the sunlight, and in the sound of the sea—and in the gutting of a fish.

  She turned off the tap, dried the sea bream with kitchen paper, and placed the fish on a plate.

  Agathi was forty-five years old. She had a strong face, black eyes, sharp cheekbones—very Hellenic looking, to my mind. A handsome woman, who rarely bothered with makeup. Her hair was always pulled back and pinned up. A severe look, perhaps—but Agathi had precious little vanity, and even less free time, which she didn’t waste on her appearance. She left that to others.

  She considered the fish. They were on the large side. Three should be enough, she thought. But she’d check with Lana, just in case.

  Lana seems happier, she thought. Good.

  Lana had been in an odd mood recently. Distant, unreachable. Something was obviously bothering her. Agathi knew better than to ask. She was the soul of discretion and never gave her opinion unless asked—even then, only under duress.

  Agathi was the only member of the household observant enough to notice this recent change in Lana. The others—the two men in the house—they spent little time contemplating Lana’s mood. Leo’s selfishness Agathi excused on account of his youth. Jason, she found harder to forgive.

  Agathi felt determined that Lana should have a restful and enjoyable few days on the island. No reason to think she wouldn’t.

  So far, they were lucky with the weather. No sign of any disturbing wind. The sea couldn’t have been flatter on their crossing. There was barely a ripple on the surface.

  Their arrival had been bumpier—in a logistical sense. Agathi was a formidable housekeeper and made everything run like clockwork. But today, things were running late. They had arrived to find Babis in the kitchen, the groceries yet to be unpacked; the cleaners still at work in the house, mopping floors and making beds. Babis was visibly embarrassed, and apologetic. Lana was gracious, of course, insisting it was her fault for giving them such short notice. She thanked all the cleaners individually, and the old ladies beamed at her, adoring, starstruck. Lana and Leo went for a swim and Jason retired moodily to his study, armed with his laptop and phone.

  Agathi was left alone with Babis—which was uncomfortable, of course. But she stood her ground. What a pompous arse that man was! Obsequious to Lana, groveling, practically crawling on the floor. And, in the same breath, he’d hiss at his staff, in Greek, dictatorial and contemptuous, as if they were dirt.

  Agathi, he loathed above all. To him, she would always be the waitress at his restaurant. He never forgave her for what happened that summer—the first time Otto and Lana appeared for lunch at Yialos, on the hunt for a babysitter; and fate decreed Agathi serve their table. Lana took an instant shine to Agathi. They hired her on the spot, and she became indispensable to them. When their visit came to an end, they asked if she would like to live with them, as a nanny, in Los Angeles. She said yes without even a second thought.

  You might think it was the allure of Hollywood that made Agathi so quick to accept—but you’d be wrong. She didn’t care where she went, as long as she was with Lana. She was so completely under Lana’s spell, in those days. She would have gone to Timbuktu, if Lana asked her.

  So, Agathi moved to LA with the family, and then London. And she graduated, as Leo grew older, from nanny to cook, housekeeper, assistant, and—was she flattering herself here?—Lana’s confidante, and best friend? Perhaps this was overstepping the mark slightly; but not much. In a practical, day-to-day sense, Agathi was closer to her than anyone else.

  Alone in the kitchen with Babis, Agathi took wicked pleasure in slowly, painstakingly going through the long grocery list, item by item by item—insisting he check everything was there. He found this excruciating; and there was much heavy sighing and tapping of feet. When Agathi felt she had tortured him enough, she released him. Then she began to put away all the groceries and plan the next few meals.

  As she poured herself a cup of tea, the back door opened.

  Nikos was standing there, in the shadow of the doorway. He held a dagger and a fierce-looking hook in one hand. In his other hand, he had a bag of wet black spiky sea urchins.

  Agathi glared at him. “What do you want?” she said in Greek.

  “Here.” Nikos held out the sea urchins. “For her.”

  “Oh.” Agathi took the bag.

  “You know how to clean them?”

  “I know.”

  Nikos lingered for a moment. He seemed to be trying to peer over her shoulder, to see who else might be in the kitchen.

  Agathi frowned. “Want anything else?”

  Nikos shook his head.

  “Then I have work to do.” She firmly shut the door in his face.

  She dumped the bag of urchins on the counter. She looked at them for a moment. Eaten raw, they were a local delicacy, and Lana loved them. It was kind enough of Nikos, yes; and Agathi didn’t begrudge the extra effort it would take to prepare them. But this gesture of his bothered her. Something about it made her nervous.

  There was something odd, she thought, about the way he looked at Lana. Agathi had noticed it earlier, when Nikos greeted them at the jetty. Lana hadn’t noticed.

  But Agathi had. And she didn’t like it one bit.

  9

  Nikos walked away from the back door.

  He was thinking how strange it felt, after months of solitude, to be around other people again.

  It felt, in some ways, almost like an invasion—as if his island were under siege. His island. How absurd to think of this island as his own. But he couldn’t help it.

  Nikos had lived a solitary existence on Aura for almost twenty-five years now. He was practically self-sufficient, hunting and growing whatever he needed. He had a vegetable plot at the back of his cottage, some chickens—and an abundance of fish in the sea. He only went back to Mykonos for essentials these days; like tobacco, beer, ouzo. Sex, he did without.

  If occasionally he felt lonely, in need of human company—for other voices and laughter—he’d visit the tavern frequented by the locals. It was on the other side of town from Mykonos port; away from the billionaires and their yachts. Nikos would sit alone at the bar, drinking a beer. He wouldn’t talk but he’d listen, keeping one ear on local gossip. The other drinkers, apart from acknowledging him with a nod, mainly left him alone. They sensed Nikos was different now—his decades of isolation had turned him into an outsider.

  He would listen to them gossiping about Lana, the old men, sitting at their small tables with their backgammon sets and dainty glasses of ouzo. Many of them remembered Otto; and, rather quaintly, referred to Lana, in Greek, as “the screen siren.” They were intrigued by this reclusive American movie star who owned that haunted island—a property, it must be said, that had brought her precious little happiness; and much grief.

  That island is cursed, someone said. Mark my words. It will happen again. Before long, this new husband will go the way of the old one.

  He has no money, said someone else—the husband is a kept man, paid for by his wife.

  Well, she’s rich enough, said another. I wish mine paid for me.

  This got a laugh.

  How true this was about Jason, Nikos didn’t know—nor care. He appreciated Jason’s predicament. Who could compete with such wealth as Lana possessed? All Nikos had to offer her was his bare hands. But at least he was a real man—not a fake one, like Jason.

  Nikos had disliked Jason on sight. Nikos remembered the first time Jason visited Aura, bad-tempered, in a suit and sunglasses, inspecting the island with a proprietorial air.

  Nikos continued to observe him at close quarters, over several years, often when Jason had no idea he was being observed. Nikos had concluded Jason was a fraud. His latest “hobby,” for instance, pretending to be a hunter—this was the biggest joke so far. Nikos had to make an effort not to laugh, watching Jason handle the guns so clumsily, aiming so badly; yet so full of bravado, like a puffed-up boy pretending to be a man.

  As for his kill—pathetic, measly birds that weren’t worth the effort of Agathi’s plucking. Not to mention a waste of bullets.

  A man like that didn’t deserve Lana.

  She was the only one of them Nikos didn’t mind being here. It was her island, after all. She belonged here; she came alive here. She was always deathly pale on arrival, in desperate need of sun. Then, in a few days, the island would work its magic on her—she’d swim in its sea, eat its fish and the fruits of its earth. And bloom like a flower. The most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. A visceral reminder that Nature—while glorious and sustaining—was not the same thing as a woman.

  Nikos couldn’t remember the last time he had been touched. Let alone kissed.

  He spent too much time alone. Sometimes he wondered if he was going mad. They said, in the tavern, that the wind drove you mad. But it wasn’t the wind.

  It was the solitude.

  If he left Aura, where could he go? He could no longer be around other people for any extended time. His only option was the sea—to live on a boat, sail the islands. But he didn’t own a boat large enough—and could never afford one fit for more than a fishing trip.

  No, he must resign himself to never leaving the island, until he was dead. And probably not even then. It would be several months, after all, before his body was discovered. By then, in all likelihood, he would be torn apart, eaten, devoured by the other inhabitants of the island—like that dead beetle outside his kitchen door, dismembered and carried away by a long line of industrious ants.

  His mind seemed to revolve around death these days. Death was everywhere on Aura, he knew that.

  * * *

  As he walked away from the house, taking the shortcut through the trees, Nikos saw something that made him stop in his tracks.

  A huge wasps’ nest.

  He stared at it. The nest was massive, the biggest he’d ever seen. It was at the base of an olive tree, in a hollow that was formed by the roots. A large mass of swirling wasps—like a billowing ball of black smoke, turning in on itself. In a way, it was beautiful.

  Be crazy to disturb a nest that size. Besides, he didn’t want to destroy it. It wasn’t right to kill them. The wasps had as much right to be here as anyone else. They were a blessing, really—they ate the mosquitoes. He hoped the family wouldn’t see it and demand it be destroyed.

  The thing to do, he decided, was to guide the wasps away from the main house—and hopefully not get stung doing so. A plate of meat outside his cottage should do it: beef, chopped up, or a skinned rabbit. The wasps had a particular fondness for rabbit.

  Just then, he heard a splash. He stopped. He looked over, through the trees, and saw that Kate had jumped in the swimming pool.

  Nikos stood there, invisible in the darkness, watching her swim about.

  After a while, Kate seemed to sense his presence. She stopped swimming. She looked around, trying to see beyond the lights, into the dark. “Who is it? Who’s there?”

  Nikos was about to keep walking—then he heard some footsteps in the shadows. Someone else appeared—Jason, descending the steps. He walked over to the edge of the pool.

  Jason stood there, staring at Kate in the water. His face was expressionless, like a mask. Kate swam up to him.

  She smiled. “You should jump in, the water’s lovely.”

  Jason didn’t smile back. “What are you doing here?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean. Why are you here?”

  Kate laughed. “You’re obviously not pleased to see me.”

  “I’m not.”

  “That’s not very nice.”

  “Kate—”

  Kate stuck her tongue out at him and submerged herself with a splash. She swam off underwater, ending the conversation.

  Jason turned and walked back to the house.

  Nikos hesitated for a moment, pondering what he had just seen. He went to leave—then had a sudden, strange feeling. He froze.

  He wasn’t alone. Someone else was here, too, in the dark, watching Kate.

  Nikos looked around, squinting, trying to see in the darkness. He couldn’t see anyone. He listened hard—and there was only silence. But he could swear someone was hiding there.

  He hesitated a moment. Then, feeling unnerved, he turned and hurried back to his cottage.

  10

  After I had a shower, I took a couple of glasses of champagne to Lana in her bedroom. She was alone. She was sitting at her dressing table, in a bathrobe. Lana looked even more beautiful, I thought, without makeup.

  We chatted for a while, before the door was thrown open. Jason charged into the room. He noticed me and stopped. “Oh. You’re here. Who are you two gossiping about?”

  Lana smiled. “No one you know.”

  “As long as it’s not me.”

  “Why?” I said. “Guilty conscience?”

  He glared at me. “What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

  Lana laughed—but I could tell she was annoyed. “Jason. He’s joking.”

  “Well, he’s not funny.” Jason added, with a Herculean effort at wit, “Ever.”

  I smiled. “Thankfully, thousands of theatergoers around the world disagree with you.”

  “Uh-huh.” He didn’t smile back.

  These days, Jason’s goodwill toward me was entirely depleted— the best I could hope for was that he remain civil and not actually become violent.