The thought of this, of jail, being caged like a bird, made Jason’s heart thud in his chest. He’d do anything to prevent it. He felt so afraid, like a little boy—he wanted to cry his eyes out. But he didn’t.

  Instead, he propped up the gun against a column. He bent down, reached around Kate’s waist—and pulled her to her feet.

  He leaned forward, and kissed her on the lips.

  “Don’t,” Kate whispered. “Don’t.”

  She tried to pull away but he didn’t let her. Jason kissed her again.

  This time, Kate let him.

  While they kissed, Jason had a funny feeling—a kind of sixth sense, perhaps?—that they were being observed.

  Is it Nikos? Is he watching us?

  Jason pulled away for a second—and looked around. But no one was there. Just the trees, and the earth. And the sun, of course—white, dazzling, burning in the sky.

  It blinded him to look at it.

  17

  Almost immediately, the weather began to change.

  The sun disappeared behind a cloud, casting us into a gloomy half-light. And the wind, which had been picking up all day, first as a whisper, and now as a wail, began rushing at us, in a rage, across the water; tearing along the ground, shaking bushes and shrubs, rattling spiky cactus leaves, making the branches of the trees sway and creak.

  We had planned to venture out to Mykonos, for dinner at Yialos restaurant. Agathi warned against it, on account of the wind, but we decided to go anyway. Jason insisted he’d taken the speedboat out in worse weather than this. Even so, I was feeling a little uneasy, and before we headed out into that dark and windy night, I thought I’d have a stiff drink—for Dutch courage, you could say.

  I went into the living room. I examined the drinks cabinet, although calling it a cabinet was an understatement.

  What a beautiful, perfectly stocked bar. It had everything you needed—shakers, spoons, whisks, and all kinds of paraphernalia; expensive spirits and mixers; limes, lemons, olives—a fridge for wine and a little freezer for ice. With such perfect ingredients, how could I resist making a martini?

  I have strict ideas, you know, about how a martini should be made. Controversially, I prefer vodka, not gin. It must be ice-cold, and extremely dry. Vermouth originated in Milan; and Noël Coward once famously quipped that the nearest a martini should ever get to vermouth was a wave of the glass in the general direction of Italy. I agree, and I was careful to add only a drop or two, for the merest whisper of vermouth. This was an excellent vermouth, fortunately—French, not Italian—and kept chilled in the fridge, as it should be.

  Then I opened a bottle of vodka. I threw some ice into the cocktail shaker and got to work. A few moments later, I poured out the thick, icy white liquid into a small triangular glass. I plunged a silver cocktail stick into an olive, delicately placed it in the drink; then I held it up to the light and admired it.

  It was indeed the perfect martini. I congratulated myself. I was about to bring it to my lips—when I stopped, distracted by the oddest sight.

  Behind me, reflected in the mirrored door of the cocktail cabinet, I saw Leo—creeping past the living room door—holding an armful of guns.

  I put down my drink and went to the door. I peered out.

  Leo was carrying the guns to the end of the passage. He went up to the large wooden chest on the floor by the kitchen door. With one hand, he opened the chest. Then he carefully lowered the guns into the chest. He handled them distastefully, as if they stank. He closed the lid.

  Leo stood there for a moment, contemplating his efforts. He looked pleased. Then he sauntered off, whistling to himself.

  I hesitated. Then I left the living room. I went along the passage, to check the room that Jason called his “gun room.” It was a fairly useless room, near the back door; previously a boot room, for muddy shoes and umbrellas—which, in this dry climate, was rarely used. Jason had cleared it out, installing gun racks, and kept his hunting paraphernalia there. He had three or four guns—including a rifle, a semiautomatic shotgun, and a couple of handguns.

  All the gun racks were empty.

  I let out a silent laugh. Jason wouldn’t like that at all. He would flip out. As much as I relished the prospect, I knew I couldn’t leave it like this. I wondered whether I should tell Lana. I decided to mull it over while I had my cocktail.

  I went back to the living room—and returned to my perfect martini. But, having lost its chill, the martini was disappointingly warm.

  Rather a letdown, in fact.

  18

  On the way to the restaurant, the atmosphere on the boat was strained.

  Jason had a fixed, determined scowl as he attempted to steer the speedboat through the large black waves. Lana was silent, and she didn’t look happy. I wondered if they’d had a fight. Kate was sitting next to her, also looking morose, chain-smoking, staring at the waves.

  I was the only one in jolly spirits. I’d had a couple of martinis by then and was looking forward to dinner immensely. Rather than travel in miserable silence, I turned to Leo, who was sitting next to me. I had to shout to be heard over the wind.

  “So, Leo. What’s all this I hear about you wanting to be an actor?”

  Leo threw me a startled look. “Who told you that?”

  “Your mother, of course. I can’t say I’m surprised.”

  “You’re not?” Leo looked suspicious. “How come?”

  “Well, you know the old saying.” I winked at him. “‘The apple never rots far from the tree.’”

  I laughed, but Leo frowned.

  “Is that a joke? I don’t get it.”

  He gave me a suspicious look, then turned to look at the glowing island in the distance.

  “We’re almost there,” I said. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

  Beautiful is the word. Arriving at Mykonos at night is an enchanting, almost hallucinatory experience. As you approach, the island sparkles with shimmering white lights, illuminating the white-domed buildings that rise and fall along the curves of the hills.

  Yialos means “waterfront.” Appropriately enough, the restaurant was along the harbor wall. We disembarked at the private jetty. I was relieved to be out of the lurching boat and on dry land. We made our way up the stone steps to the restaurant.

  It was a picturesque spot: the tables were along the water’s edge, with white linen tablecloths, and illuminated by lanterns hanging from the branches of olive trees. We could hear the tide slapping at the stone seawall.

  As soon as Babis saw us, he hurried over. He snapped his fingers at his flock of waiters, all of them in gloves and bow ties and gleaming white jackets. At the other tables, people turned and stared. I felt Leo squirm by my side; even after a lifetime of it, he still disliked the attention—who could blame him?—and tonight there was a lot of it.

  Yialos was an overpriced and pretentious restaurant, catering to an extremely wealthy, sophisticated clientele. Even so, Lana’s unexpected appearance from the water, like the birth of a modern-day Aphrodite, rendered everyone agog. Everyone stopped and stared.

  Lana was luminous that night—diamonds glittering in her hair, in her ears, and around her neck. She was wearing a white dress, a simple but expensive gown, perfectly fitted to her figure, which reflected the light and made her glow like some kind of beautiful apparition.

  You had to marvel at the spectacle, really. Then, to cap it all, a little kid, about seven or eight years old, tottered up to her. He had been sent over by his parents. The boy timidly held up his napkin and asked Lana for her autograph.

  Lana smiled and graciously complied—signing her name on his napkin with Babis’s pen. Then she bent down and kissed the boy’s cheek. He went bright red. The entire restaurant burst into delighted, spontaneous applause.

  All the while, Kate was standing next to me. I could sense her mounting irritation. Anger was radiating from her like body heat.

  That’s something you should know about Kate—she had quite a temper. This was well-known among her colleagues in the theater—all of whom had at some point borne the brunt of one of her rages. Once provoked, her fury was fearsome, white-hot and incendiary—until it burned itself out. Whereupon she would be stricken with remorse, and desperate to repair what damage she had done—which, sadly, wasn’t always possible.

  And now, I sensed Kate getting madder by the second. Her temper was getting the better of her, I could tell. When she caught my eye, she looked positively murderous.

  Then she said, loudly, in a stage whisper, audible to most of the restaurant, “Does no one want my autograph? Fine. Fuck off, then.”

  Babis looked horrified and quickly decided she was joking. He laughed long and hard. He guided us to our table, cooing and fawning all over Lana—bowing so low, he was in danger of toppling over.

  At the table, Kate made a show of pulling out her own chair and sitting down—before a waiter could assist her.

  “No, thanks, mate,” Kate said to the waiter. “I don’t need any help. No special treatment for me. I’m not a movie star. Just a normal person.”

  Lana also refused assistance being seated. She smiled. “I’m a person too, Kate.”

  “No, you’re not.” Kate lit a cigarette and gave a long theatrical sigh. “Jesus. Don’t you ever get sick of it?”

  “Sick of what?”

  “Sick of this.” Kate gestured at the other tables. “Is it not possible for you to have dinner without five hundred people applauding?”

  Lana opened the menu and studied it. “Hardly five hundred. Just a few tables. It made them happy. It didn’t cost me much to oblige.”

  “Well, it cost me.”

  “Did it?” Lana looked up. Her smile was wavering. “Did it cost you so very much, Kate?”

  Kate ignored her and turned to Babis. “I need a drink. Champagne?”

  “But of course.” Babis bowed and looked at Lana. “And for Madame?”

  Lana didn’t reply; she seemed not to hear him. She kept staring at Kate with a strange, puzzled expression.

  Leo nudged her. “Mum? Can we order, please?”

  “Yes,” said Jason. “For Christ’s sake, let’s get this charade over with.”

  “Wait a second,” I said, poring over the menu. “I don’t know what I want yet. I love ordering in Greek restaurants, don’t you? I want it all—all seventy-five courses.”

  That made Lana smile, and she snapped out of it. She ordered for the table.

  It must be said that one of Lana’s most endearing skills was ordering well—overgenerously, usually far too much; and she always insisted on picking up the bill, which made her the perfect host in my book. She chose a selection of dips and salads, local squid and lobsters, meatballs and mashed potatoes; and the house specialty, a large sea bass, baked in a flaming salt crust, smashed open by Babis at the table: theatrical and delicious.

  Having taken the order, Babis departed, bowing low as he went, dispatching waiters to fetch our food and drinks. Champagne appeared; a glass poured for everyone except Leo.

  “I’d like to make a toast.” I raised my glass. “To Lana. To thank her, for her incredible generosity and for—”

  Kate snorted, rolling her eyes. “I’m not participating in this performance.”

  “Sorry?” I frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “Work it out.” Kate knocked back her champagne. “Having a good time, are you? Enjoying yourself?”

  To my surprise, I realized Kate was directing this at me. Her voice was sarcastic. When I looked into her eyes, I saw burning anger.

  Apparently, I had accidentally stumbled into her firing line. A quick glance at Lana told me that she saw this, too. I gave Lana a reassuring smile—to show I could take care of myself.

  Then I turned back to Kate. “Yes, I am, thanks, Kate. I’m having a lovely time.”

  “Oh, good.” Kate lit a cigarette. “Enjoying the show?”

  “Very much so. After a slow start, it’s picking up enormously. I can’t wait to see the finale. I bet you have something really spectacular planned.”

  “I’ll do my best. You’re such a good audience.” Kate smiled dangerously. “Always watching—aren’t you, Elliot? Always scheming. What’s going on in your little mind? Hmm? What plots are you hatching?”

  I didn’t know why Kate was attacking me like this. I doubted she knew herself. She had no reason to be angry with me; I thought she must be lashing out because she assumed I wouldn’t fight back. Well, she was wrong. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that you must stand up for yourself.

  Nobody loves a doormat, Barbara West used to say. They just wipe their feet on it. God knows, Barbara trampled all over me for years. I learned that lesson the hard way.

  “You’re in a foul mood tonight, Kate.” I sipped my champagne. “What’s going on? Why are you determined to ruin this?”

  “Do you really want me to answer that? I can if you like.”

  “Kate,” Lana said in a low voice. “Stop this. Now.”

  The two women stared at each other for a moment. Lana’s eyes said that she’d had enough. To my surprise, the intervention succeeded; Kate unwillingly backed down.

  Then Kate made a sudden movement—and for a split second I thought she was about to lunge at me or Lana across the table, or something crazy like that—but she didn’t.

  She stood up, jerkily, unsteady on her feet. “I’m—I need the bathroom.”

  “Going to powder your nose?” I asked.

  Kate didn’t reply. She stalked off.

  I glanced at Lana. “What the hell’s the matter with her?”

  “I don’t know.” Lana shrugged. “She’s drunk.”

  “That’s not all she is. Don’t worry, I have a feeling she’ll come back from the bathroom in a much better mood.”

  But I was wrong. Kate returned to the table in a much worse state. She was high, clearly, agitated, spoiling for a fight—not just with me—any of us would do.

  Leo and Jason wisely kept their heads low and ate fast. They wanted to go as soon as possible. But the courses kept coming, a seemingly endless number, so I concentrated on the food.

  I suspect I was the only one who enjoyed the meal. Lana just picked at her plate. Kate didn’t touch a thing—she smoked and drank, glowering around the table malevolently. After a long uncomfortable silence, Lana tried deflecting Kate with a compliment:

  “I love that scarf you’re wearing. Such a deep red.”

  “It’s a shawl.” Kate threw it over her shoulder, contemptuously, then told a long, grandiose story about how the shawl was made for her by an orphan she sponsored in Bangladesh, to thank Kate for putting her through school. “It’s not fashion, so I know you’d never touch it—but I love it.”

  “Actually, I think it’s rather beautiful.” Lana reached out and fingered the end of it. “Such delicate work. She’s very talented.”

  “She’s clever, more importantly. She’s going to be a doctor.”

  “Thanks to you. You are wonderful, Kate.”

  This attempt to pacify Kate was like buttering up a grumpy child—Oh, you are clever, well done—and it was clumsy of Lana. But I could tell she was rattled by this sudden change in Kate. We all were.

  If I had to select one moment that weekend when it all went wrong, it was there, at the restaurant. An indefinable line was crossed, somehow—and we sailed from a place of normality, into uncharted territory: into a dark, friendless no-man’s-land, from which there was no safe return.

  The whole time we were sitting there, I could hear the wind, wailing on the water. It was picking up speed; tablecloths were flapping; candles blowing out. Below us, waves buffeted the seawall.

  We’d better go soon, I thought. Or we’ll have trouble getting back.

  I took hold of my white linen napkin with my right hand—and dangled it over the edge of the wall, above the water. I opened my fingers and let it go—

  The napkin was snatched from my fingers by the wind. It danced in the night sky for a moment.

  Then it was swallowed by the darkness.

  19

  As Agathi predicted, the wind was worse on the way back.

  The speedboat lurched over huge black waves while the wind spat salty sea spray at us. The journey seemed to take forever. When we finally got back to the house, we were drenched and badly shaken up.

  Ever the gentleman, Leo found towels for everyone. As we dried ourselves off, Jason made a feeble attempt to end the evening. A preemptive strike, you might say. Honestly, he should have known better. Any attempts to “manage” Kate, to send her to bed like a naughty child, were doomed to failure. Kate wasn’t the type of person to be managed.

  “How about we call it a night?” Jason said. “I’m knackered.”

  “Not yet,” Kate said. “I’m having a nightcap first.”

  “Haven’t you had enough?”

  “No. That boat ride completely sobered me up. I need another drink.”

  “Good idea,” I said. “Me, too. A double anything, please.”

  I wandered outside through the French windows, onto the veranda. It was shielded from the worst of the wind by the stone wall surrounding it.

  We used the veranda a lot: it had various couches, coffee tables, a firepit, and a barbecue. I flicked on the firepit and used the flame to spark the end of my joint—which I had rolled in the hope of repeating last night’s merriment. Alas, how far away that seemed now. Like a different lifetime.

  Leo followed me outside. He nodded at the joint. “Can I have some?”

  I was a little surprised at the request. He didn’t drink alcohol and I assumed he didn’t approve of marijuana. I considered it.

  “Hmm. I suppose you’re old enough.”

  “I’m nearly eighteen. All my friends smoke. It’s no big deal.”

  “Don’t tell your mother.” I handed him the joint. I nodded at Kate in the living room. “I wouldn’t stick around if I were you. Unless you fancy a ringside seat.”