Twenty minutes late, the hydrofoil from Lipari to Panarea rose out of the water and gathered speed. Eleanor Blake, sitting in the nose of the boat, was suddenly conscious of her own breathing: for the first time since leaving London she felt the unmistakable retch of dread.
It was several seconds before she registered the sound of a man’s voice above the groan of the engines. ‘Excuse me! Hello! Excuse me?’
The accent was English. She panicked, instinctively guilty, but saw immediately that it wasn’t what she’d feared: the man was a complete stranger; he probably just wanted the seat next to her. He was very tall and she found herself tipping her head right back as though assessing the height of a cliff. His smile was wide, patient, a little lopsided.
‘Is anyone sitting here?’
When she still didn’t respond, he rattled out something in fluent Italian and finally Eleanor found her voice. ‘No, yes, please . . .’ She snatched up her bag and watched as he lowered himself into the aisle seat.
‘Thanks. I thought you might be English,’ he said. ‘Can you believe how full this thing is? So much for island hideaways and best-kept secrets and all that rubbish. But I suppose it is Saturday. Are you going to Salina or Panarea?’
‘Panarea,’ Eleanor said. ‘I didn’t know we stopped anywhere else.’
‘Only for a minute, they do a kind of bus route thing around all the islands. Salina’s the next one along, between Lipari and Panarea. I’m Lewis, by the way.’
‘Eleanor.’ She suddenly couldn’t help giggling.
He looked at her with curiosity. His eyes were an unusual golden-brown colour and strands of his longish dark hair kept falling into them. He had a distracted, crumpled look about him that was really quite attractive, Eleanor thought, surprised she’d even noticed. But it was impossible to ignore the warm, physical bulk of him – the seats were narrow and his shoulder and thigh now seemed absurdly close to hers, something that hadn’t struck her about her neighbour on the window side, an elderly Italian woman with gold shells at her ears and a large cake box on her lap. Eleanor edged imperceptibly towards the cake box.
‘So did you stay in Lipari long?’ Lewis asked, still making steady eye contact.
‘Just one night.’ It occurred to her that he was looking for a proper conversation. The Eleanor of old would certainly have enjoyed describing the hotel she’d just left, a conversation piece by anyone’s standards with its 1970s cruise liner theme, the armchairs made of curled cane with orange-and-brown terrycloth cushions, the terrace walls dotted with ‘portholes’, the thick twists of rope for handrails that couldn’t possibly be needed on dry ground. But instead she was tongue-tied, even a little irritated with this man.
‘Don’t suppose you got to the archaeological museum while you were there?’ he went on, undiscouraged.
‘No.’ She was a bit thrown by this. Museums? They were the last thing on her mind.
‘It’s really excellent, one of the best in Sicily. I recommend it if you’ve got time on your way back. It’s just a few minutes from the corso, right by the church, you can’t miss it.’
Eleanor nodded, wondering what the corso was, but before she could ask a baleful droning noise started to seep through the cabin, making them both look up. She thought at first that it was one of the other passengers in some kind of distress; then for a split second it crossed her mind that she herself may even be the drone. She’d noticed recently that she seemed to have less and less control over what came out of her mouth; like last night, in the hotel restaurant, when she’d listened to her own order with as much interest as the waiter. Then she realised that this was music, some sort of jingle, and an ancient black-and-white TV monitor was flickering into life at the front of the boat.
She looked at Lewis and he grinned at her alarm. ‘I don’t think they’ve kitted this thing out for about thirty years,’ he said. ‘It’s completely falling apart – always reassuring, don’t you think? So are you on holiday?’
‘Yes.’ Eleanor paused again, before blurting, ‘I’m meeting up with my fiancé in Panarea.’
‘Ah, right.’ She thought she sensed a slight retreat. ‘Not travelling together?’
‘No, he had more time off work than me.’ This, she told herself, was probably true.
‘Well, Panarea is a small place,’ Lewis said. ‘I’m sure we’ll all bump into each other at some point.’
‘Yes.’ Eleanor felt another, much more painful, prickle of nerves. She really was almost there. What on earth was going to happen over the next few days? She began fiddling with the ticket still clutched in her hand, tearing at its edges. Then it occurred to her that this Lewis might notice she wasn’t wearing a ring, and she quickly tucked her fingers into the cuffs of her shirt.
She barely listened as he talked on about the island, the tiny villages, the shrinking off-season population. Instead she imagined Will waiting on the jetty to wrap her in a huge welcoming hug, turning on his beauty in that way of his, like a movie star in front of the camera. For a moment the fantasy tricked her and she sank back into her seat, her whole body suffused with happiness.
Glancing past the old lady to her left she was shocked to see the colour and swell of the water. From her table on the breakfast terrace that morning the sea had looked exactly as it was supposed to look in this part of the world: flat, petrol-blue, pulling in and out in safe little breaths. But here it was ash-grey and swollen, with horrible yellow-white spittle staining the windows.
Turning away, she saw that Lewis had now given up on her and was reading a newspaper, pausing at intervals to unfold, flap and fold it again. She was relieved their conversation was over for now: chitchat with a stranger required a skill she’d let lapse in recent months. She supposed she ought to try to rediscover it since the hotel she’d booked in Panarea had only twelve rooms and half-board accommodation was obligatory – she probably wouldn’t be able to eat alone as she had last night in Lipari. No, she’d be sharing meals with other people, holidaymakers, like the hundred or so filling this boat, most conferring excitedly about the identities of the various bumps of grey land they could make out through the window. The famous Aeolian Islands, islands that she’d never heard of until four days ago.
Suddenly the engines went dead and the boat lurched massively from side to side. Eleanor allowed her fingers to search for the life jacket under the seat as a murmur spread through the cabin.
‘What’s happening?’ she said, faintly, to neither neighbour in particular, horrified that her eyes had filled with tears. The lady with the cake just looked at her and made a snickering noise through her nose.
‘Nothing to worry about,’ Lewis said, instantly solicitous. ‘We’re just coming into Salina. It’s only another twenty minutes to Panarea. The sea’s a bit rough.’
Without the noise of the engines she was self-conscious, fidgety, and wondered for the first time how she must look to this man. Her hair, she knew, might have been styled by a clown. She’d had it cut in London yesterday in a last-minute attempt to alter her appearance and a kink had sprung up in the humid Sicilian air – not a pretty curl to brush her brow and accentuate her eyes, but big flossy curves worthy of the double-takes she’d been attracting. She hoped her face wasn’t too flushed, but a few hours in the morning sun had already left her skin seared and itchy. And even her eyes – grey-green and large, undoubtedly her best feature – couldn’t rescue her, for they were red from crying.
A small crowd shuffled off the boat and another shuffled on: a trio of girls with backpacks and two or three couples wheeling suitcases along behind them. Expectant faces hunted for seats.
‘Well, Salina looks beautiful,’ Lewis said, as the boat accelerated again, and leant over Eleanor to look out of the window. ‘Incredibly green for September, isn’t it? I’ve heard it’s a lot quieter there than Panarea, not so popular with the Milan crowd.’
Suddenly Eleanor felt grateful for his efforts with her; wasn’t this the sort of distraction she should be indulging in? She racked her brain for a detail from her guidebook to contribute to the conversation: ‘Isn’t Panarea full of celebrities or something?’
‘Yeah, it’s supposed to be some kind of retreat for wealthy businessmen from the north – and their model girlfriends, of course – all playing at living the simple life. You know, a bit like Marie Antoinette.’ He laughed. ‘It’s almost all private villas; there are hardly any hotels. Actually, someone was telling me that property prices are just insane there.’
‘God, it sounds a bit exclusive.’
‘Well, they’re letting us in, aren’t they, so it can’t be that bad.’
Eleanor laughed, ignoring the twinge in her stomach at the memory of the price she’d been quoted – and duly paid – for this impromptu break.
‘So where are you from?’ she asked.
‘Originally, Durham. But I live in London now.’
‘Me too.’
‘Whereabouts? Hey, are you all right? You’ve gone really pale.’
‘I feel dreadful.’ She had a horrible feeling she was going to be sick, and her eyes moved between the old lady’s cake box and Lewis’s thighs for a likely receptacle. ‘The water seems to be getting rougher.’
‘Oh, the currents here are famously bad; it can get quite dangerous.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, apparently a hydrofoil got dragged on to the rocks at Panarea last month. No one drowned, though, don’t worry.’
‘Right.’ Eleanor tried hard not to think about this as she looked out of the window again. Great smokecoloured waves were sloshing against the boat, building up into noisy, slamming assaults. Rolls of queasiness rose inside her in direct opposition to the rhythm of the water; it felt painful, like a rider unable to get the measure of his horse’s stride. Surely they were almost there by now? Breathing deeply, she tried to focus on the safety photographs on the wall by the TV monitor. A man with a moustache was neatly strapped into a life jacket, standing smiling in a threequarters pose; the backdrop looked like a golf course.
‘Are you sure you’re OK? D’you need this?’ Lewis passed her the white paper bag from the seat pocket in front of him and she slapped it over her mouth. She was conscious of both his and the cake woman’s eyes fixed on her as she panted in and out, and she squeezed her own tightly shut. She felt like a troublesome infant who’d waited until the car pulled into its final destination before spewing lunch on everyone. But slowly the sickness subsided and so, miraculously, did the currents. When she next dared look up the boat was sliding serenely along a rocky coastline and before long a line of grinning faces bobbed into view.
‘Panarea! Panarea!’ The door was wrenched open, ropes knotted and people were standing and fussing over their luggage. Eleanor stood, too, scrabbling for her bag and hoping she didn’t look as sickly as she felt.
Lewis was already in the aisle. ‘Where are you staying? Do you need some help – you’ll probably feel a bit wobbly when you get off this thing?’
‘I’m fine now,’ she said, half cross with relief. ‘I’m sure my, er, friend will be waiting for me.’ She tried to move past him.
‘All right, well if you’re sure, see you later. My bag’s out the back.’
She watched him walk off through the cabin, newspaper tucked under his arm; he had the stoop of someone long accustomed to being the tallest person in the room. Waiting for him to disappear from sight, she shuffled down the ramp, pushing through scrums of hugging people on the jetty before finding a spot to stand still and take another long, deep breath. She considered a cigarette, then decided against it: her hands were shaking too much.
In front of her was Panarea. The tiny harbour was lined with cafés, all crowded with people, some sitting right out on the rocks on a wooden deck. Red-and-blue striped fishing boats rested higgledypiggledy on the rocks, as though arranged with elaborate artlessness by a magazine stylist. Behind, the island climbed in gentle terraces, with bright, whitewashed houses and flowers cascading over low walls. In the distance was a vast gnarl of a mountain, pocked with grey rock and glittering with silvery purple highlights. She stared, realising that she hadn’t considered for a moment how the island would actually look. Its beauty was a shock.
But right now she needed to concentrate on getting herself to the hotel as inconspicuously as possible. It was vital she look relaxed, anonymous, for it would be disastrous to be spotted now and the jetty and harbour front were packed – clearly the whole island had piled down to inspect the new arrivals. She clamped her sunhat to her head, covered her eyes with sunglasses and began walking down the jetty close behind a family and several couples. Everyone gazed blankly around as though dazzled by their delivery into paradise, and she tried to mimic their delight, determined to blend in. Reaching the waterfront strip of cafés and bars, the group slowed up: a collection of three-wheelers and golf karts were knotted together in a little traffic jam.
‘Rush hour in Panarea,’ said a woman to Eleanor in heavily accented English, and then laughed fiercely. German, thought Eleanor and turned to smile at her. How handy it was that other Europeans knew English so well. The woman looked in her mid-forties, her forehead deeply creased, eyes unexpectedly intense. Eleanor moved a step or two away and to her relief saw that one of the karts had the name of her hotel painted on its side in pink: Albergo delle Rose. She hurried over, head down, and the driver, a tanned boy in a pale-blue T-shirt, reversed out of the tangle and indicated the passenger seat, ‘Prego.’
‘Thank you.’ Safely seated, she slid another glance at the cafés, alert for that one familiar face. She had never seen such a choreography of glamour: elegant, pin-thin women with glossy brown faces were sitting watching the jetty scene, their clothes expensive wisps, dark, gleaming hair pinned back with flowers and silver clips. Long bare legs were crossed gracefully or stretched out in the sun. Almost without exception each of these astonishinglooking creatures was paired with a heavily tanned man with a minuscule phone locked to his ear.
Eleanor stared for a few seconds in stupefied admiration before the three-wheeler pulled away at top speed and took a right up a steep lane. Less than ten seconds later they were braking into the driveway of a hotel. The boy leapt out, pulled out her bag and set it down in an empty reception area. No sooner had she followed than he took off again in his kart without a word.
She waited, feeling more and more ridiculous as various faces she recognised from the jetty began appearing from the lane – on foot, of course. The German woman was among them, trailing behind her a middle-aged man and teenage girl, both long haired, long limbed and, Eleanor soon noticed, long faced; they looked like a pair of sulky spaniels being taken for a walk in the rain against their will. The girl was as cool and gorgeous as any of the women at the waterfront, her blond hair sun streaked and her skin perfectly smooth.
‘You have taken the taxi? Good idea!’ the woman said to Eleanor, laughing again. ‘Holidays are for the relaxation!’ Eleanor wasn’t at all surprised to see Lewis sloping into view next, a battered brown leather bag slung over his shoulder. He was smoking, which somehow seemed to highlight his boyishness next to the German couple; he looked young enough to be their son. She avoided eye contact and the smirk she felt sure would be on his lips, but from the corner of her eye she saw him fall into easy conversation with another set of arrivals. Feeling awkward, she busied herself taking off her hat, patting down her hair and hunting for her passport.
Once a group had gathered and the desk bell been repeatedly rung, a round white-haired old woman appeared through an archway to the right and moved towards them at the pace of a sloth shrugging off deep sleep. She spoke extremely rapidly, however, and began making what Eleanor took to be some kind of welcome address in Italian. A truncated version in German followed, before she finished, briefly, in English: ‘Welcome to this Albergo delle Rose. I am Giovanna. Give me the passport. Dinner is in the owl.’
Eleanor pressed forward, suddenly feeling that she couldn’t bear a moment longer in transit among all these tourists. She needed to lie down.
‘Your nime?’ asked the sloth. Eleanor noticed she had several teeth missing at the back on both sides. She handed over her passport.
‘Please careful yourself een sunshine,’ the woman cried, loudly, leaning towards Eleanor’s face. To her horror, Eleanor realised a small mole on her chin was now the object of inspection. The other guests had stopped talking and were looking over with interest as Giovanna declared, ‘You’s too white, inglese, will burn, get the cancer.’
‘Yes, yes, I have sunscreen,’ Eleanor muttered, weakly. Luckily, this seemed to satisfy the old bird and she was soon despatched with her key up a nearby staircase. Behind her she thought she heard a round of titters from the waiting group.
The room was small and pristinely clean, with pretty pink and blue tiles and a carved dark-wood bed and desk. The only other item was a low-slung white sofa with silk cushions. She cleared the desk of its hotel stationery and carefully laid out her most important possessions: monocular (recommended by birders and chosen over the binocular model for its lightness and discretion); compact camera with extra film; torch with spare battery; notebook and pen; guidebook. Then she sat on the edge of the bed, the cover cool against her legs, and finally allowed herself to take stock of her feelings. She felt swamped with dejection. Now that she had arrived, the whole thing seemed farcical. What was it Lizzie had called it, when she’d phoned Eleanor at the departure gate in a last-ditch attempt to talk her out of it? ‘Mission unhinged’. Her best friend in the world had thought she was mad, had been sick with worry for her. So why hadn’t she listened?
A knock at the door made her jump and she pulled on her sunglasses before answering, faintly aware that this would seem peculiar in a shuttered room.
‘Come in!’
‘Hi there, I’m Sophie. You left your hat on the reception desk . . .’ The woman was English, in her thirties and pretty, with pale, plump skin and silky blond hair to her shoulders.
‘Thank you so much,’ Eleanor said, feeling as though she’d been caught by the teacher doodling obscenities in her maths book. It was good to have her hat back, though; she placed it on the desk and turned back. ‘I’m Eleanor.’
Sophie looked with eager eyes over her shoulder and into the room. Eleanor supposed she was checking to see if the room was larger or nicer than her own.
‘Goodness, that looks very organised,’ Sophie said, indicating the desk with its neat arrangement of tools. ‘We didn’t bring a torch. D’you think we’ll need one? Aren’t there street lights?’
‘I’m not sure. Don’t want to get lost at night,’ replied Eleanor.
‘No chance of that! According to my book there’s only one road on the whole island.’ This was disconcerting news. Eleanor’s own guidebook hadn’t mentioned this, nor included a map, for that matter. She’d imagined herself prowling round a labyrinthine network of alleyways, like a medina, perhaps, with plenty of places to duck into and lie low.
‘What’s that telescope thingy for?’ Sophie asked.
‘Oh, er, that’s my monocular. I got it from a shop for bird spotters,’ Eleanor said. ‘It’s for flora and fauna,’ she added, lamely. ‘Apparently, the island’s full of it.’
This was pathetic, she knew, but Sophie smiled encouragingly, showing small straight teeth. ‘Well, all you’re missing is the cloak and dagger!’ she said, merrily. They both laughed, Eleanor a note too long.
‘OK,’ said Sophie, after another pause. ‘Well, I’m going to get a large drink after that journey from hell. I’ll see you at dinner. Otto ora, va bene?’
Eleanor closed the door. Generally, she loathed Brits who insisted on showing off their language skills to their compatriots when English would have done perfectly well. But she hadn’t understood much of Giovanna’s trilingual address and had been wondering about dinner. Now she could look up otto ora in her book. Eight o’clock. Good, three hours was long enough to pull herself together.