The Olive Tree (13 page)

‘No, he’s just . . .’ William struggled to find the words to explain his stepson. ‘Different. The Chandlers, old family friends, are coming too, as is Sadie,
Helena’s best friend, so there’s a houseful. It should be fun.’

There was no response from Chloë. William looked across at her and saw she was fast asleep.

No one was at home when he pulled the car into the drive at Pandora. He shook Chloë gently.

‘We’re here.’

Chloë opened her eyes and stretched lazily. She looked at her father. ‘What time is it?’

‘Ten past four. Come on, I’ll show you the view.’

‘’Kay.’ Chloë climbed out of the car and followed her father round the side of the house and onto the terrace.

‘Cool,’ she said with an approving nod.

‘I’m glad you like it. Helena inherited the house from her godfather, so some of the interior needs updating,’ added William, as Chloë stepped through the French windows
into the drawing room.

‘I think it’s perfect just the way it is, like something out of an Agatha Christie movie,’ said Chloë. ‘Is there a pool?’

‘Yes, just through the gate to the left of the terrace.’

‘Great. I’ll go for a swim, then.’ Chloë promptly took off her T-shirt and skirt to reveal the skimpiest of bikinis underneath, and sashayed outside.

William watched her glide across the terrace and sat down heavily in a chair under the pergola.

Either Chloë was a consummate actress, or the fears he’d had about her attitude towards him were unfounded. He’d spent the past week rehearsing what he’d say to her when
she accused him of deserting her, not loving her . . . preparing for the clusters of emotional mines that must have been carefully placed by her mother.

She was, in her own words, ‘cool’. So cool, William realised, that perhaps her indifference towards him hurt just as much as the ingrained hatred he’d been expecting. She
didn’t seem to
care
that she hadn’t seen him for almost six years.

But, he mused, could a fourteen-year-old really be as confident as Chloë seemed? Or was this all an act, to protect the frightened little girl beneath the veneer of self-assurance? William
was painfully aware of his limitations as to the workings of the female mind. There was only one thing to do: he’d ask Helena when she returned.

Her new rental car drew up ten minutes later, spilling the guts of his family messily onto the terrace.

‘Hi, Daddy!’ Immy jumped into his arms. ‘I made a big sandcastle then Fred knocked it over. I hate him.’

‘I’ll kill you!’ Fred appeared on the terrace with a plastic water pistol.

Immy screamed and buried her face in William’s shoulder. ‘Get him away!’

‘Put that down, Fred. You’re frightening Immy.’

‘No I not. She kill me on the beach first.’ He nodded ferociously. ‘Where Cowee?’

‘
Chloë
, Fred.’ Helena was draping wet beach towels over the balustrade. ‘And yes, where is she?’

‘In the pool,’ William said, putting Immy down.

‘
How
is she?’ Helena asked him under her breath.

‘Fine, absolutely fine. I think you’ll find she’s grown up a little since we last saw her. In
all
sorts of ways,’ William said with a grimace.

Helena saw Alex lurking on the edge of the terrace, trying to peer through the olive trees down to the pool without looking as if he was. ‘Well, shall we all go and say hello to
her?’

‘No need. I’m here.’

Chloë appeared on the terrace, her lithe body still glistening with droplets of water from her swim, and walked towards Helena. ‘Hi there.’ She kissed her on both cheeks.
‘Love your house.’

‘Thank you,’ said Helena with a smile.

‘And these two are my little sis and bruv, are they? Come and say hello, then,’ she encouraged.

Immy and Fred were both staring silently at the exotic, long-limbed creature, and didn’t move.

‘Oh, they’re so cute! Immy’s the image of you, Helena, and Fred looks just like Daddy.’ She walked towards them and knelt down. ‘Hello, I’m Chloë, your
big and very bad long-lost sister.’

‘Daddy said you looked like him, but you don’t have big ears and you have lovely long hair,’ Immy offered shyly.

Chloë smiled up at William. ‘Right, that’s okay then.’ She reached out her hand to Immy. ‘Will you show me round your lovely house?’

‘Yes. Mummy and I put flowers in your bedroom,’ said Immy, taking Chloë’s proffered hand.

‘I might have some sweeties in my bag as well.’ She glanced back at Fred as Immy led her towards the house.

‘Can I come too?’ Fred hopped out from behind William, and ran on his plump little legs to join them.

‘You’re next to me, Chloë,’ Immy’s high voice could be heard from inside the house.

‘And me,’ said Fred. ‘Where the sweeties, Cowee?’

Helena glanced at William and smiled. ‘That wasn’t too painful, was it? My goodness, she’s pretty.’

‘Yes, she is, and in my book, seems far too mature for a fourteen-year-old.’

‘She’s almost fifteen, don’t forget. And girls tend to grow up more quickly than boys, darling. Would you mind terribly getting me a cold drink? I’m parched.’

‘Of course, milady. I could do with one too.’ William nodded at her, and went inside the house.

Helena turned and saw Alex standing behind her. ‘Are you all right? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’

Alex opened his mouth, but no words came out. He shrugged instead.

‘You didn’t say hello to Chloë, Alex.’

‘No,’ he managed.

‘Why don’t you go upstairs with the others?’

He shook his head. ‘I’m going to my room for a bit. Think I’ve got a migraine coming on.’

‘Too much sun, probably, darling. Go and have a rest and I’ll call you when supper’s ready,’ Helena suggested. ‘Angelina’s left us something in the oven that
smells delicious.’

Alex grunted and went inside.

‘Is he okay?’ asked William, after passing Alex on the way out of the house, carrying two clinking glasses of iced lemonade. Helena was the only one able to divine Alex’s
mood.

‘I think so.’

As William sat down, Helena walked behind him and massaged his shoulders. ‘By the way, I only got your voice-message when we came up from the beach. Was everything okay at the
airport?’

‘Cecile changed Chloë’s flight and didn’t bother to tell me, that’s all. I found her in the bar, eventually, smoking a fag with some slimy Cypriot she’d picked
up en route.’

‘Oh dear,’ Helena sighed, flopping into a chair beside him and taking a sip of lemonade. ‘Well, she’s here now. She didn’t seem at all perturbed by meeting us. She
was as cool as a cucumber just then.’

‘Can it be real, or is it all an act?’ William shook his head. ‘I just don’t know.’

‘Well, the good news is that she’s obviously child-friendly. Immy and Fred took to her immediately. And I certainly didn’t get the feeling she was harbouring some deep-seated
loathing for you,’ Helena added.

‘If she isn’t, I’m amazed, under the circumstances.’

‘Darling, most children love their parents unconditionally, whatever they’ve done – or not done. Chloë’s obviously a bright girl. If her mother’s been
metaphorically twisting a knife in your back, she’ll understand why.’

‘I hope so. At least these few weeks will give me a chance to establish a relationship with her, just in case I don’t see her again until her twenty-first,’ William replied
morosely.

‘Chloë’s getting to be a big girl now. And no matter what her mother might do or say, she’s going to start making her own decisions, which could well include having you in
her life again when
she
wants it, not just to suit her mother’s romances.’

‘Let’s hope so. Now, somehow, I have to adjust to a child I hardly know. The problem is, she isn’t a child anymore, and I’ve no idea how far her mother lets her go or
what her boundaries are. What if she wants to go out with this Cypriot she picked up at the airport? They were talking about meeting up. I don’t want to come on like the heavy-handed father
after not seeing her for years, but on the other hand, she is only fourteen.’

‘I understand, but Kathikas is hardly the clubbing centre of Europe,’ Helena comforted with a smile. ‘I doubt she’ll get into too much trouble up here.’

‘Where there’s men, Chloë is trouble,’ sighed William. ‘The local boys will be onto her like bees round a honey pot. The thought of some boy getting his slimy paws
on my daughter . . .’ He shuddered.

‘A normal fatherly reaction, because you know what
you
were like when you were younger,’ Helena chuckled as she stood up. ‘Right, while I sort out supper, how about you
go upstairs and rally the younger troops into the bath? Chloë must be starving, and I thought it would be nice for us all to eat together.’

‘Okay. I’m on my way.’

‘Is Alex coming out?’ Chloë asked Helena as she placed the piping-hot casserole dish on the table.

‘No. He says he’s got a migraine. He gets them regularly, poor thing.’

‘That’s a shame. He hasn’t even said hello to me yet,’ Chloë commented, managing to balance both Immy and Fred on her insubstantial lap. ‘When I arrived, he
just kind of . . . stared at me and didn’t speak.’

‘He’ll be fine tomorrow after a good night’s sleep. This smells divine.’ Helena unwrapped the protective layers of waxed paper that covered the contents of the casserole
dish, and began to serve the food onto plates. ‘Angelina told me it’s
kleftiko
, a kind of slow-cooked lamb.’

‘Like Lamby sort of lamb?’ questioned Immy. ‘Nope, I can’t eat it.’ She shook her head and crossed her small arms across her chest. ‘It might be Lamby’s
mummy or daddy.’

‘Don’t be silly, Immy, you know perfectly well Lamby is a toy. He’s not real. Now sit down in your chair and eat your supper like a big girl,’ snapped William.

Immy’s bottom lip quivered as she slid off Chloë’s knee. ‘Lamby
is
real, Daddy.’

‘Course he’s real, sweetie.’ Chloë stroked Immy’s hair and settled her sister in the chair next to her. ‘Horrid Daddy.’

‘Yes, horrid Daddy,’ agreed Immy triumphantly.

‘Can you pour me a glass, Daddy?’ asked Chloë, as William opened a bottle of wine.

William looked uncertainly at Helena.

‘Does your mum let you have wine at home?’ Helena asked her.

‘’Course she does. She’s French, remember?’

‘Okay, just a small glass then,’ agreed William.

‘Get real, Daddy. I was champion Bacardi Breezer drinker at the end-of-term ball at school.’

‘Well, that beats winning the geography prize any day,’ William muttered under his breath. ‘Right, let’s eat.’

After a relatively calm supper, the two little ones insisted Chloë take them upstairs and read them a story.

‘And after that, I’m going to see Alex, say hi, then crash,’ Chloë said as she was pulled by both arms inside. ‘Night, guys.’

‘Night, Chloë.’ Helena stood up and began stacking the dirty dishes onto a tray. ‘She’s lovely, William, and so good with the little ones. And it’s great to
have an extra pair of hands.’

William yawned. ‘Yes, she is. Let’s leave the rest for tomorrow. I need to “crash” too. What time are Sadie and the Chandlers arriving?’

‘Mid-afternoon, so we’ve got plenty of time.’

‘Maybe even enough to have an hour by the pool. You never know your luck, do you, Helena . . . Helena?’

She pulled her attention back to her husband. ‘Sorry, what did you say?’

‘Nothing important. Are you all right?’

She answered with the warmest smile she could muster. ‘Yes, darling, I’m absolutely fine.’

16th July 2006

I take back all that I said in my last diary entry.

All of it. Every last word, thought and deed.

The ‘one day’ turned out to be TODAY: July 16th, at approximately twenty-three minutes past four.

The moment I Fell In Love.

Oh shit! I feel ill. I am now diseased. My heart, which has done a jolly good job of pumping the blood round my veins for the past thirteen years, has thrown a wobbly. It has let
something in. And this ‘something’ is insidious. I can feel it swelling and growing and sending its tentacles round my body, paralysing me, making me sweat, shiver, lose control of . .
.
me
.

I realise, only a few hours into this ‘change of heart’, that it no longer takes its lead from my physical body. It does not operate according to how fast or slow I am
walking. It responds violently, pumping away, even though I am lying still, because I have thought about her: the Chloë person.

Forget Aphrodite, forget the Mona Lisa (who has a bad receding hairline problem anyway), or Kate Moss. MY girl is mossier than the mossiest moss.

It’s at it again – my heart – pounding the blood round my body as if I have just won the marathon or been attacked by a shark and left with bits of me hanging
off.

The minute I think of her, it happens.

In fact, all sorts of things happen, but I don’t think I’ll go into those now.

At least I know for certain I’m not gay. Or saddled with an Oedipus complex.

I am loveSICK. I need a note from the doctor to sign me off from life until I have recovered.

But do you? Ever recover, I mean? Some don’t, I hear. I might be like this for life.

I mean, for Chrissakes, I haven’t even opened my mouth to speak to her yet. Although that’s partly to do with my lips refusing to move when I’m in her presence.
And there’s no way I could eat in front of her, and try and talk at the same time. That would be too much. So, it looks like I might go seriously hungry this holiday. Or do a good line in
midnight feasts.

How will I cope with seeing her every day, her butter-soft flesh tantalisingly close, but untouchable?

Besides, she’s a relative, but at least she’s not blood, so relatively speaking, it could be worse. I think it would be quite cool to tell the boys, ‘Hey,
I’m in love with my sister,’ and watch their reaction.

As I stared at her today, and the heart-thing started, I could see she
did
look like Dad. And I thought how amazing genes are, to have morphed from him (male,
average-looking, old, but at least with hair) to her: the ultimate female. She is simply perfection.