The Olive Tree (7 page)

As her two children disappeared into the house, she picked up her mobile and dialled home.

‘Hello, darling,’ said William. ‘Supper a success?’

‘I’ll leave it to your imagination.’

‘Perhaps that’s best. So, good day?’

‘Eventful.’

‘Sounds like it. Who’s the prince Immy told me about?’

‘Oh, just the son of an old friend.’

‘Right.’ There was a pause. ‘Helena, darling,’ said William, slowly, ‘I want to ask you something.’

‘What?’

‘I . . . well, I’m not sure how to tell you this, but . . . it’s Chloë.’

‘Is she all right?’

‘Oh yes, she’s fine, apparently. Though I can only go on what her house-mistress at school tells me, as you know. However, I received a letter from her mother today.’

‘A letter? From Cecile? My goodness!’ Helena breathed. ‘She actually put pen to paper? That’s nothing short of a miracle for your ex-wife, isn’t it,
darling?’

‘It is rather, but the thing is . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘She wants Chloë to fly over and spend some time with us in Cyprus.’

11th July (continued)

This holiday, to quote my baby sister, gets ranker by the second.

Mosquitoes, heat, old houses in the middle of an arid field where they’ve never heard of broadband and a grape-stamper wanting to stamp himself all over my mother. Not to
mention Jules, Sacha, Viola and Rupes – their Neanderthal, brain-dead son – coming to stay next week.

I wish I could start a campaign on behalf of all Kids of Parents Who Are Best Friends, to raise awareness for the kids’ plight. Just because the oldies used to share sweeties
and secrets when they were younger, then moved on to alcohol and eventually potty-training together, does not necessarily mean that the
children
of Best Friends will feel the same about
their counterpart offspring.

My heart always sinks when I hear those immortal words, ‘Alex, darling, the Chandlers are coming over. You will be nice to Rupes, won’t you?’

‘Well, yes,’ I reply, ‘I will try, Mother dearest.’ But when Rupes thumps me accidentally on purpose in the bollocks during a ‘friendly’ rugby
tackle, or goes screaming to his mum accusing me of breaking his PSP when he dropped it on the floor originally and I stood on it because I didn’t know it was there, it can be pretty tough
going.

Rupes is about the same age as me, which makes it really bad. And we’re chalk and cheese. He’s probably everything my stepfather William would like as a son: great at
ballsports, jocular, popular . . . and a right evil bastard when no one else is looking. He’s also as thick as two short planks, thinks Homer is the star of
The Simpsons
and
that’s why he’s famous for his philosophy.

We don’t have a lot in common, Rupes and me. He has a little sister called Viola, all red hair, freckles and rabbity teeth, with a complexion that’s so pale she fades
into the background like a small ghost. Mum once told me she’s adopted. If I was the Chandlers, I’d have stuck out for a child that at least vaguely resembled my gene pool, but maybe
Viola was all that was available at the time. And due to Rupes’ overpowering presence and her timidity, I can’t really say I know who she is.

To cap it all, Mum’s just informed me that my stepsister, Chloë, is coming to stay here too. I only remember her vaguely, because I haven’t seen her for six years.
The BFH – Bitch From Hell – as she is affectionately known in our household, who is my stepdad’s ex-wife, stopped Chloë seeing her father when Mum got pregnant with Immy.

Poor Dad. He tried everything to see her, he really did. But the BFH had brainwashed Chloë into believing her father was the devil incarnate because he wouldn’t buy her
ice creams that cost over a pound – thinking about it, he still won’t for us lot – and eventually, Dad had to give up. After numerous and bankrupting court cases to try and get
access to her and losing, even the social worker said it was probably best, because Chloë was getting such a hard time from her mum if she ever mentioned her dad, and the battle was affecting
her psychologically. So, for Chloë’s sake, he did. He doesn’t say much about it, but I know he misses her a lot. The nearest he gets to her is writing birthday and Christmas cards
and a cheque to the very expensive boarding school she attends.

So . . . why her sudden reappearance?

Apparently, so Mum tells me, the BFH has got a boyfriend. Poor bloke. She is one scary woman. I admit to being terrified of her the one time I met her, because she is seriously,
evilly mad and probably looks exceptionally good in black. She must have mixed something up in her cauldron to give to this poor boyfriend of hers, because he wants to take her away to the south of
France for the summer. Apparently, he wants time with her by himself.

I hope his legs don’t end up on a plate with the other frogs, that’s all I can say.

Anyway, the upshot is, we get to have Chloë.

My mother looked distinctly nervous when she told me just now, but she was putting on a good show, saying how great it would be for Dad after all the years of not seeing his
daughter. The most worrying thing of all was how she said it would be a bit of a squash, because Chloë should have her own room. And ‘people’ would have to share.

I know what she was insinuating.

I am sorry. But I absolutely will not, under any circumstances, share a room with Rupes. I will sleep in the bath or if necessary, outside or anywhere that isn’t with him. I
can cope with having my personal space invaded during the day, as long as I know I can have it back at night.

So, Mother dearest, it’s a complete no-go.

She also said how we must make Chloë welcome, help her feel part of our family. Our whatever-is-the-opposite-of-nuclear family.

Christ. Dysfunctional or what? Someone should write a thesis on us. Or perhaps I should.

I lie on my bed, staring up at the ceiling, having nearly gassed myself with the Cypriot mosquito spray Mum got me from the shop – which is probably so full of banned
pesticides, it will probably kill
me
into the bargain – and try to work out how many different bloodlines there are in our family.

The only thing is . . .

I wish I knew all of mine.

The following morning, Helena woke from a restless night’s sleep. Her mind had flitted from one unsettling thought to the next as the hours dragged slowly towards dawn.
Even though she felt exhausted, she was grateful for the distraction of the trip to Paphos and her long shopping list.

Alexis arrived in his transit van at nine, and the four of them climbed onto the wide front seat. Immy was enchanted to be sitting up high in the front, but Helena saw Alex sulking silently,
staring out of the window as they descended down the winding road from their hilltop eyrie. She’d given him the option of staying behind at Pandora and helping Georgios sort out the pool, but
he’d insisted on coming. She was under no illusions as to why – she was under surveillance.

‘Wow, Mummy, it’s like being on a helter-skelter, isn’t it?’ Immy said as they zigzagged down the hairpin bends towards the coast.

‘You will not recognise Paphos town, Helena,’ commented Alexis as he drove. ‘It is no longer the quiet fishing port it once was.’

As they drove into the town, Helena was aghast at the seemingly endless stretch of neon signs glaring out from ugly concrete buildings along the roadside. Large billboards advertised everything
from luxury cars to timeshare apartments to nightclubs.

‘Look, Mummy! There’s McDonald’s! Can we go and get a cheeseburger and fries?’ said Immy longingly.

‘It is sad, yes?’ murmured Alexis, glancing at Helena.

‘Terribly,’ she agreed, spotting an English-style pub with a garish banner outside, announcing televised football and all-you-can-eat roast lunches every Sunday.

They parked outside a cavernous homeware superstore, and Helena realised Alexis was right: Paphos had exploded into the kind of shopping experience any British town would be proud to call its
own.

‘Globalisation, I loathe it!’ she muttered as she climbed out.

Inside the store a few minutes later, Helena picked a lace tablecloth up from a pile and read the label of origin. ‘China,’ she remarked to Alexis. ‘Last time I was here, the
lace was made by the local women and sold on market stalls. You offered them what you wanted to pay.’

‘You are just sad because we are no longer “quaint”. But we learned everything we know from you British during your occupation,’ Alexis added with an ironic smile.

Two hours later, with a token stop-off at McDonald’s to placate Immy, Alexis’ van – laden with white goods and a mountain of other items Helena had bought – arrived back
at Pandora. The shopping spree had cost a small fortune, but she’d used some of the money from Angus’ bequest and hoped that her godfather would have approved of it being spent on
refurbishing Pandora. It was certainly in need of updating.

Alex, who had hardly spoken a word all day, silently helped Alexis and his builder relative, Georgios, lug the boxes off the van and onto the wheeled trolley that Alexis had left at the house
earlier.

As she spread pretty bedspreads, put cream silk lampshades on bases in place of fly-blown orange glass, and hung wispy pieces of voile at the bedroom windows, Helena reluctantly admitted to
herself that there were some advantages to globalisation.

‘The freezer is switched on, the new oven in and the old one out, and the dishwasher and washing machine await a plumber, who will come tomorrow.’ Alexis had appeared at
Helena’s bedroom door and stood watching her making up the old wooden bed with crisp, white cotton sheets. He surveyed the room and smiled. ‘Ah, a woman’s touch . . . it is
irreplaceable.’

‘There’s a long way to go yet, but it’s a start.’

‘And perhaps the beginning of a new era for Pandora?’ he ventured.

‘You don’t think Angus would mind, do you?’

‘I think a family is exactly what the house needs. It always did.’

‘I’d like to paint this room, soften it a little,’ she remarked, looking at the stark, whitewashed walls.

‘Why not? My sons could start tomorrow. They would have it done in no time at all,’ Alexis offered.

‘Oh Alexis, you are kind, but they have work, surely?’

‘You forget I am their boss. So,’ he said with a grin, ‘they will do as I say.’

‘The time is flying already,’ Helena exclaimed. ‘My husband arrives on Friday with Fred.’

‘Does he?’ Alexis paused, then continued. ‘So, you choose the colour and we will do the job.’

‘Well, in paltry return for all your help, I shall open the bottle of wine you brought us.’

‘Helena, you look pale. Are you tired?’ Alexis put his hands tentatively on her shoulders. ‘You are an English rose and cannot take the heat. You never could.’

‘I’m fine, Alexis, really.’ Helena broke free from his touch and hurried down the stairs.

Later, once Alexis and Georgios had left and Alex was setting up the DVD player with Immy dancing round him excitedly, Helena climbed guiltily into her new hammock, which Alexis had suspended
between the beautiful old olive tree that stood proudly in the centre of the garden to the side of the terrace and another, younger upstart.

A delicious breeze rustled through the branches, gently blowing wisps of her hair across her forehead. The cicadas were practising for their sunset chorus and the sun had lost its midday glare,
softening into a dappled, mellow light.

She thought about the imminent arrival of her unknown stepdaughter, Chloë. William had sounded decidedly nervous last night, and she knew he felt it was a lot to ask: both of her and of
their children. She too was concerned. Alex was the resident cuckoo in the nest, after all. Was there really room for another? Helena wondered how
he
would react to Chloë’s
arrival, let alone the two little ones, who had never even met their sister. But how could she deny William the chance to spend precious time with his daughter, even if there was a good chance
Chloë’s presence would throw the family dynamic off-balance?

And Chloë herself: how would she feel about being thrown into a family she had been taught to loathe? Yet Helena knew that Chloë was the real victim of the situation: a child caught up
in the maelstrom of an acrimonious divorce, used as a weapon by a woman scorned. Even though Cecile professed to protect her daughter from the apparently dangerous clutches of her father, the
reality was that, through the lowest form of emotional blackmail, Chloë had almost certainly been scarred by not being allowed to have a normal relationship with her father as she grew up.

She was almost fifteen now – a difficult age for any girl, especially one who’d been forced to deny her love for her father, to satisfy a mother who would accept nothing less. Helena
knew also that the heart beating inside her, which loved her husband and her children, had to extend yet further to include Chloë. The chambers were stretched already, providing the emotional
support demanded of any wife and mother. Now, even more was needed from her, due to the complex ramifications of a second marriage.

She was the maypole around which her family danced. And tonight, Helena felt the ribbons very tight about her chest.

‘I’m sorry, Mum, but it’s a no. NO! NO! NO! Okay?’

‘For goodness’ sake, darling, it’s a big bedroom! There’s easily enough space for the two of you. You won’t be spending any time in it, anyway, apart from
sleeping.’

Alex was sitting with his arms crossed and Helena could feel the metaphoric smoke coming out of his ears. ‘Mum, that is not the point. And you know it. You
know
it.’

‘Well, I really can’t see any alternative, Alex.’

‘I’ll sleep with Immy and Fred, or get bitten to death by mozzies in a sun-lounger on the terrace rather than sleep with
him.
He smells terrible.’

‘Yes, he does, Mummy. He farts all the time,’ Immy added unhelpfully.

‘For your information, so do you, Immy, but that isn’t the point,’ continued Alex. ‘Apart from the fact he smells, which he does, I hate him. He’s gay.’