by Helen Walsh
The moon climbs up above the mountains, low and swollen. Finally, they hear Greg locking the shutters. Jenn corks the wine bottle and scatters the cigarette ash in the grass, wiping down the saucer with her thumb.
Greg strides out onto the terrace. He’s wearing his linen jacket with jeans and loafers – no socks. Jenn catches his eye and conveys her admiration. She helps Emma into the car.
They reach the top of the switchback and fork right for Deià. She leans her head coquettishly on his biceps.
‘Greg, how thoughtful of you … you’re taking us to El Olivio!’
He stares straight ahead – steely.
‘Not this time.’
They drive on through the village. They spot Benni on the pavement outside Bar Luna. Greg taps the horn with the base of his palm and Benni sees the car and ducks down to the window as they pass. Jenn throws him a cheery wave but he seems to look right through her and instead focuses, very directly, on Greg. He takes his pipe out of his mouth and his lips press together in a gesture of something – what? Jenn cannot be sure, but her shoulders give out a little quiver of unease. She thinks back to the two of them by the bonfire before, their heads bent as one. Is it possible that he saw? She flips her head over her shoulder, expecting to see Benni standing in the road, watching their car tail away, but he’s disappeared into Bar Luna. She relaxes a little. Whatever they talked about earlier on – whatever she imagined they talked about – it does not concern her.
They pass Jaume, and she’s relieved, if a little sad that they’re not paying one last visit to Miki’s wonderful place. They head out past Sa Pedrissa and it suddenly dawns on her – the roadside restaurant they’re always promising to visit. Of course! The little car labours up the hill then, as they coast its crest and begin their descent towards the garage, Greg slips into fifth gear and motors past the café.
She can’t help herself. A panic pricks at her armpits. She can just make out the faint odour of fear-sweat. There’s only really Valldemossa they could be heading for, now – scene of his first betrayal. She can hack it, she thinks; she can put a brave face on it. If Emma can, then she can.
Gregory slows past the garage and waits at the junction as though prolonging her agony. He turns right and she knows, now, where he’s heading. There can be only one place. Her throat starts to tighten.
The darkness closes in, impenetrable. The road dips and coils. He clicks his full beam on. Emma’s head appears in the space between the front seats.
‘Come on, Dad! Where are we? Where are you taking us?’
Greg darts his eyes at Jenn, before focusing on Emma in the rear-view mirror.
‘I doubt you’ll remember it, darling. But you loved it!’
Jenn’s heart is banging.
‘Where?’ squeals Emma.
‘Your mother knows. She had a sandwich there the other night – isn’t that right, Jenn?’
Jenn nods. Her fingers open and close, open and close against her thighs.
Without looking at her, he says, ‘You know, I was telling Benni before. All about your little trek out there …’ And now he turns to her. ‘Tell her, Jenn. Tell her where we’re going.’
‘I think we’re going to Paco’s, Em.’
Greg smiles and shifts into a lower gear as they make their descent into Banyalbufar.
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank:
Mary-Anne Harrington; Imogen Taylor; Georgina Moore; Emily Kitchin; Emma Holtz; Vicky Palmer – and everyone at Tinder: I heart my home.
Susan Traxel; Louise Dennys; Deirdre Molina.
Ailsa Cox.
Jonny Geller; Kirsten Foster; Kate Cooper.
Deborah Schneider.
Bill Sherridan.
Dr L. Storrar, professor of Mallorcan horticulture.
My mother.
And my husband and son, for everything.
HELEN WALSH was born in Warrington, England, in 1976. Her first novel, Brass, was published in 2004 and was the winner of the Betty Trask Prize. Her second novel, Once Upon a Time in England, was the winner of the Somerset Maugham Award. Her third novel, Go to Sleep, was published to much fanfare in 2011.
