by Jo Thomas
Copyright © 2017 Jo Thomas
The right of Jo Thomas to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
First published as an ebook by
Headline Publishing Group in 2017
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
Cover illustration © Lucy Davey. Title lettering © Kate Forrester
Ebook conversion by Avon DataSet Ltd, Bidford-on-Avon, Warwickshire
eISBN: 978 1 4722 2373 9
HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
About the Author
Also by Jo Thomas
Praise for Jo Thomas
Dedication
Letter to Readers
Acknowledgements
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-one
Chapter Fifty-two
Chapter Fifty-three
Chapter Fifty-four
Chapter Fifty-five
Chapter Fifty-six
Chapter Fifty-seven
Chapter Fifty-eight
Chapter Fifty-nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-one
Chapter Sixty-two
Chapter Sixty-three
Chapter Sixty-four
Chapter Sixty-five
Chapter Sixty-six
Chapter Sixty-seven
Chapter Sixty-eight
Chapter Sixty-nine
Epilogue
Bonus Material
Jo Thomas worked for many years as a reporter and producer, first for BBC Radio 5, before moving on to Radio 2’s The Steve Wright Show. In 2013 Jo won the RNA Katie Fforde Bursary. Her debut novel, The Oyster Catcher, was a runaway bestseller in ebook and was awarded the 2014 RNA Joan Hessayon Award and the 2014 Festival of Romance Best Ebook Award. Her follow-up novels, The Olive Branch and Late Summer in the Vineyard, are also highly acclaimed. Jo lives in the Vale of Glamorgan with her husband and three children.
You can keep in touch with Jo through her website at www.jothomasauthor.com, or via @Jo_Thomas01 on Twitter and JoThomasAuthor on Facebook.
The Oyster Catcher
The Olive Branch
Late Summer in the Vineyard
The Honey Farm on the Hill
Digital Novellas
The Chestnut Tree
The Red Sky at Night
Notes from the Northern Lights
‘Romantic and funny’ Sun
‘Sheer romcom brilliance’ Heat
‘This book is scrumptious! I couldn’t stop reading’ Katie Fforde
‘Irresistibly romantic and utterly gorgeous’ Miranda Dickinson
‘A perfect pearl of a story. I loved it’ Milly Johnson
‘Well worth a read’ Carole Matthews
‘Jo’s trademark warmth and wit sing from the page . . . I adored it!’ Cathy Bramley
‘Perfect escapism’ Marie Claire
‘Sunny and funny’ Veronica Henry
‘Perfect summer read’ Liz Fenwick
‘An utterly charming read full of rustic romance and adventure’ Woman magazine
‘Perfect for those who dream of a new life in the sun!’ My Weekly
‘A heart-warming tale’ Ali McNamara
For my brilliant editor Emily.
Thank you for coming to find me and bringing me
home to Headline.
Hello all!
Welcome back if you’ve read my other books and, if you’re new to my world, welcome and come on in. I’m Jo Thomas and I write about food, families and love, with a good splash of sun and fun thrown in.
When I write I’m always dreaming about a new life overseas and this book is no exception. This time we’re in Crete, the largest of the Greek islands.
For me, starting a new book always feels a bit like opening the pantry and seeing what ingredients you’ve got in. When I thought about Greece, I pictured the makings of a Greek salad: crumbly white feta, shiny black olives, crunchy cucumber and juicy red tomatoes. But when I arrived in Crete I realised there was so much more to discover about this mountainous country and its food. According to Greek mythology, the god Zeus was born in a mountain cave in Crete and was looked after by a nymph, Melissa, who fed him milk and honey. The honey in Crete is amazing. It’s flavoured by the wild herbs that grow in the mountains, specifically dittany or erontas, which translates as ‘love’. And it’s here I found the heart of my story.
With teenagers of my own at home, I also wanted to write a book about a woman who is trying to work out who she is once her daughter leaves home and she starts trying to come to terms with her empty nest. Because sometimes in life you have to go back before you can go forwards.
I do hope you enjoy Nell’s jou
rney into the heart of the Cretan mountains.
Me agápi apó,
Jo
X
Firstly, thank you to James Villas for a wonderful week in Crete that gave me the backdrop and setting for this book and enabled me to explore the island and find the ingredients I needed for my story. Thank you to Vamos Traditional Village who promote ethical, sustainable eco-tourism and agro-tourism in Crete and who run cookery lessons and trips to meet the local food producers in Vamos.
It was there I met Koula Varydakis-Hanialakis who runs a wonderful Cretan cookery course in an old olive press in the town. It was there I learned about the health benefits of Cretan cookery and how to make simple food special by using the herbs that grow on the island and, in particular, in the mountains. And it was there I first saw dittany!
One of my really special memories of my time in Crete was a meal we had in a small mountain village at Dounias Traditional Cretan Food, where the owner and chef Stelios took time to show us his farm and kitchen, where everything is grown locally and cooked on wood-fires. If you ever visit Crete and find yourself near Drakona, do go!
To write this book I also needed help with understanding bees, and Barbara and Harold from the Cardiff, Vale and Valleys Beekeepers’ Association were wonderful, introducing me to the bees at Dyffryn Gardens and showing me the basics of beekeeping. Any errors here are entirely of my own making!
And finally, a huge thank you to my brilliant editor Emily Griffin, for setting me on this publication path; for your faith, encouragement and support, helping me harness my ideas and giving me the wings to fly. I’ll miss you.
It all began the day the Christmas decoration factory burned down.
‘Bloody hell, it’s like New Year’s Eve at Winter Wonderland,’ says Angelica. Her festive red and green tinsel-edged earrings flash in the late-June sunshine as we huddle together outside, watching the orange and yellow sparks shoot up from the factory roof.
Bang! Crackle! Bang, bang! Fizz . . . bang!
We jump back as the factory’s electrics explode and fire takes hold. There’s an almighty crash as part of the roof collapses. We gasp in unison, huddling tighter together and shuffling backwards at the same time.
‘Christ!’ Angelica, one of my closest friends despite the ten-year age difference between us, is the first to speak. ‘That was right over where you were sitting, Nell!’
I stare at the hole where the roof used to be, sparks and smoke spitting out of it like an angry volcano. I can’t reply. My blood runs cold and I feel my hands begin to shake. She’s right. I was sitting just under that roof beam only a tea break ago.
Gracie coughs like she’s trying to dislodge a bone from her throat . . . a whole leg bone by the sounds of it.
‘You all right, Gracie?’ I reach down to put a hand on her back. Gracie is my other close friend at the factory. She was my nan’s next-door neighbour for as long as I can remember, and she’s mine now, ever since Nan died and I took over the house. Gracie is just five foot tall, and almost as wide, wearing one of her signature shapeless nylon dresses. Although in her late fifties, she looks much older. She nods, still coughing.
Another fire engine arrives, blue lights flashing and sirens wailing. The girls from packing let out a roar of approval as the firemen leap from the engine, as does Rhys from baubles, who’s wearing two of them as earrings. Most of the girls are wearing tinsel round their necks and wave it like cheerleaders’ pompoms as the firemen leap into action pulling out their hose.
‘I will be,’ says Gracie in her gravelly voice as she slowly straightens. Pulling out a packet of cigarettes from her front overall pocket, followed by a lighter, she sparks up, puffing smoke into the air, where it mixes with the thick black smoke chugging out from the factory roof. She drags deeply on the cigarette between her long, hooked painted nails, exhales, then growls, ‘Better now.’
Sporadic bangs, sparks and flashes take us by surprise, making me leap out of my skin, but the girls from packing cheer again. ‘Better than Bonfire Night, this,’ says one in a dayglo vest top and a flashing gold Santa hat.
I shove my hands in the back pockets of my worn and comfortable calf-length jeans. I live in jeans – I wear them to work, to the pub, at weekends. Angelica thinks I have a vintage look going on, but it’s really just about reusing things, like the chequered shirts and the fifties bomber jacket I found in my nan’s attic, and scarves made from bits of fabric to keep my unruly red hair in place. I roll the toe of my lace-up canvas pump around in the fallen white ash in front of me and push my hands deeper into my pockets, my collection of wristbands and bangles bunching together.
‘All my Christmases come at once,’ says Rhys from baubles, fanning away the heat and smoke with a ‘Santa Stop Here’ sign. Gena, who works in the luxury crackers team, lets out a laugh like a machine gun that makes us all wince and put our fingers in our ears. It grates up and down my already shredded nerves like fingernails on a blackboard. Gena usually gets this response when she laughs. It’s the reason she’s been moved off Christmas deely boppers – those headbands with baubles on springs that can smack you in the eye if you nod your head too much – at the front of the factory. Instead she’s been put on crackers at the back to try and stop her high-pitched laugh from carrying across the factory floor.
‘Stand back, please, stand back.’ A fireman in a big black suit and a large white helmet waves his arms at us, and we shuffle back again with a few good-natured catcalls, mostly from tinsel, trimming and fairy lights. As we move, there’s another huge bang and the remainder of the factory roof around the hole over my work station, blows off, showering pieces all over the car park.
‘I guess we’re not going back in today then?’ says Angelica. She clicks away on her phone, taking photos of the explosion and posting them on Instagram. As one hand takes a selfie, the other does a thumbs-up.
I look over to our managing director, short, fat Alwyn Evans, who is smoothing his comb-over nervously as he talks to the fire officer.
‘Might as well go to the pub.’ Angelica puts her phone into her big cream and gold handbag and hangs it over her shoulder.
I cough as the smoke catches in my throat. My chest is tight and I feel a little light-headed. I’d like nothing more than a sit-down and something to settle my nerves. I look at the hole in the roof again. My whole body is shaking. That could have been me gone if I hadn’t got out. I shake my head in disbelief and reach for my own phone, running my thumb over the keypad. I just want to hear my daughter’s voice and to tell her I miss her. I do miss her, badly.
‘You coming, Nell?’ Angelica asks.
I shake my head. ‘No. I gave my last twenty to Demi last night at the bus station.’ I check my phone for messages. There are none. I wonder if now would be a good time to ring, or if she’ll be busy. Who’d have thought, my daughter, nearly eighteen, and living in London. I look up at the roof.
‘She’s gone then, your Demi?’ Angelica asks. ‘Didn’t fancy the job in packing? Decided to go for this posh job in London?’
I nod, feeling the tears that keep filling my eyes, determined not to let them fall.
‘Lucky beggar. Wish I was off somewhere exciting, instead of stuck here.’ She folds her arms and her bag swings violently.
‘I took her to Cardiff last night to get the bus. She promised to text when she arrived safe and sound.’
‘Blimey, I’m amazed your car made it that far. And she’s really ditched her A levels and gone to get a nannying job in London?’
I nod again, because I’m not able to talk properly through my tight throat.
‘Strong-minded, that one,’ Grace pipes up. ‘Just like someone else I know . . .’ She smiles at me and coughs, and I try to smile back, wishing I could see the funny side of this. The truth is, I’m petrified for Demi. Not yet eighteen, and living in London with a family
I’ve never met, working as an au pair. She thinks I’m worrying too much, that I’ve got to understand she’s grown up now. But she’s so young. I told her to wait, to do her A levels; she has plenty of time. But she insisted A levels weren’t for her and she was ready to go. I’m just not sure I’m ready to let her.
‘They have to fly the nest sometime. Just like you did. Your nan was beside herself when you went off travelling. But you came back safe and sound, a bit bruised maybe and with some surprise news. But you coped. The world kept spinning.’
My face falls. I wouldn’t change having Demi for the world, but I wish I’d seen a bit more of life first. I just want something different for her. Maybe this is the best thing. I manage a smile
‘At least you’ll get the remote control to yourself now.’ Gracie stubs out her cigarette on the low red-brick wall and then coughs some more.
Angelica’s mouth turns down. ‘It’s a scary place, though, London. Who knows what lunatics are lurking around those street corners.’
For a moment none of us say anything, and a hole in the middle of my heart, loosely held together, seems to rip right open. The colour, whatever is left of it after the shock of the fire, finally drains fully from my face. I could strangle Angelica . . . and I just want to bring Demi home.
‘Oh God, I’m sorry, Nell! How stupid of me! Of course she’ll be fine!’ Angelica grips my wrist, her face screwed up in apology, and the tears I’ve kept in start to pour down my cheeks. Neither Angelica nor Gracie has children, but they’ve been like brilliant aunties to Demi over the years. Angelica buys her fabulous outfits for birthdays and sends over magazines with the latest fashions for her to look at. And Gracie has always been there, just next door, with a full biscuit tin, a listening ear and a couple of quid if Demi runs to the shop to get her milk and fags.
At the end of the road an ambulance whizzes past, sirens blaring, and I wonder again if Demi is safe. It’s just her and me; she’s all I have.
‘Come on, I’ll buy you a drink. You can owe me.’ Angelica links her arm through mine, not taking no for an answer, and we join the other groups of workers heading for the pub, tottering on their high heels, snowman deely boppers bobbing up and down.
