Cover

Maeve Haran

The
Greek
Holiday

Dedication page

For Georgia, Holly and Jimmy

One

‘Remind me why I’m here, in the boiling heat, about to spend ten days with women I’ve hardly seen for years and might not even recognize?’

Nell glanced at Dora, who, despite her protestations about the heat, managed to look cool and elegant in a bronze off-the-shoulder dress more suited to a cocktail party in Canary Wharf than a ten-hour ferry trip in the blinding heat.

‘Because it’s an adventure,’ Nell replied, grateful that she was wearing serviceable cotton. ‘Because we’re going back to the magical Greek island we fell in love with when we were eighteen. We used to be inseparable, remember? We were going to be friends forever – except maybe Moira. And then life got in the way. Husbands. Children. The demands of domesticity.’ She paused, embarrassed, remembering that Dora had neither husband nor children. ‘And in your case, your big job,’ she added quickly. ‘I think it’s a lovely idea getting together. Even Moira. And also it means a lot to Penny, and Penny’s an exceptionally nice person.’

‘How unfortunate for her,’ Dora drawled.

Nell looked round the dock at Piraeus, the port to the Greek islands, for any sign pointing to the terminal where the four of them were supposed to meet but could see nothing useful, and certainly no sign for Zanthos.

The truth was, they’d all been surprised when Dora had suddenly agreed to come. Dora had a glamorous life in public relations. Once Nell had seen a gossip piece in the paper with the headline ‘Pandora Perkins, the scariest PR in London’.

Nell consulted the email from Penny again, feeling grateful she didn’t have a life like Dora’s. Working as receptionist in a GP’s surgery couldn’t remotely be called glamorous . . . The shock hit her that, actually, she wasn’t. Three weeks ago she’d opted for retirement after that last run-in with the new practice manager from hell. She was now an ex-doctor’s receptionist. ‘Oh look, there’s a sign saying Passenger Terminal,’ she pointed out. They rounded a corner away from the line of huge ferries, each with its aft end open like a gaping mouth for all the cars and container lorries to drive in, and almost tripped over a red-faced man pulling two vast suitcases plus an overnight bag while his wife strode insouciantly ahead.

‘I wouldn’t mind one of those,’ Dora remarked, looking after them.

‘What, the suitcase?’ Nell glanced at the bags to see if they were made by Louis Vuitton, Dora’s usual taste.

‘No, the husband. I always wondered what they were for. Now I can see.’