As she rummaged through the rail of free clothes, she heard a familiar voice.
‘Hi there. Can I help you with anything?’
It was Pam, the woman Megan had spoken to in the Tourist Information Centre. She remembered the ginger biscuits and smiled.
‘I’m looking for shorts and T-shirts. I’m going to fly over to Crete to see my granny in a few hours’ time, and I’ve got nothing to wear.’
‘That’s great. Let me help. Size ten, yes?’
Megan nodded. ‘By the way, erm, I wanted to thank you for the biscuits, the other day. I was . . . well, it was a difficult day.’
‘Ah, no worries, you saved me a few calories. I’d have scoffed the lot if you hadn’t.’
‘How’s your son?’
‘We’re talking, so that’s an improvement. Thank you.’
Their eyes met, and Megan felt she’d learned some kind of lesson, though she wasn’t sure what. As she was leaving the shelter, Pam called her back.
‘Here,’ she said, reaching for the shelf of bric-a-brac. ‘A good luck gift from me. Stay safe, Megan.’
She handed over a little red travel alarm clock.
Forty-five minutes later, Megan was on the airport bus with a hardly used backpack stuffed with shorts and T-shirts, two pairs of sandals, one picnic place setting, the alarm clock and her juggling balls. She placed her boarding pass between the pages of her passport and grinned.
I made it. I’m behaving like a responsible adult. Mum and Dad can finally be proud.
Suddenly, she had tears in her eyes. She wanted to go home.
She had been confused about what she should do ever since she discovered her mother had come up to Manchester. It had all been so clear in her head since she ran away. Her parents hadn’t cared about her. They hadn’t cared that she wanted to go to performing arts school, not university. They hadn’t cared about what she wanted for her future. And when the pressure had led her to drink, to drugs, to parties, to that party, the night she’d seen her dad . . . she had been certain that she could never go home. But after the last few days – her mum, Emily, the fire and the police – she was all mixed up.
She should stick to her plan, get to Crete, and then get in touch with her parents. Everything would work out. It would. Especially with Granny Anna at her side.
CHAPTER 22
SOFIA
Athens, 1955.
THE BELLS OF ATHENS WERE ringing the New Year in. I walked home from Madam Magdalena’s establishment, nervous as always to be in the streets on my own. The distance was too short to warrant a cab, and usually I walked with a couple of the other girls, who also finished their shift at midnight. Tonight, I seemed to be the only one going home, too tired to party.
I turned the corner, and there on my doorstep stood Markos. For a second, my heart soared. I wanted to rush into his arms, kiss him, give myself to him . . . but how could I? This was the very man who had killed my mother. I despised his grin, hated him, loved him, cursed him, all at the same time.
I took a breath and approached my door. Seeing the expression on my face, Markos dropped the smile.
I couldn’t look at him.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ I said quietly.
‘I’ve just got back. Haven’t even been home yet. I wanted to surprise you.’
‘No . . . why didn’t you tell me about my family? Mama, Papa, my brothers, all the other people in the theatre?’
The colour drained from his face. ‘Sofia, I—’
‘Was a British politician fair exchange for five hundred Greek lives? Were my family so worthless to you?’
‘No, listen to me—’
I held my hand up, lost in my own pain. ‘How could you hide the fact that it was you who killed my mother, father and brothers for so long? All those times we spoke about my family . . . Have you asked yourself how many other Greek children lost their parents that night, left to struggle on alone? Innocent lives suffering miserably in the cruel and abysmal orphanages? Painfully caned for the slightest misdemeanours. Frightened and alone. Didn’t you think you owed me the truth before you asked me to marry you?’
I saw him swallow. ‘Sofia, I wanted to tell you, believe me, but I couldn’t find the right words. That explosion was a terrible mistake, and a long, long time ago.’ He placed his hands on my shoulders. ‘I was just a boy.’
‘Don’t touch me!’ My tears spilled over. ‘I hate you. I can’t even stand to look at you. Go away. I never want to see you again. Markos, it’s over between us.’
The church bells stopped ringing.
He shook his head, a confused frown on his face.
‘But I love you. You love me,’ he pleaded, but his words seemed stale, detached in the silence of the street. ‘I can’t change what happened, but not a day passes when I don’t regret it.’
A couple came down the street, laughing, dressed in party clothes.
‘Happy New Year!’ they shouted, their words hollow in my ears.
‘You took everything from me, Markos. You’ve known it since that day in the park, the first time we met. You destroyed my family and now you’ve destroyed the love I had for you, too. Did you think you could marry me, have children together, and keep such a terrible thing secret for the rest of our lives?’ He stared at me, at a loss for what to say, and I pushed past him. ‘I never want to see you again.’
I closed the door behind me and rested my back against it. He didn’t knock, or try to come in. I stared down the dark corridor for a long time, trying to make sense of my feelings. The only sound I could hear was the beating of my broken heart. It was too much to bear. Was I destined to lose everyone I ever loved?
*
I struggled through the next week, trying to plan my career without the man I had wanted to spend the rest of my life with. Markos had destroyed my childhood, but why should I let him wreck my future? There were other record producers, other agents. I would start putting myself about.
Yet the more I thought about it, the more I realised this was hardly Spyridon’s fault. He would be humiliated if I went elsewhere. He had been pushy, and cared about the money above all else, but he did look after me to a certain extent. Who was to say my next agent wouldn’t be worse?
On Friday night, after a lot of soul-searching, I went into El Greco’s and sat at Spyridon’s table.
‘I’ve been waiting for you,’ he said. ‘Knew you’d come back eventually. I presume you’ve come to your senses?’
I was so angry I could have hit him again.
‘I want fifty per cent of the net profits from my performances and records.’
He frowned. ‘Thirty per cent, and not a penny more!’
‘Forty per cent, and one full day a week off!’
‘Thirty-five per cent, one week in hand which you’ll lose if you ever drop me in it again, and one and a half days per week off!’
‘All expenses?’
He nodded.
‘Done!’ I said coldly.
We shook hands, and I ordered the dish of the day, moussaka.
‘Look, I’m sorry about you and Markos.’
‘Like you said, it’s better I found out now. I don’t want to see him again.’
‘He’s devastated. He does love you, Sofia. I’m sure you know that.’
I shrugged, not trusting my voice. The wounds were still too raw. The moussaka was tasteless.
*
By mid-May, I was back on the old circuit of cutting records, writing new songs and performing. My piano lessons resumed on a Sunday afternoon and I befriended my tutor, Aphroditi. She had a husband, and a son who was a year older than me. She adored them both. On a Sunday evening, we would go for a bite to eat at El Greco’s and I would sometimes sing a song as I practised on their old piano.
Word spread that Alexa Bambaki’s daughter was singing in the taverna, and by the summer, El Greco’s was packed every Sunday night. Now and again, I thought I caught a glimpse of Markos and my hear
t would break.
‘Sometimes you look so sad while you’re playing,’ Aphroditi said one evening.
‘It’s the music . . . it reminds me of times gone by, brings things back. The war – and everything that went with it.’
She smiled softly. ‘It’s hard, isn’t it? I lost my eldest boy in the December protest. Did you know? He was shot from the Grande Bretagne Hotel. Some say it was the British military, others say it was the Greek police. I don’t know who to blame.’
I shook my head. ‘I was only ten. I lost my family when the theatre exploded a few weeks later.’
‘Tragedy. I’m always afraid for Theo. He’s in with the communists – my husband, too. I’m scared to death most of the time.’
‘Does Theo know Spyridon’s son, Markos?’ I asked, unable to stop myself. ‘We were engaged once.’
She nodded. ‘I’m sorry. Sometimes they’re away for weeks. I swear they’ll be the death of me. I get frantic, but they always come home in the end.’
‘I can imagine how awful it must be,’ I said, thinking about Markos again.
‘In ’forty-seven, when the Communist Party was outlawed, I hoped they’d give it up. They say there are almost forty thousand communists in special prisons, though God knows how many are still alive. The civil war’s supposed to be over, but it’s still going on under the surface.’
She rubbed her tired eyes, the skin on her face etched with worry.
‘Perhaps it’s just as well it’s over between me and Markos,’ I said, the words seeming flippant and false in my mouth. ‘I’d go mad with the stress. It must be awful for you.’
She frowned, stared at the floor. ‘I see pictures in the papers. Leaders laughing, smoking cigars, drinking brandy – and freedom fighters hanged in public. It makes me spit. And there’s no one to talk to. I daren’t open my mouth. You never know who’s listening these days.’
I can’t say what made me look up at that moment, but there was Markos at the window. I gasped. Aphrodite turned to see what had caught my attention.
‘Ah, speak of the devils. They’re back, then. I’d better go home.’ She picked up her handbag. ‘Keep practising those finger exercises. I’ll see you next Sunday.’
I glanced at the window again. Markos had gone.
*
Eager to get home for some much-needed sleep, I hurried out of El Greco’s, but as I turned the corner, a hand grabbed my arm.
‘Markos!’
‘I have to talk to you, Sofia.’
‘Get off me! I don’t want to listen! It’s over between us, Markos. We can never be the same. Never. Please, leave me alone.’
‘There are things you don’t know. Let me explain. Then, if you want me to go, I will.’
I hesitated. How could anything justify what he’d done to my family?
‘Why can’t you understand? Nothing you say can make it all right.’
‘I know that. I can’t tell you how sorry I am, or how much I regret what happened, but please, give me a chance to clarify.’ He stepped back. ‘Just half an hour. Is that too much to ask?’
My heart begged me to listen, forgive, take him back . . . because, oh, I loved him. My head condemned all thoughts of forgiveness and demanded that I hate the murderer who stood before me. My fists clenched knuckle-white, my heart bleeding for all those I’d loved and lost. That I loved Markos was the truth, and because of that love, guilt joined the battle and fought inside me. Damn him! I dared not look into his eyes, because then I’d be defeated.
‘No. I’m sorry, but no.’
I walked away, tears hot on my cheeks, my heart in splinters.
CHAPTER 23
ZOË
Manchester, present day.
‘WHAT DO YOU MEAN, you let her go?’ Zoë yelled.
She was standing in the police office in front of DI Fenwick, incensed. When he’d called on the train to say they were holding Megan to question her in relation to Emily’s death, she had been frantic. Desperate to see her daughter at last, she’d got off at the next station, got the next train back to Manchester and rushed to the police station.
Only to find that Megan had already left.
‘How could you do that? I’ve been searching for her for over six months!’
‘She answered all our questions, Mrs Johnson. The only fingerprints on the illegal juggling balls were from the other girl. We had no reason to hold your daughter here against her will.’
‘Did she get her passport back?’
‘I think you know very well we have no right to keep her passport.’
‘So, she might not even be in the country? How do I know where she is now? What if she’s in danger? The ones who killed Emily – they’re still on the loose, aren’t they?’
He rubbed his forehead. ‘Mrs Johnson, please. Let us do our job. Go back to your hotel and wait for your daughter. She already knows you’re coming back to Manchester. You might find she’s there already.’
*
Zoë returned to the Cherry Tree Hotel and found a different receptionist behind the desk. She recounted a short version of what had happened and asked if they still held her room and if there were any messages. They had kept her room, but there were no messages for her.
It was Friday night. Zoë had hardly slept in three days and she ought to go down to Centrepoint, but she was drained. Megan knew where she was. She asked reception to call her if her daughter turned up, no matter what time. Then she lay on the bed, her neck and shoulders stiff with tension.
*
Zoë woke in the dark room, her skin dry and itchy, eyes gluey, tongue swollen as if she had been on a drinking binge. She should shower. After pulling off her clothes, she lay down again, woke at dawn, and felt like she hadn’t slept at all. Another day to drag her weary body through. Another search. And at the end, probably another failure.
She dropped her lifeless legs to the floor and stared at the opposite wall, waiting for a plan to form. The urge to lie down again and pretend she didn’t exist was gaining momentum. At eight o’clock, she phoned Centrepoint.
‘Hi, I’m looking for my daughter, Megan Johnson. She may have slept at the shelter last night. Seventeen, slim, dark curly hair.’
‘Hello, Mrs Johnson. We’re not supposed to give out information . . .’ The woman hesitated. ‘Listen, I spoke to you before when you came in with Megan’s friend. I can tell you, Megan didn’t sleep here last night.’
‘I know it’s against the rules, but if she does come in, could you call me?’
‘If she lets me, yes. I’ll do what I can to help.’
*
Before Zoë took a shower and put on the same stale clothes, she phoned Josh, hoping to catch him before school. He had picked up before she realised it was Saturday.
‘Happy birthday, son!’ Zoë cried into the phone.
‘Thanks, Mum . . .’ he said flatly. ‘And thanks for the tickets to Silverstone. I’m really looking forward to going with Dad and . . . Trisha.’ Zoë heard the deep disappointment in his voice.
‘Josh, I really am sorry.’
After a long silence he said, ‘Mum, it’s my birthday. I’m fifteen. Couldn’t you have even tried to be here? It’s always Megan. How many times do I have to tell you? She left of her own accord. It was her choice.’
Zoë felt suddenly full of remorse. ‘Oh, Josh, I’m so sorry! It’s just that she was here – she came to my hotel. I was halfway home, but I had to come back. We’re so nearly there. I’ll make it up to you, promise.’
‘No, Mum, there’s no need.’ There was a pause. And then, ‘Look, I’ve decided to go and live with Dad, then you’ll be free to search for Megan for as long as you like. But I want you to know that I miss Megan too, Mum, and I keep telling you – she’ll come home when she’s ready. And the other thing is, I miss you, Mum. You don’t seem to realise that I need you as well.’
Then the line went dead.
Everything he’d said was true. At that moment,
she felt certain Megan had been in contact with Josh. How else could he be so certain that she’d come home when she was ready? He must have been in turmoil, keeping a promise to his sister and at the same time trying to reassure his mother.
Zoë sat on the edge of the bed, feeling miserable. She glanced at the clock. Only minutes had passed, but she felt trapped in the same tragedy, reliving it again and again. Was she making the same mistakes with Josh as she had with Megan? There was only one solution: she had to abandon her search, return to London and convince her son she loved him just as much as she loved his sister.
*
Zoë paid the receptionist and left the Cherry Tree Hotel. At the train station, she bought a ticket to London, found a quiet corner on the platform and waited. Her heart was so heavy she could hardly think straight. Poor Josh. Stable, trustworthy, no trouble at all. He had hardly ever worried her. Now she thought about it, she had taken his stability for granted when she sank into her frantic search for Megan. She had pushed him away, just as she’d pushed Frank away. How could she not have known how much he was hurting, how much he was needing her? She had failed everyone.
CHAPTER 24
SOFIA
Athens, 1965.
TEN YEARS OF FAME, CONCERTS and even a few television appearances flew by. Flowers were thrown at my feet, men tried to romance me, and although I did go out once or twice with the nicest of them, I never fell in love again. Dreams of Markos stayed in my heart and memories of the love we’d had refused to leave my mind. Spyridon kept Markos out of my way, and for that I was grateful, but occasionally I’d spot him in the audience and for a second, I was jubilant – and then all the reasons why we broke up came flooding back to me, and I tried to dismiss him at once. There was no point in having these hurtful thoughts and foolish wishes. I turned to my fans, gave them the best of me. Only in my bed at night did the dull, loveless life that lay ahead daunt me, without Markos or the children we had hoped for.
I had cut nine records, and further concert bookings rolled in. Fans presumed that wealth went along with fame, and I didn’t want to dull the shine of their adoration, but it was difficult to keep up appearances, and sometimes I could hardly afford to meet my utility bills.
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