The Olive Tree

by Lucinda Riley

  ‘Will you be coming back?’ I asked her. ‘I love you, Viola, so much! You have to believe me.’

  ‘I don’t know, Alex. Bye.’

  And with that, she opened the door and walked out, crashing it shut behind her.

  In retrospect, the only thing that night that stopped me from drinking myself into oblivion, with perhaps a few bottles of pills thrown in for good measure, was the fact my mum called me out of the blue to say hello. Perhaps she had simply sensed something.

  As usual, she had instinctively been the first person I’d thought of calling in the terrible silence after Viola had left. But as any child with a sick parent will know, one doesn’t feel one should burden them with minuscule problems like one’s entire world collapsing. After all, my mother was living each day with the possibility of hers ending completely.

  As it was, I sobbed – and then sobbed some more – down the line to her. And then two hours later, there she was, like an angel of mercy on the doorstep. We talked a lot that night, as she cradled her big son in her arms, about the parallels between her situation with William and mine with Viola. Of course, she took full responsibility for causing it in the first place, which in truth, she did. But at least if there were any remaining shreds of doubt as to why she had never confessed to William after she’d seen Sacha at the wedding, they were banished completely. Because I now understood completely why she hadn’t:

  It was called fear.

  ‘Would you like me to speak to her?’ she suggested.

  ‘No, Mum, I have to fight my own battles.’

  ‘Even if your current battle originated from what I did?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I sighed. ‘All I know is that I love her, and I can’t bear to even begin to contemplate a life without her.’

  ‘Give her time, Alex. She’s got some serious stuff to work out, and remember that she’s still grieving for her father. It’s a good thing she’s going away to France. It’ll give her some headspace. She’s seeing Chloë in Paris, apparently.’

  ‘God, Mum,’ I shook my head, ‘how can I deal with this?’

  ‘Because you have to. One of my nurses once told me that people are only given in life what they can cope with,’ she mused.

  ‘Unless they can’t, and commit suicide,’ I said morosely, as I lay with my head on her knee and she stroked my hair as if I was still a child.

  ‘Well, I think she’s right. Take me, for example. Yes, there’s been pain and misery, but I know it’s made me a better person. And probably everyone in the family, too. Even though it’s been hardest on Immy and Fred, in the long run, it will almost certainly have made them more independent and stronger. And of course, your father’s been wonderful.’

  I looked at Mum and saw the love shining bright in her eyes, which then made me think of my own lost love, and got me depressed all over again.

  ‘I often think of life as a train journey,’ Mum said suddenly.

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Well, there we are, chugging along towards the future, and then there are those occasional moments where the train pulls into a pretty station. And we’re allowed to get off and order a cup of tea. Or in your case, Alex, a pint of beer,’ she chuckled softly. ‘And we sit there drinking it for a while, looking at the lovely view and feeling still and peaceful and content. I think those are the moments most human beings would describe as “happiness”. But then of course, you have to get back on the train and continue your journey. But you’ll never forget those moments of pure happiness, Alex. And they’re what give us all the strength to face the future: the belief that they’ll come again. Which they will, of course.’

  Wow, I remember thinking, perhaps it wasn’t just my father from whom I inherited my philosophical meanderings. For an amateur, that really was pretty good.

  ‘Well, I’ve just sunk about one thousand “pints of beer” with Viola over the past few months. And I’d really like to sink a hundred thousand more,’ I mumble miserably.

  ‘You see?’ My mother smiled down at me. ‘You already have hope that you will.’

  λδ

  Thirty-four

  As I stand here alone on the terrace – Viola has gone upstairs with Chloë to freshen up – I am struggling to believe that life has given me a second chance, that she is back. I want to run to the nearest church, go down on my knees and give thanks to whichever deity has granted it to me. And swear I will learn from my mistakes.

  It’s all we humans can do.

  I also understand that my own personal traumas – and those of the rest of the Pandora posse – are minor compared to the suffering happening elsewhere in the world. None of us have experienced war or famine or genocide.

  My ten years’ worth of diary is merely a snapshot of small lives lived in a vast universe. But they are our lives, and our problems are big to us. And if they weren’t, then I doubt humanity would still be around, because, as my mother so wisely said to me (and I’m sure Pandora would agree) we have been granted the innate gift of hope.

  I watch the crowd begin to dance as the band moves into party mode. I see Jules on the floor with Bertie, and Alexis with Angelina. I then notice a familiar figure staring intently at little Peaches, who is dancing with her mother.

  Andreas – or Adonis, as Mum and Sadie used to call him – her father.

  I gulp, wondering if I am having some weird, karmic out-of-body experience and revisiting that moment when Sacha first set eyes on me at Mum and Dad’s wedding all those years ago. Perhaps I will talk to Sadie later. Try and give her the benefit of my experience on the subject. The ‘subject’ which has been the cause of the deepest pain for most of those (who are not Cypriot) gathered here tonight.

  The spectre at the feast – the one who is not here – is, of course, my father. Sacha – Alexander, or what you will.

  Just a man, born to a woman . . .

  I walk to the edge of the terrace, lean over the balustrade and look up to the stars. And wonder if he is looking down on all of us as he sinks a bottle of whisky, laughing at the mayhem he’s caused beneath him.

  And for the first time, I actually feel a stirring of emotion. An empathy with him. After all, I have recently got my own life horribly wrong: I made a simple, human error, and almost lost what is most precious to me.

  I know I will strive all my life to be a better man, but equally, I know I may not always succeed. I can only try to be the best I can be.

  ‘Alex! Come and join us!’ Mum and Dad and Immy and Fred are now holding hands in a small circle.

  ‘Night, Dad,’ I whisper to the glorious night sky.

  I walk up to the terrace to take my mother’s hand on one side, and Immy’s on the other. We jig round in a circle to some strange bouzouki version of what I believe was originally a song called ‘Pompeii’. Or at least, that’s what Fred tells me, since these days, he’s the one who’s up on that kind of thing.

  Then I see Chloë arrive on the terrace.

  As Mum beckons for her to join us, I see another pair of eyes upon her. Michel is transfixed, as if he has been turned to stone by Medusa in the Greek myth.

  I watch, fascinated, as Chloë glides towards us, then stops as if she can feel the heat of his stare through her back. Then she turns, slowly, and looks at him. And they both smile. She gives him an almost invisible nod, then reaches for her father’s hand and joins our family circle, as the band begins to play again.

  I see Viola – who has changed into a white, one-shouldered number that makes her look very similar to the statue of naked Granny/Aphrodite – appear behind her. Jules comes up to her and Viola surveys her mother, then goes slowly towards her and kisses her on both cheeks.

  It is not a hug, but it is a start. An olive branch held out.

  It is the beginning of understanding.

  And forgiveness.

  Viola turns towards us, pulling Jules with her, who in turn pulls Rupes in to join the circle. And soon Alexis follows with Angelina, then Fabio and Sadie and Peach
es and eventually, all the others around us, until we are one long human chain, holding hands under the stars and celebrating life.

  The music ends and everyone roars their applause. Then they begin to shout for Alexis and Helena to recreate their performance of Zorba from ten years ago.

  ‘Hello,’ I say to Viola as she walks over to me. ‘You look beautiful.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  She continues talking softly into my ear, but I’m distracted by the expression on my father’s face as my mother walks towards Alexis and takes his hand. Then she blows a kiss to Dad and mouths ‘I love you’ as she is led into the centre of the circle. And Dad smiles too, nods, and blows a kiss back.

  I turn to Viola. ‘Sorry, what did you say?’

  ‘I said,’ she chuckles, ‘that I love you, Alex. I always have, and I think I always will.’ She shrugs. ‘It just . . . is.’

  I look at her as the haunting music begins to play, and I realise she wants me to say something in return.

  Immy’s hand grasps my shoulder and chivvies me and Viola into completing the circle of arms and bending bodies.

  ‘Concentrate, Alex!’ she reprimands me.

  ‘Sorry, Immy, I can’t.’

  And with that, I pull Viola away. We leave the terrace, and the human circle is quickly closed behind us. Like thieves in the night we run down towards ‘Old’, its branches supporting lanterns that sway very slightly in the gentle breeze, to be together and alone. I take her face in my hands and the moonlight shines down on it.

  ‘I love you, too. And I always have and I think I always will.’

  And then I kiss her, and feel her respond with equal fervour. And as I hear the music rising to a crescendo above us, I know for certain that our dance of life is only just beginning.

  It. Just. Is.

  Acknowledgements

  I began writing this book ten years ago after a family holiday in Cyprus. We were staying in a beautiful old villa just outside Kathikas, where The Olive Tree is set. At the time, our five children were of similar age to the children in the book and we had family friends visiting, too. Even though much of the plot and the characters are of course fictional, there is no doubt that this is the closest I’ve come to drawing from my own life experience of being a mother, a stepmother, a wife and a trained dancer . . .

  I put the manuscript away and then found it again last year when I was clearing out my desk drawer. Of course, my children are ten years older now and it was fascinating to read the descriptions I’d written when they were young. In a way, it was my journal of their childhood, so I decided I should finish it. And yes, it was a departure, with no ‘sweeping’ historical backdrop or one-hundred-year timespan – just time spent in the same house, with a small cast of characters. I learned so much during the writing of it.

  So of course, the first and biggest thank you goes to my amazing family: Olivia, Harry, Isabella, Leonora, Kit and of course, Stephen, my husband, for inspiring me in the first place.

  Thanks also go to my wonderful band of international publishers who gave me the confidence I needed to finish the book and actually send it to them when I had: Jez Trevathan and Catherine Richards at Pan Macmillan, Claudia Negele and Georg Reuchlein at Goldmann Verlag, Knut Gørvell and Jorid Mathiassen at Cappelen Damm and Donatella Minuto and Annalisa Lottini at Giunti.

  To those at ‘Team Lulu’: Olivia Riley, Susan Moss, Ella Micheler and Jacquelyn Heslop. My sister, Georgia Edmonds, and my mother, Janet.

  And to all my wonderful readers around the world: thank you.

  OUT NOW

  The Seven Sisters

  A MAJOR NEW SERIES FROM LUCINDA RILEY

  Maia’s Story

  Maia D’Aplièse and her five sisters gather together at their childhood home, ‘Atlantis’ – a fabulous, secluded castle situated on the shores of Lake Geneva – having been told that their beloved father, the elusive billionaire they call Pa Salt, has died. Maia and her sisters were all adopted by him as babies and, discovering he has already been buried at sea, each of them is handed a tantalising clue to their true heritage – a clue that takes Maia across the world to a crumbling mansion in Rio de Janeiro in Brazil. Once there, she begins to put together the pieces of where her story began . . .

  Eighty years earlier, in the Belle Epoque of Rio, 1927, Izabela Bonifacio’s father has aspirations for his daughter to marry into aristocracy. Meanwhile, architect Heitor da Silva Costa is working on a statue, to be called Christ the Redeemer, and will soon travel to Paris to find the right sculptor to complete his vision. Izabela – passionate and longing to see the world – convinces her father to allow her to accompany him and his family to Europe before she is married. There, at Paul Landowski’s studio and in the heady, vibrant cafés of Montparnasse, she meets ambitious young sculptor Laurent Brouilly, and knows at once that her life will never be the same again.

  In this sweeping, epic tale of love and loss – the first in a unique series of seven books, based on the legends of the Seven Sisters star constellation – Lucinda Riley showcases her story-telling talent like never before.

  Turn the page to read the spellbinding opening chapters now.

  1

  I will always remember exactly where I was and what I was doing when I heard that my father had died.

  I was sitting in the pretty garden of my old schoolfriend’s townhouse in London, a copy of The Penelopiad open but unread in my lap, enjoying the June sun while Jenny collected her little boy from nursery.

  I felt calm and appreciated what a good idea it had been to get away. I was studying the burgeoning clematis, encouraged by its sunny midwife to give birth to a riot of colour, when my mobile phone rang. I glanced at the screen and saw it was Marina.

  ‘Hello, Ma, how are you?’ I said, hoping she could hear the warmth in my voice too.

  ‘Maia, I . . .’

  Marina paused, and in that instant I knew something was dreadfully wrong. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Maia, there’s no easy way to tell you this, but your father had a heart attack here at home yesterday afternoon, and in the early hours of this morning, he . . . passed away.’

  I remained silent, as a million different and ridiculous thoughts raced through my mind. The first one being that Marina, for some unknown reason, had decided to play some form of tasteless joke on me.

  ‘You’re the first of the sisters I’ve told, Maia, as you’re the eldest. And I wanted to ask you whether you would prefer to tell the rest of your sisters yourself, or leave it to me.’

  ‘I . . .’

  Still no words would form coherently on my lips, as I began to realise that Marina, dear, beloved Marina, the woman who had been the closest thing to a mother I’d ever known, would never tell me this if it wasn’t true. So it had to be. And at that moment, my entire world shifted on its axis.

  ‘Maia, please, tell me you’re all right. This really is the most dreadful call I’ve ever had to make, but what else could I do? God only knows how the other girls are going to take it.’

  It was then that I heard the suffering in her voice and understood she’d needed to tell me as much for her own sake as mine. So I switched into my normal comfort zone, which was to comfort others.

  ‘Of course I’ll tell my sisters if you’d prefer, Ma, although I’m not positive where they all are. Isn’t Ally away training for a regatta?’

  And as we continued to discuss where each of my younger sisters was, as though we needed to get them together for a birthday party rather than to mourn the death of our father, the entire conversation took on a sense of the surreal.

  ‘When should we plan on having the funeral, do you think? What with Electra being in Los Angeles and Ally somewhere on the high seas, surely we can’t think about it until next week at the earliest?’ I said.

  ‘Well . . .’ I heard the hesitation in Marina’s voice. ‘Perhaps the best thing is for you and I to discuss it when you arrive back home. There really is no rush now, Maia, so if you’d prefer
to continue the last couple of days of your holiday in London, that would be fine. There’s nothing more to be done for him here . . .’ Her voice trailed off miserably.

  ‘Ma, of course I’ll be on the next flight to Geneva I can get! I’ll call the airline immediately, and then I’ll do my best to get in touch with everyone.’

  ‘I’m so terribly sorry, chérie,’ Marina said sadly. ‘I know how you adored him.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, the strange calm that I had felt while we discussed arrangements suddenly deserting me like the stillness before a violent thunderstorm. ‘I’ll call you later, when I know what time I’ll be arriving.’

  ‘Please take care of yourself, Maia. You’ve had a terrible shock.’

  I pressed the button to end the call, and before the storm clouds in my heart opened up and drowned me, I went upstairs to my bedroom to retrieve my flight documents and contact the airline. As I waited in the calling queue, I glanced at the bed where I’d woken up this morning to Simply Another Day. And I thanked God that human beings don’t have the power to see into the future.

  The officious woman who eventually answered wasn’t helpful and I knew, as she spoke of full flights, financial penalties and credit card details, that my emotional dam was ready to burst. Finally, once I’d grudgingly been granted a seat on the four o’clock flight to Geneva, which would mean throwing everything into my holdall immediately and taking a taxi to Heathrow, I sat down on the bed and stared for so long at the sprigged wallpaper that the pattern began to dance in front of my eyes.

  ‘He’s gone,’ I whispered, ‘gone forever. I’ll never see him again.’

  Expecting the spoken words to provoke a raging torrent of tears, I was surprised that nothing actually happened. Instead, I sat there numbly, my head still full of practicalities. The thought of telling my sisters – all five of them – was horrendous, and I searched through my emotional filing system for the one I would call first. Inevitably, it was Tiggy, the second youngest of the six of us girls and the sibling to whom I’d always felt closest.