The Lemon Grove (24 page)

She sees the hippy cave and her spirits sink. Even if Emma made it as far as the overhang, it’s unthinkable that she could have picked her way down the escarpment, and yet while the light is still low, and for as long as the new day holds off, there’s still a flake of hope, she can’t give up. She pushes on.

It’s daylight by the time she reaches the overhang. A gentle warmth disperses the early morning mist, and there’s an apricot sky, promising sunshine soon. Nearby, a spring wends down the mountain to the sea, and she’s thirsty once more. She kneels on the slick rocks and scoops handfuls of cuttingly cold water into her mouth. It seems to sharpen her senses. She should go back. Emma could not have made it this far. And yet the cave is just there, on the other side of the mountain brook. She can smell burnt charcoal on the wind, and she knows
she must push on. Even if Emma hasn’t made it, there are things she needs to hear from Monica herself.

The way down to the cave is steep, but navigable. She sits, facing the sea, leans back so that her shoulder blades are almost touching the ground beneath and slides down the scarp, a yard at a time, using the rocks that stud the springy heath as brakes. The sun bursts through the haze as she drops down onto the ridge above the cave, and she feels its warmth on her cheeks straight away. She leans back against an oblong block of rock and shields her eyes from the sun. She can see right across the bay into the restaurant where the four of them circled one another that first day. The storm has torn down a chunk of its woven palm-leaf thatch. The matron is sweeping up the debris; custom will be slow today, with the red flag flapping in the wind. She is directly above the cave. She lowers herself down and drops the last couple of feet. At the side of the cave, there’s a small wooden ladder nailed into the rock face.

She hesitates, then goes in. The cave is empty. The remnants of a fire still burn, and beside it, an old mattress. Far from the hippy idyll she’s conjured up, the dank interior is strewn with empty cans and crisp packets. She gags and staggers back out.

She is back on the cliff path, high up enough to see the police car turn into their drive. It feels like a portent – the silence. The car is moving in fatal slow motion, yet she cannot hear a sound; only her jagged breathing, and the chirrup of chicks, way up above. She steadies herself and tries to breathe more slowly, deeply, steeling herself for the worst, when she hears something – just: a sobbing that rises on the wind then fades to silence. She freezes, one of her hands resting on a pine to hold herself firm while she strains to make sure. She barely breathes, listening out and pleading for her cries to come again; she’d know their cadence anywhere. There is nothing. Her fatigued and foggy conscience is playing tricks on her. She pushes herself off from the pine and walks on. She is tired. She sorely needs to lie down; yet down below, the police are knocking at the door and she knows, absolutely, that their call will bring no peace.

It comes again, closer this time. Short percussive sobs. She scans her surroundings, the coarse scrub leading down to the cliff edge, below; the pine forest above her, leading up towards banked terraces of olive trees beyond. She stands still and tries to isolate the source of these cries – then she sees it. There’s a
casita
overlooking a
rutted, abandoned olive grove. She’s done this walk a hundred times yet never noticed it – no more than a shepherd’s hut or a hunter’s shelter. It is overhung by gnarled trees and the cracked ground around it is barren, spiked with angry and diminutive thorn trees. The cries come again, more of a hopeless whimper this time, and Jenn knows she has found her.

28

The sun dips low on the horizon and, with the cooler air, the beach begins to empty; disparate clumps of people are merging into a single flow as they make their way to the road. Jenn folds up their towels and packs the empty water bottles into the wicker bag. She helps Emma to her feet and casts a glance up at the cave. No one has returned to it since the storm, yesterday.

They pick their way across the shingle, Emma already adept at negotiating the uneven surface. She hesitates as they pass the beach café. The wizened jewellery vendor throws them an expectant look but continues packing up. Emma lets Jenn know, with her eyes, with her rueful smile, that she needs to linger for a moment, by herself. Jenn gives her shoulder a tender squeeze and walks a little way up the hill. She perches on a rock and waits for her.

From deep in Emma’s bag, a phone bleeps. Jenn stiffens. Its klaxon has been blaring out all day; she could hear it on the beach, and each time her stomach would clench. Each time, Emma perfunctorily deleted the message without reading it. Jenn has no idea where he’s spent the last twenty-four hours. He could be back in Manchester now; it is possible that he’s still here in Deià, holed up with his new girl. She suspects that Emma knows and that the answer lies in her bag. She slides her hand in and locates the phone.

Yesterday, in the shepherd’s hut, Emma had tried to tell her, but, each time, she’d broken down in tears. She couldn’t face going back to the villa; neither could Jenn, but the late-morning sun seared the tops of their heads through the holes in the roof and forced them back. They made their way, slowly, through the forest, Emma stalling every so often and succumbing to tears. She barely said a word, but Jenn felt it keenly: her torment, her sadness. There was remorse, too. Neither of them could bring themselves to say it – sorry – they didn’t need to; both of them seemed to know. At the rickety gate, as though winding back time, Emma had set down one of her crutches, and extended an arm to Jenn. Jenn
ignored the sudden burst of activity on the terrace above; she slid her fingers through Emma’s and squeezed. Sorry. I love you.

Emma had slept for the rest of the day, although Jenn suspected that this was as much to avoid her father’s probing as fatigue catching up with her. She appeared on the terrace shortly after he’d left for the village. She had sat down at the table, poured herself a glass of wine, and indicated with a nod that she was ready to talk.

It wasn’t the first time. It had happened once before, not long after they started dating. She pulled pints in his local. She wasn’t even pretty, and somehow that hurt more than the betrayal itself. He denied it, even now he could never admit to it, but she knew; everyone knew. And a part of her blamed herself: it served her right for being so uptight, so damn cautious. The week before they came away, Nathan had given her an ultimatum: if she didn’t love him enough to make that sort of commitment, then he didn’t see any point in his coming out to Deià with her. They did it the night before they came away. She could forgive him for the bartender but she could never, ever forgive him for Monica.

Jenn lets the phone fall from her grip, and slide back into the bag. She is stricken with remorse, then self-loathing. It hits her in waves.

Tomorrow they will go home, the three of them. There is nothing she wants more.

The last of the beach traffic has left by the time Emma limps into view. She is surprised and pleased that Jenn has waited. As she gets closer it’s clear she’s been crying, the soft hazel of her eyes rimmed red with tears, but she looks better for it.