The Little Theatre by the Sea

by Rosanna Ley

Genres: Family Life; Holiday books; Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

Faye has just completed her degree when she finds herself jobless and boyfriend-less. So when she receives a phone call from her old friend Charlotte who now lives in Sardinia, suggesting that Faye house-sits for a month, she jumps at the chance. But then Charlotte tells Faye that there's something more behind the sudden invitation: her friends are looking for a designer to renovate a crumbling old theatre they own. Little does Faye know what she's letting herself in for…

Release date: March 9, 2017

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 389

Sample

The phone call from Sardinia came at the perfect time for Faye. Serendipity, she thought. She’d never been to the island but it sounded like her idea of paradise.

For months she’d been working flat out – head spinning, eyes aching – often until the early hours. Faye looked around her cramped bedroom. Her things were bursting out of the tiny wardrobe and once she’d squeezed herself into the room there was little else she could do but throw herself on to the bed. Which was about all she felt capable of doing these days. Mature students were supposed to have more drive, but perhaps they were more prone to exhaustion, too. So here she was at thirty-three, a qualified interior designer at last, with one big question on her mind – what next?

Was Charlotte’s phone call the answer? Faye pulled her weekend bag down from the top of the wardrobe. She was heading back to West Dorset to see her parents. And then . . . she couldn’t hold back the grin. Why not? She’d be leaving grey old London, a wet spring and stress levels teetering on the unmanageable. At least for a while.

She threw in a spare pair of jeans and added her washbag, a tee shirt and a jade green cardigan she loved even though it was missing its crucial centre button. Sometimes Faye wondered if she was missing her crucial centre button. She had given up a lot to do a degree at the (mature, she reminded herself) age of thirty.

She’d left a well-paid job as a PA in North London. She had also – at least temporarily – lost the good opinion of her mother. Unlike Faye’s father, who had pulled her into a hug and told her that he understood . . . You go for it, love, otherwise you’ll regret it for the rest of your life . . . Molly Forrester was not a risk-taker and did not approve of the quality in her daughter. In her mother’s view, Faye should be thinking more about settling down and less about a dramatic career change that could very well end in tears. More practically, Faye had swapped a decent, but costly, flat share in Stoke Newington for this less-than-salubrious room in Hackney, and as a penniless student she could no longer eat out or party as often as she’d like. She manoeuvred her way past the chest of drawers and eyed herself briefly in the long mirror in the corner. Which was perhaps a good thing – she’d looked seriously hungover for days.

Faye chucked a few more odds and ends in the bag and zipped it shut. But it had been worth it. She had always had a strong interest in design. She liked to think that she was creative. All the jobs she’d ever had had left her feeling unfulfilled. And so she’d done some research and applied for this degree course. It fascinated her – how the design of a space could affect an environment, how it could create meaning and evoke feelings. The problem-solving aspect also appealed – how to find better solutions, make things work more efficiently, how to improve a space for the people who used it – and just as importantly, make it look good too.

Faye gathered up the last of her things. She had paid a price, though. Not only had she had to adjust to living on a student grant and in this tiny room . . . not only was she too tired, too broke and too exhausted to go out . . . she had also, much to her mother’s horror, lost Justin.

Her gaze drifted to the photograph of them both in Lisbon, still sitting in its silver frame next to the bed, a silent rebuke. Justin. Faye still hadn’t quite got her head around it. He had left only six months ago and that was how it felt – as if her long-time boyfriend had simply been mislaid. He hadn’t, though. At the time, Faye had pushed the memory of their break-up away because she’d needed to focus on her work. She couldn’t give in to any emotional turmoil; all this meant too much to her for that. But now she was having to face the truth: Justin wasn’t coming back. She was alone.

So when Charlotte rang from Sardinia . . .

‘Faye,’ Charlotte said as soon as she picked up. ‘I saw the picture on Facebook of you at your degree show. Wow. Congratulations, my love. You did it!’

‘Yes,’ Faye breathed out. ‘Thanks.’ It was hard to believe that she could now go to bed before midnight after manic weeks completing her portfolio, her design drawings, the pieces for her exhibition. She was still on a strangely spaced-out adrenalin-filled high. It was like the end of a road with an unpredictable abyss looming in front of her. Scary. Three years it had taken and so much of it had been way outside her comfort zone. Learning to use the various computer programmes, coming up with concepts and ideas that then had to be linked to the material. Faye shuddered at the memory. But Charlotte was right. She had done it – and it felt like it had taken everything.

‘I took it all down yesterday,’ she told Charlotte. The designs and the posters, the displays of tiles and fabrics. Sustainability Within Architecture. The subject of her dissertation, she never wanted to hear that phrase again; she had explored it and analysed it to death. ‘It’s hard to believe it’s all come to an end.’

‘Ah, but this is just the beginning,’ said Charlotte. She’d always been the optimistic one, even back in sixth form where they’d both studied photography and textiles. They became close friends before going their separate ways after their A-levels. In Faye’s case that had been to London to work as a PA, in Charlotte’s – rather more exotically – it was travelling around Italy. She ended up marrying an Italian man who ran a hotel in Sardinia.

‘I hope you’re right.’ Faye noticed the thin trail of anxiety in her own voice. She went through to the communal kitchen to grab the bottle of celebratory Prosecco that she hoped was still in the fridge. It was.

‘Of course I’m right. With your talent, my love, you’ll be swatting them away at the door.’

Faye smiled. As if. She took a glass down from the cupboard. No doubt Charlotte too did her fair share of swatting – and not just because she was a stunning redhead with a figure to turn the head of every Sardinian man on the island. She worked freelance, designing and producing high-end knitwear (she had always been keener on textiles and fabrication than Faye). She and Fabio had no children – yet – but Faye knew that if Charlotte wanted, she could simply relax as the wife of a successful businessman. Instead she had chosen to preserve her own creative identity and Faye respected her for that. As a result, Charlotte understood Faye’s decision better than most.

She took a first sip of the chilled bubbles. Heaven. ‘You should have seen some of the work at the show,’ Faye replied. ‘There are a lot of talented people out there.’ And just how many design jobs were available anyway?

‘I don’t doubt it,’ said Charlotte. ‘But you’re the crème de la crème. Any job offers yet? Or interviews?’

‘Not yet.’ Faye took another sip of her wine. ‘I might have to look for something temporary to keep me going,’ she admitted. Crème de la crème, indeed.

‘But you must be exhausted,’ Charlotte said. ‘What you need first is a holiday.’

‘I wish.’ Faye let out a hollow laugh. She put down her glass and drew the wooden blind to shut out the night-lights of London. In Sardinia, presumably, Charlotte would be able to see the stars. Faye let out a small sigh. There had been some interest in her work at the exhibition. One director in particular had approached her and invited her to send over her portfolio. But he had said himself that the project they were working on was in its early stages and they didn’t know yet how many people they would need. It was promising, but it would probably be weeks before she heard back. And in the meantime she had to live.

‘So why don’t you?’

Faye looked around the tiny kitchen. ‘I can’t afford it.’ Her parents had helped her out over the past three years but she was reluctant to ask them for more. She was thirty-three years old. Independent. Or at least, she was supposed to be.

‘Can you at least lay your hands on the airfare to Sardinia?’ Charlotte’s voice grew more serious. ‘If not, it’s my treat.’

‘Oh, I couldn’t . . .’ But even as she said it, an image from many years ago flickered through her senses. Rippling blue water, white-sand coves, green-cloaked mountains. It was the image of Italy.

‘Don’t be silly.’ Charlotte’s voice was crisp. ‘And it’s not just a holiday, either. Listen, my love. I have a proposition to put to you.’

Back in Dorset, Faye felt herself begin to relax. Everything was so reassuringly familiar. Her mother was baking scones in the kitchen; she had planned a Dorset cream tea following a morning rummage in the antiques market in town. Her father, rangy and fair-haired, in his mid-fifties now and still in good shape, was sitting with his feet up in the conservatory reading the paper; outside, beyond Faye’s parents’ cottage garden, sheep grazed impossibly green Dorset grass in fields separated by dry-stone walls that had stood there for centuries. Were her parents even aware of what a rural idyll they lived in? Faye smiled to herself and contemplated the place she had always called home. Her mother had grown up in West Dorset; her father had commuted to and from the city of Exeter most of his life. Faye had moved to London, but she still wasn’t sure that she belonged.

‘Timeless, isn’t it?’ she said.

Her father grinned back at her in his usual way. But there was a look in his light blue eyes that stirred some long-forgotten memory for Faye. It hovered there, tantalising; she tried to grasp it, and then it was gone. ‘Dad?’ She put a hand on his arm as if to anchor him – or her.

He shook some thought away; she saw it. ‘Never changes,’ he agreed, patting her hand.

‘Which is probably why it’s so peaceful.’ But even if interior design jobs could be found here in West Dorset, Faye wasn’t sure she’d come back. London had been a culture shock but she’d quickly become accustomed to the pace and the people; the buzz. It was only now that she was thinking maybe sometimes it was good to slow down.

Faye got up and went to find her mother who was in the kitchen. ‘Anything I can do?’

Her mother indicated the bowl on the worktop. ‘Help yourself, darling.’

Faye grabbed an apron hanging on a hook behind the door and pulled it on. She washed her hands, dried them and began to rub butter into the flour, feeling the fat slide between the pads of her fingers and thumbs, gradually combining as blissfully as always. She shook the bowl to bring the buttery lumps to the surface. She loved cooking, though she didn’t do much of it in London. There never seemed enough time; it was easier to buy salads or microwave dinners for one.

She gave desultory answers to her mother’s usual questions. Yes, I’m fine. Yes, of course I’m eating properly. Yes, I miss Justin. Her mother would want a lot more detail than that, but Faye wasn’t going to volunteer it. Only . . .

Faye glanced up, surprised. For probably the first time ever, her mother wasn’t following through. ‘Mum?’ Her mother’s brown eyes were vague, her fingers drifting through a sea of sultanas she was drying in a sieve, in readiness for the scones.

She blinked, shook back a strand of her dark hair, still thick, still glossy, cut in a crisp, no-nonsense bob. ‘Sorry, darling. What did you say?’

Faye frowned. She thought of her father in the conservatory, the easy grin slipping from his face. ‘Is everything alright?’

‘Of course. What do you mean? Why shouldn’t it be?’

‘Well . . . oh, nothing.’ Faye shouldn’t complain. It wasn’t as if she wanted to answer any Justin questions. Justin had left her because he said he’d had enough. He didn’t say what he’d had enough of, so Faye could only assume it was her. Their life together. And she supposed that it was her fault. What boyfriend would put up with a girl who stayed up studying half the night? What boyfriend would be willing to support a crazy decision like Faye’s, to study for an interior architecture degree when she already had a reasonable job organising a perfectly nice man’s working life as a well-paid personal assistant? Even if it meant that she could work in an industry she loved, doing something more creative and fulfilling? Clearly not Justin, was the answer to that one. Faye wasn’t bitter. She liked Justin a lot. She still missed him. She had thought that she loved him and when he left she had braced herself for the emotional fall-out.

But something rather odd had happened in these past weeks. By postponing the pain, by throwing herself into her work, by letting some time go by . . . She had got over the worst of it and was left with simply a sense of disappointment. She’d certainly had a good time with Justin. He was attractive, charming, even funny. But he wasn’t enough. She knew that now. She wanted the other, more elusive, kind of boyfriend – the kind who would support her, all the way. If he existed, that was. Apparently there was someone for everyone in this life, but Faye was beginning to wonder.

She brushed the last of the floury crumbs from her hands and set the bowl to one side. She was conscious of a trickle of unease. Everything here was familiar, yes. But things weren’t the same. Her father wasn’t quite his usual self. And her mother had just broken the pattern of a lifetime by not demanding a full explanation of her break-up with Justin. It was totally out of character. Something was going on. Faye took a deep breath. Come on, now. She was imagining things. She’d been working too hard, not getting enough sleep. If there was anything wrong, they would tell her. If there was anything wrong, she’d know.

*

Before tea, Faye and her father went for a walk along the cliff. It was Faye’s suggestion. Cliff walking – whatever the weather – was a vital element of a weekend back in Dorset. She wanted to get up high, look out over the vastness of the water, see the sun glinting on the stacked golden cliffs and pebbles of Chesil Beach as they swept in a perfect curve towards the distant hazy point of Portland. She wanted to feel the sea breeze harsh against her skin, combing roughly through her hair. She wanted to clear out the cobwebs of the past few months in hiding.

They parked in the Bay and walked side by side up the steep and raggedy cliff path without speaking – they needed all their breath for the climb. At the top, they paused to look back towards the mismatched roofs of the houses in the Bay and the harbour, its grey concrete jetty pointing out to sea. The water below was olive-glossy, the grass underfoot still sparse and muddy from rain.

‘So what’s new, Dad?’ Faye asked. She realised guiltily that this was a question she probably didn’t ask often enough. It wasn’t that she wasn’t interested; more that nothing seemed to change in her parents’ lives. Whereas in London . . . She blinked away the past months of work and Justin – at least for a while. Sometimes, it was as if her other life didn’t exist while she was here. Time out. Now that was something she definitely needed.

Her father thrust his hands in his pockets. ‘As a matter of fact, something has happened,’ he said.

Faye stopped walking. She knew it. ‘Yes?’ But from her father’s expression it didn’t look like something bad.

‘I’ve been offered early retirement.’ He stared out to sea as if there might be some answers there, his blue eyes crinkling as he squinted into the afternoon sun.

‘Ah.’ That explained a lot. Faye’s father had worked in banking all his life. She knew he’d worked his way up the ladder pretty quickly in the old days. She supposed he’d enjoyed his job as much as anyone – he certainly seemed to get on with the team he worked with. When she’d been growing up he’d often seemed tired, but that was life, wasn’t it, for a lot of people? You worked hard, you saved for holidays and you got tired, so you needed them. Faye had been on that treadmill too until she’d taken stock one day and jumped off.

‘And?’ she probed as they carried on walking. The thrift and buttercups were out on the cliff slopes; a purple and yellow blanket on the green. Early retirement was a good thing surely? Her parents weren’t short of money and this would give her father a pension and a chance to do other things. ‘You’re going to take it, aren’t you?’ Presuming he had a choice, that was.

‘Yes, love, I am.’ He threw her a glance she couldn’t quite read and increased his pace, striding along the cliff path in his muddy green wellingtons, heading towards Freshwater Beach and the caravan park.

Faye frowned. Something wasn’t quite right. She matched his pace, caught him up and linked her arm through his. ‘And what will you do with all that free time, Dad?’ She laughed. ‘Buy an allotment? Do crossword puzzles in bed?’

His smile was a bit like his earlier one – unconvincing. Didn’t he want to leave work then? She’d assumed he would. Was he being pushed out? Was that it? ‘Only teasing,’ she whispered. ‘You don’t mind, do you? Early retirement, I mean?’

‘No, love.’ He looked across to the fields on the other side of the cliffs, sloping down to the valley and then up again to the ridge. On the other side were the Nature Reserve and the village of Bothenhampton. ‘Course I don’t. I’m delighted.’

‘Truly?’

‘Truly.’ He squeezed her arm.

Which should be reassuring. But why, she wondered, didn’t he look it?

*

Later, over tea in the garden, Faye’s mother moved back into familiar territory. For Faye, it was almost a relief.

‘What about jobs, darling?’ she asked, as she spread a thin layer of cream on her scone. ‘Anything in the offing?’

Faye shrugged. Her mother was the practical one, the one who worried about paying the rent and what food everyone was eating. Faye took a bite of her scone. Delicious. It was moist and crumbled in her mouth, cream oozing around her mother’s raspberry jam. ‘I’ve contacted a few companies and sent them my portfolio,’ she said. ‘We’ll see.’

To be honest, just the idea of actually working in the design world seemed a million miles away from her studying, her degree, where she was now. Could she do it? Could she put it into practice? Was she good enough? Faye had no idea. Her university had a decent reputation within the industry but as she’d already told Charlotte, there were an awful lot of talented people out there. And most of them were younger, fresher and possibly hungrier than Faye. Maturity, she reminded herself, might not be quite the plus point that her personal tutor had imagined it to be.

‘Something will come up, love,’ her father said with confidence. He looked across at Faye’s mother and Faye watched them exchange a glance.

Only she wasn’t exactly sure what sort of a glance. ‘Actually,’ she said, ‘something has.’

‘Oh?’ She had their full attention now.

‘Remember Charlotte?’

They did.

Faye swirled a bit of cream from her plate on to her finger and licked it off. ‘She’s invited me to house-sit for her in Sardinia.’ Sardinia: warm, sunny and blessed with more than its share of fabulous beaches. Not to even mention the food, the architecture and the men.

Her mother pulled one of her faces. ‘House-sit?’ she echoed. ‘That’s hardly a design job though, is it, darling?’

Which was pretty much what Faye had thought at first. A week or two in Sardinia, she could justify – she had worked hard, she could do with a break, she could still apply for jobs and answer emails while she was away. But any longer than that seemed indulgent.

‘Still, Faye could do with a decent holiday,’ her father chipped in, bless him. ‘After all that work.’ He turned to her. ‘Plenty of time for finding a job when you’ve recharged your batteries, love.’

‘Mmm.’ Her mother looked doubtful as she wiped her mouth with her napkin. Faye knew that before her parents met, her mother had worked in an up-market department store. She stopped working when she had Faye and didn’t go back for sixteen years, when she had joined the sales team of a local craft shop. But eventually she’d left that position, too, and now she hadn’t worked for years. She kept the house clean and neat as a pin, she cooked dinner, she boiled and baked for the country market – jams, scones, cakes, quiches – and she looked after Faye’s father. He didn’t seem to have any complaints about that. No, her mother had never been a career woman. Faye wouldn’t change that. She had felt cherished as a child; she had been made to feel special. But now she wondered – had her mother ever longed for something different?

Charlotte had explained that her hotelier husband Fabio would be travelling around the chain of hotels owned by his company in northern Italy. ‘To work out why their profit performances are low,’ she had elaborated. ‘To come up with a super-Fabio plan to get them back on track. You know the sort of thing.’

Faye knew. She had met Fabio when he and Charlotte had got married at the old church in Bothenhampton. He was good-looking and supremely confident. Super-Fabio indeed. Faye could see how Charlotte had fallen so utterly in love during two weeks in Sardinia. Charlotte – and the British boys she knew – hadn’t stood a chance.

‘So where do I come in?’ asked Faye. ‘Don’t tell me Fabio needs a PA to keep him organised, because I won’t believe you.’

Charlotte laughed. ‘You’re right, he doesn’t. But I’m going with him.’

‘For moral support?’

‘You’re joking. He doesn’t need that, either. No, to give me a chance to see some of Italy. We hardly ever get away. That hotel is Fabio’s baby.’

‘Oh, I see.’ Now things were becoming clearer. Faye wondered if Charlotte wanted a different kind of baby for herself and Fabio. ‘A sort of holiday, do you mean?’

‘Holiday? That’s even funnier. Fabio’s a complete workaholic and you know me, I can work wherever I lay my hat. And my knitting needles, naturally.’

‘Naturally.’ Faye chuckled. ‘But why do you need me?’

‘To house-sit. To feed Fabio’s precious tropical fish.’

‘Ah, yes, the fish.’ Charlotte had told her about the aquarium which apparently now took up half the width of their living room.

‘And to be on hand in case of burglary,’ Charlotte added.

‘Nice.’

‘You know what I mean. Fabio’s paranoid.’

So he wasn’t perfect, thought Faye.

‘And before you ask, there’s no reason why we should be burgled. We’ve never been burgled and there’s practically no crime here in Deriu.’ Her voice changed. ‘Apart from when Giorgia Volti disappeared – but that was years ago, and before my time. But like I said—’

‘Fabio’s paranoid.’

‘Exactly.’

‘And is there anything else I have to do?’ Faye asked.

‘Simply enjoy yourself for a few weeks or so in Sardinia.’ Charlotte’s voice was persuasive now. ‘After all that studying into the small hours, Faye, you need it.’

But Faye knew her rather well. ‘And?’ she said . . .

*

‘And Charlotte has two friends who own a theatre,’ Faye told her parents now.

‘A theatre?’ Her father shot her a quizzical look.

‘A theatre,’ she confirmed. Theatre was everywhere when you came to think about it. The whole of life was a drama.

Her mother’s brow wrinkled. ‘What are the names of these friends?’

‘Alessandro and Marisa Rinaldi,’ Faye told her.

‘Rinaldi . . .’ Her mother had been looking at her very intently. But now she looked away, into the garden, her eyes unfocused, as if she were lost in thought.

‘We met Bruno Rinaldi,’ Faye’s father said. ‘He stayed with us when Charlotte and Fabio got married.’

‘Of course, yes.’ Faye remembered him – dignified, well mannered and rather charming.

‘He mentioned having two grown-up children, didn’t he, Molly?’

Faye’s mother seemed to bring herself back into the room with some difficulty. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He did.’

‘He wasn’t much older than us,’ Faye’s father said. ‘What’s happened to him? He’s still around, isn’t he?’

Faye wondered if she was imagining the tension in the room. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Charlotte told me he died some months ago.’

Her mother let out a gasp.

‘We didn’t know him well,’ her father said. ‘But I’m sorry.’

‘What is it that Charlotte’s asking you to do?’ There was an odd expression on her mother’s face.

‘Take a look at the theatre – initially. After that . . .’

‘And will you go?’

*

‘It needs renovating,’ Charlotte had told her, barely able to keep the excitement out of her voice. ‘It’s been left to rot for years. It needs restoration and a total redesign.’

Faye tried to think how much she knew about theatre design. Very little. ‘I don’t—’

‘And you –’ Charlotte cut her off – ‘could very well be just the woman for the job.’

*

‘Yes,’ Faye told her mother. ‘I certainly will.’ Turn down a holiday in Sardinia and the chance to see one of her closest friends – not to mention a rather intriguing project in the offing? Truth was, she couldn’t wait.

Faye had managed to book a last-minute budget flight to Olbia. It was a stunning place to fly into. As they approached the coastline of Sardinia, Faye peered out of the plane’s porthole window, taking in the sight of little islands, rocky bays, boats moored in an almost circular harbour and turquoise water that looked more like the Caribbean than the Med. In the distance, behind the busy port, the mountains were cloaked in green trees and scrub, a few wisps of cloud gathered around their summits.

Faye felt a jump of anticipation. She’d had a few wobbles this week thinking about the project that she’d already half-committed to by coming here. Charlotte hadn’t gone into too many details. ‘We can discuss it properly when you arrive,’ she’d said in answer to Faye’s questions. During her time in Sardinia, Faye reflected now, Charlotte had adopted a certain Italian breeziness that seemed a characteristic of the Mediterranean temperament. At any rate, she had seemed determined to get Faye to Sardinia at all costs.

Faye wasn’t sure why. She had no practical experience in the workplace and redesigning an entire theatre – even a little theatre – sounded more than a tad ambitious for someone who’d only just finished her degree. ‘Nonsense,’ Charlotte had declared, when Faye said as much to her. ‘You can at least give them some ideas.’

‘Okay,’ she’d agreed. She was getting a free holiday, after all. ‘I’ll try my best.’

*

Charlotte met her at the airport, where they hugged, told each other how good the other one was looking and got into the car to head for Deriu. Charlotte drove west into the interior through forests of cork oaks, the trees bent and shadowy with lavender-grey lichen, many of them stripped to the waist of their rugged bark. There was a sense of stillness in the landscape here that drew Faye, but much of the effect was lost; during the journey, Charlotte chatted non-stop – about her work, about Fabio’s work, about their forthcoming Italian trip. And when those subjects were exhausted she moved on to questions – about Faye’s degree (I don’t know how you did it), about her break-up with Justin (definitely not the right man for my girl) and then reminiscing about the good old days at college.

Faye wasn’t complaining. She was enjoying simply sitting back in the passenger seat feeling the warmth of the late spring sun through the car windows and soaking up the scenery. They passed through the woodland of cork trees and olive groves, the maquis of shrubby vegetation randomly identified by Charlotte – in the middle of unconnected sentences – as myrtle, blackthorn and arbutus. ‘Even in the winter the island looks green,’ she threw in. ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’

‘It is, yes.’ Faye could see that her friend was proud of the island that she had made her home. Charlotte was thriving here. She ran a small, successful business and she seemed happy. It was true that she was looking better than ever, dressed this afternoon in an elegant loose silk shirt in dove grey over close-fitting black trousers that flattered her petite frame, her auburn hair cut pixie-short these days in an immaculate style that accentuated the shape of her scalp, her high cheekbones and slanted green eyes.

‘So what did people do in Sardinia before tourism?’ Faye asked her.

‘Agriculture, shepherding, mining, cork.’ Charlotte rattled them off. ‘Lots of crafts – especially basket-making and rugs. And then there’s coral – wait till you see the coral, Faye.’

It wasn’t until they crossed a bridge over a wide river lined with bamboo and date palms that she stopped talking. Faye realised this was relevant. She waited.

‘This is it,’ Charlotte said.

‘Deriu?’

She nodded.

Her friend had described it, but words hadn’t done the little town justice. The jumble of buildings lay mainly between the far riverbank and the hill beyond; both the town and the river were backed by mountains which stood, tranquil, seemingly untouched for centuries. Faye could see what looked like a castle on the top of the hill, the other old buildings sheltered beneath. The cluttered houses were painted various shades of pastel, the river snaking from the cradle of the lush mountain valleys in th