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trap.
    Halfway between the plane and the terminal, she recognised Andoni Pappas rushing across the tarmac to greet her. She placed her cello on the ground just in time for him to crush her in a huge embrace, tears of pleasure filling his eyes. Max, as usual making life as easy as possible for Eden, had quite obviously called on Andoni to take charge of her arrival.
    A former Prime Minister and admirer of her genius as one of the world’s great cellists, his adoration of her as a woman had never flagged in all the many years they had known each other. He had arranged memorable nights for Eden that he and a handful of selected friends as well would never forget: Eden Sidd playing by moonlight on the steps of the Propylia at the Parthenon; a lazy picnic in the sun at the Temple of Sounion with her playing Bach in an after-lunch interlude where the glorious Aegean sparkling blue below a cloudless sky of the same colour and intensity made it difficult to distinguish, save for the movement of water, where earth separated from sky. Memories came rushing back of the many other places she had been privileged to play, not in concert but for herself: a sunset at Knossos, on a remote deserted island near Ikaria, in Delos one dawn morning, in the courtyard of the monastery high up in Hora Patmos.
    The two old friends kissed and as their lips met for a fleeting moment she remembered the lovers who had afterwards rounded off such splendid experiences. Garfield Barton, handsome and sexual, filled her thoughts. She pushed him firmly from her mind as she stroked Andoni’s cheek with the back of her hand. He had been one of the many who had tried to make her wrench Garfield from her heart. Even now as Andoni and she looked at each other she could remember the anxiety he’d felt for her in her desperate love then.
    Arms wrapped around each other, Andoni and Eden broke away from the queue snaking its way into the terminal and walked to the waiting car where one of his faithful attendants took Eden’s passport and slipped away to process her entry into the country.
    The warmth and charm of Greeks was always a pleasant surprise for Eden. She and Andoni had not seen each other for years and yet they spoke as if they had been in touch constantly.Eden felt suddenly in touch with herself and the world and very much more alive and happy.
    The traffic from the terminal into the centre of Athens was more congested and chaotic than ever. A cloud of pollution hung over the city, something she had not seen before. But the vitality and noise and bizarre driving, the blocks of modern concrete apartment buildings with mean little balconies, were in much the same style as she remembered.
    ‘Progress has a great deal to answer for,’ she said to Andoni.
    ‘Everywhere, my dear, not only in Greece,’ he replied. ‘Max said I should not impose hospitality on you, or anything else for that matter. A very private, very personal journey was what he called your visit. So I hesitate to ask you to dine with us this evening …’
    ‘He told it to you the way it is, Andoni. You will forgive me if I decline?’
    ‘Let me at least offer you my boat to take you to your island.’
    Andoni’s schooner was a familiar sight in Hydra. It was probably the most low-key return she could hope for and so without hesitation she accepted his offer.
    Andoni was surprised as the car drew up before the Grande B when Eden asked him not even to accompany her into the hotel. Surprised but not offended. He watched as the doorman greeted her and removed the cello from her hands. He knew her, of course, as did most of the hotel’s staff from the years of her love affair with Greece, her fame as a musician and as the lover of the American painter Garfield Barton.
    Eden went directly into the streets of Athens after registering in the hotel and instructing the concierge to send up toothbrush and paste. Except for her cello and her handbag she had travelled with no luggage. She was an