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tree, Immy enchanted by a family of skinny kittens that wound round her legs, mewing pitifully.
    ‘Oh Mummy, can we take one home with us? Please, please,’ Immy begged, feeding a kitten the last of her chips.
    ‘No, darling. They live here, with their own mummy,’ Helena replied firmly. Her hand shook slightly as she lifted a glass of young local wine to her mouth. It tasted exactly the same
– slightly acrid, yet sweet – as she’d always remembered. She felt as if she had fallen through the looking-glass, back into the past . . .
    ‘Mummy! Can I have ice cream or not?’
    ‘Sorry, darling, I was daydreaming. Of course you can.’
    ‘Do you think they have Ben and Jerry’s Phish Food here?’
    ‘I doubt it. I should think it’s plain old vanilla, strawberry or chocolate, but let’s ask.’
    The young waiter was summoned by Immy, the deal with the ice cream done, and a Cyprus coffee, medium sugar, ordered for Helena, to dilute the glass of wine.
    Twenty minutes later, they left the taverna and wandered along the dusty street towards the car.
    ‘Look at the nuns, Mummy, sitting over there on the bench.’ Immy pointed in the direction of the church. ‘They must be very hot in those dresses.’
    ‘They’re not nuns, Immy, they are the old ladies of the village. They wear black because their husbands are dead and they are called widows,’ Helena explained.
    ‘They wear black?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘No pink? Ever?’
    ‘No.’
    Immy looked horrified. ‘I don’t have to do that when my husband dies, do I?’
    ‘No, darling. It’s a tradition in Cyprus, that’s all.’
    ‘Well, then, I’m never moving here,’ Immy retorted, and skipped off towards the car.
    The two of them arrived back at Pandora with the boot of the car loaded with provisions. Alex appeared at the back door.
    ‘Hi, Mum.’
    ‘Hi, darling, are you feeling better? Can you give me a hand with some of these shopping bags?’
    Alex helped Helena unload the boot and took the bags into the kitchen.
    ‘Gosh, it’s hot.’ She wiped her forehead. ‘I need a glass of water.’
    Alex found a glass, went to the fridge and poured out cold water from a jug. He handed it to her. ‘There.’
    ‘Thank you.’ Helena gulped it back gratefully.
    ‘I’m going upstairs for a rest. Still feeling a bit dizzy,’ Alex announced.
    ‘Okay. Come down for supper later?’
    ‘Yes.’ He walked towards the door, then stopped and turned round. ‘By the way, there’s someone here to see you.’
    ‘Really? Why didn’t you tell me when I first arrived?’
    ‘He’s out on the terrace. I told him I didn’t know what time you’d be back, but
he
insisted on waiting anyway.’
    Helena struggled to keep a neutral expression on her face. ‘Who is he?’
    ‘How should I know?’ Alex shrugged. ‘But he seems to know you.’
    ‘Really?’
    ‘Yes. I think he said his name was Alexis.’

ALEX’S DIARY
    11th July (continued)
    I‘m standing at the window of my bedroom, peering round the shutters so I can’t be seen from the terrace below.
    I’m watching the man who has come to see my mother. He is currently pacing nervously, backwards and forwards, hands jammed into his pockets. He is tall and well built, his
skin tanned a deep nut-brown. His thick black hair is slightly greying at the temples, but he definitely isn’t an old man. I’d guess he’s probably just a little older than my mum.
And younger than my stepfather.
    I noticed when he arrived and I saw him up close, that he has blue eyes, very blue, so perhaps he is not a Cypriot. Unless he is wearing coloured contact lenses of course, which I
doubt. The upshot of all this man’s combined parts means that he is definitely very good-looking.
    I watch as my mother glides onto the terrace. She walks so gracefully it’s almost as if her feet are not touching the ground, because the top half of her body doesn’t
move, even though her legs do. She stops a few feet away from him, her hands hanging