Among the Lemon Trees Read online

  Among the Lemon Trees

  Nadia Marks (née Kitromilides, which in Greek means ‘bitter lemons’) was born in Cyprus, but grew up in London. An ex-creative director and associate editor on a number of leading British women’s magazines, she is now a novelist and works as a freelance writer for several national and international publications. She has two sons and lives in North London with her partner Mike.

  Nadia Marks

  Among the

  Lemon Trees

  MACMILLAN

  First published 2017 by Macmillan an imprint of Pan Macmillan 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR Associated companies throughout the world

  www.panmacmillan.com

  ISBN 978-1-5098-1572-2

  Copyright © Nadia Marks 2017

  The right of Nadia Marks to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

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  To my sons, Leo and Pablo

  Ancient Greek has four distinct words for love: agápe, Éros, philía and storgé. The Greek language distinguishes how the word is used.

  Perhaps in the same way that the ancient Greeks worshipped twelve gods yet kept an open mind about a possible thirteenth deity, there could also be a word to describe a fifth kind of love.

  Part One

  Love on a Greek island, 1936

  The power of the full moon has always been respected and revered by the people of the island. They believe that under the influence of an August moon, rational thought is likely to desert a person, especially those who have fallen under the spell of love. Anything can happen during such a time. It’s a dangerous and wayward period; its effect on lovers, young or old, has no mercy. When the hot jasmine-scented air intoxicates the senses and moonlight fills the sky, human sap begins to rise and mischief is afoot. The moon shimmering over a balmy sea promises delights beyond the imagination and anyone can fall prey to its power and be led astray.

  In days gone by, mothers of young girls would keep their daughters under lock and key anticipating this danger. It was on such an August night that an ardent, rebellious young girl managed to escape her mother’s watchful eye and run to the seashore to meet the boy she loved.

  She knew that by the time the moon had made its way high in the sky, the light would be too bright to provide shelter from prying eyes, so the young lovers arranged to meet after sundown but before moonrise. That was the magical hour when the world was cloaked in darkness and the sea was as still as glass.

  For weeks the two sweethearts had planned their secret meeting to coincide with the twenty-eighth day of the calendar month and the day the girl would turn fifteen. Concealed by the blackness of the night they felt safe to kiss and embrace, lie in each other’s arms and wait to witness the mystery of an August moonrise. They watched in awe as the glimmer of gold on the horizon rose gradually to become an enormous amber globe, hovering over the sea and bathing everything in its warm glow. But before the moon rose higher, illuminating the beach like a spotlight betraying the young lovers, they ran to take refuge in one of the many caves under the rocky cliffs on the beach. It was on that night, the night she turned fifteen and the full moon reigned in the sky, that she gave herself to the boy she loved more than anyone else in the world, while they both pledged eternal love to each other. He had turned sixteen three months earlier.

  ‘I will love you for ever,’ he said.

  ‘I would die rather than stop loving you,’ she said back.

  1

  London, 1999

  Anna’s mobile was on silent. She’d turned it off during dinner. It always irritated her if Max or the kids answered theirs while they ate. Dinner was a time just for them; anyone else could wait. After all, if they were all together what emergency could there be that couldn’t wait? The only thing that Anna ever worried about was if her old dad might need her, but then again he always called on the landline.

  She was emptying the dishwasher when she noticed the phone vibrating on the kitchen counter. Unknown number. She hesitated for a second before picking it up. Then came the stranger’s voice.

  ‘Mrs Turner?’

  ‘Speaking.’ Anna had an uneasy feeling. It wasn’t often she was referred to by her married name, and the man’s voice sounded serious.

  ‘This is Dr Morris, from the Whittington Hospital,’ he continued.

  She stopped breathing.

  ‘Dad.’ Her whisper was barely audible. She nearly dropped the phone.

  ‘We have Mr Turner here,’ the voice carried on. ‘He is fine, but you might like to come to the hospital. Your husband gave us your number. He is in A and E at the moment.’

  Within minutes Anna had grabbed the car keys and was running upstairs for her coat, alerting Alex and Chloe who were both in their rooms. Max had apparently suffered a heart attack.

  ‘Kids! Kids!’ she screamed at the top of her lungs, as she ran two steps at a time to the bedroom. ‘Your dad’s in hospital. Let’s move, let’s go!’

  ‘What happened?’ they both asked in unison, rushing out of their rooms.

  ‘He was fine at dinner,’ said Chloe.

  ‘He went for a run . . .’ added Alex. ‘He was OK.’

  ‘I don’t know what happened,’ Anna said, out of breath, ‘but apparently it’s his heart, so let’s go and find out. Chloe, you drive, I don’t think I can.’

  Max looked grim as he lay waiting to be dealt with in one of the A and E cubicles.

  ‘Am I glad to see you guys,’ he said, giving them all a weak smile as they rushed to hug him.

  ‘What on earth happened, Max?’ Anna squeezed his hand and kissed him gently on the lips. ‘I knew running after dinner was a bad idea,’ she said, worry etched on her face. ‘It seemed you were gone a long time, but then again I thought you might have popped in on John.’

  ‘To be honest,’ Max replied, his voice rather faint, ‘it’s all a bit of a blur.’

  He was having his usual sprint up the hill and around the block a few times, when he felt unusually short of breath, he began explaining. He had felt a burning sensation in his sternum. ‘I just thought it was heartburn. I started blaming the Chinese food I had at lunchtime.’ He cursed the fried bean curd: ‘You know how I prefer it steamed.’ He looked at Anna. ‘It kept repeating on me and I thought I should never have eaten it. I was sure it was some kind of acid reflux. Then, next thing I know, I’m here and apparently being prepared for an angiogram.’

  ‘Oh Dad,’ Chloe said, fighting her tears, ‘you ga
ve us such a scare.’

  ‘What’s going to happen now? What’s an angiogram?’ Alex asked, looking at his mum.

  He was a lucky man the cardiologist told Anna later on, and hopefully he might get away with a stent placed in his blocked artery instead of the alternative, which was open heart surgery. Max had always considered himself lucky and it was a matter of luck that when he collapsed, a woman with a mobile phone who was walking her dog saw him.

  In the end he needed bypass surgery. His physical recovery was swift, and within a couple of months he said he felt like his old self again. ‘Lucky escape,’ he kept telling everyone. Max’s brush with death was a big deal for the whole family. The children and Anna all rallied around him.

  ‘Dad just needs to know when to slow down,’ Chloe told her mother. ‘He isn’t as young as he thinks he is. You have got to tell him, Mum, I’m serious. I’m only seventeen and half, I don’t want to be an orphan just yet,’ she said, masking her anxiety with mock annoyance. Alex, on the other hand, decided it was his duty to keep an eye on his father, so when Max started to run again he joined him.

  ‘I need an incentive to start exercising,’ he told Max, ‘it’s so much better with company.’ What Alex, a natural worrier, really meant was, ‘I have to make sure you don’t overdo it, Dad, and I’m the only one who can!’ At fifteen he also had more obvious things to worry about, like exams and girls, and his father’s possible demise was not on the agenda just yet either, so he was going to make sure he helped him back to health.

  They were a close family, the marriage a long and fruitful one; Max and Anna were happy in each other’s company, never short of conversation and still doing things together. They would have been together twenty-five years next anniversary, for which Anna had been planning a surprise trip to Cuba. There was talk about going for the millennium and taking the children, the New Year’s Eve of a lifetime. But then they thought about Anna’s father and her siblings, and the trip was put on hold.

  ‘Anyway,’ Chloe had said, when they were discussing the alternatives for the anniversary, ‘I hear that Cuba is celebrating the millennium in 2001, so we can always go next year . . .’

  Both kids wanted a party, a big family affair for their parents, but Anna was reluctant.

  ‘Go on, Mum,’ they urged her, ‘it’s time we had a family celebration, we haven’t had one since Nonna died. It’ll be good for us all.’

  ‘I know. You’re right,’ she said, ‘but you know your dad, he’s not one for parties. Besides, we’ve both been talking about Cuba for so many years, this is our chance, we want to get there before it all changes; we’ll have a party another time.’ So it was agreed. She was going to book the tickets and surprise him nearer the time.

  His collapse had been totally unexpected. It really frightened Anna, and reminded her once again about the precariousness of life. Her mother’s death four years earlier and Max’s mother’s death just a year ago, had also been a huge blow and she trembled with the thought of losing Max too; they had so much to live for, still so much more to do together.

  Anna helped nurse him back to health with zeal, and everyone helped, especially Chloe. She and Anna had always been close, their relationship mirroring what Anna had with her own mother. In fact, the three generations of women had shared a close bond. Nonna, as the children called their grandmother, was Italian and bountiful in her love for her family. Her loss cost them a great deal so the near loss of Max made them appreciate what they had even more. It seemed to bring them all even closer.

  ‘Silly old Dad,’ Chloe said once he was out of danger. ‘What did he want to do that for? His trouble is that he never knows when to stop!’

  Despite all the reassurances that he was going to be fine, Max was devastated by what he regarded as the failure of his body. He had always prided himself at keeping it in tip-top condition, and he was fanatical about exercise and healthy eating, often arguing about it with Anna, who was much less neurotic about her longevity.

  ‘Your genes and DNA have much more to do with how long you live, than how often you go to the gym,’ she’d tell him. ‘Look at my dad, he’s never jogged in his life and he looks twenty years younger than his age.’

  ‘You can look young but it doesn’t mean you’re healthy,’ Max would argue back, and so the discussions went on. He was determined he was going to live forever or at least live like he was going to live forever.

  The realization that he too was going to die at some point, and possibly soon given his recent collapse, hit Max with a force so powerful it felt as if he had collided with an iceberg. He was still so young. Perhaps not in years, he was going to be fifty-six next birthday, but certainly in spirit. He was full of vigour and zest, bursting with ideas, plans and schemes; death had no place in his life. Then it suddenly seemed to be all around him. First, his best friend; one minute the two of them were sharing a fine bottle of Bordeaux, the next he was gone, dead in front of his very eyes. That was a terrible shock but he put it down to the fact that Stewart was overweight and didn’t take care of himself. Then his mother. No illness, no warning, she just went to bed and never woke up. Then again, she was eighty-six. But Max? What good reason was there for him to collapse like that? What good reason did his heart have to give way?

  He might have boasted and tried to convince everyone that he was back to ‘his old self again’ and that everything was fine, but Anna wasn’t fooled. His bouts of moodiness were now coupled with an uncharacteristic short fuse. His behaviour was not that of the Max she knew. Gone was the humorous banter, the gentle caresses. Anna had never known Max not to be physical with her. She had a lifetime of close tenderness with him. He’d always tell her that his favourite moment of the day was when he sat in bed at night watching her get undressed and ready to lie down next to him. Anna wasn’t even aware of the effect she had on her husband. She didn’t do it provocatively, no seductive underwear or lace, she could be simply taking off her jeans and T-shirt and he would put his book down to look at her.

  ‘Ah! My moment of Zen!’ he’d tell her laughing. ‘I am one lucky man!’

  Anna, always bashful, would joke back and make light of it but never tired of hearing it.

  When Max took to staying up late or finding his book far more absorbing than his wife’s naked body Anna started to worry. Perhaps the heart problem has affected his libido, she’d tell herself. These things have consequences. Or maybe he’s depressed.

  She wanted to help, be there for him, as was her habit with her husband; patience had always been one of her virtues, but nothing could have ever prepared her for what followed.

  Max was leaning casually against the kitchen counter, one hand clutching a cup of coffee, the other plunged deep into his trouser pocket. It was approximately a year since his collapse. He was speaking words that she’d never imagined could come out of his mouth, words that didn’t make any sense to her. She put her hand on the table to steady herself and swallowed hard to stop from crying. The trembling which first started in her limbs travelled inwards until it felt as if all her internal organs were ricocheting around inside her.

  ‘She loves me,’ she heard him say, eyes averted, his lips set in a hard line. ‘It’s a strong connection,’ and ‘I have come to a crossroads in my life.’ She couldn’t comprehend. The lump that rose in her throat grew bigger, making it hard to breathe. He’s not rational, her brain screamed. Mid-life madness, fear of dying! it bellowed again, and then she remembered reading somewhere that every woman whose husband is having an affair believes he must be going through a nervous breakdown.

  It had been months, she told herself, since his surgery. She’d been there for him, cared for him, supported him every step of the way. Surely he could see everything was going to be fine now? I mustn’t cry, just hear him through, she’d told herself again, trying to muster some control.

  ‘I don’t understand. What are you saying, Max?’ she finally said, her voice a mere whisper in contrast to the screaming inside her
head. Was he confessing to an affair and about to beg for forgiveness, or was he saying he wanted to leave her?

  ‘And you . . . do you love her?’ she’d forced herself to ask.

  ‘I’m in love with her . . . yes.’ His reply landed like a fist in Anna’s belly.

  ‘In love?’ she’d stammered, trying to imagine Max in love with someone that wasn’t her. They had been married a quarter of a century and had two grown-up children to show for it. She’d never visualized the future without him. She always thought they were moving forward together, committed to each other, their families, their friends. Now here he was talking to her in another language, as if he was a stranger. And what about last year? Anna’s brain screamed again. How much love and support could a man have from his family, from his wife?

  ‘Who is she?’ she whispered again.

  ‘She is an academic, a lecturer at the university . . .’ his voice trailed off. Anna held her breath. She didn’t want to hear any more. It was more than she could bear. Max had hit her where it hurt; touched her most vulnerable spot. A woman with brains! An academic, probably beautiful, possibly younger and clever! None of those things really mattered to Anna, except the brains. It wasn’t that Anna didn’t have any; she was clever and talented and perfectly bright, but she’d never considered herself Max’s intellectual equal; it was, she knew, her own hang-up. She had gone to college, not university, she had an art diploma not a degree; he was the brain, the brilliant professor. She admired him and deferred to his ‘great’ intellect. She knew she shouldn’t, but she couldn’t help it, she had always put him first.

  ‘Are you in love with her, or do you actually love her?’ she’d heard herself ask, tears blurring her vision.

  ‘What’s the difference?’ Still he avoided her gaze.

  Anna now flushed with anger. The disbelief, confusion and hurt she’d been feeling turned suddenly to fury.