SHEâD lost her best friend and discovered she wasnât who she thought she wasâall in the space of a few weeks.
Two unrelated but cataclysmic events which had catapulted Ianthe from safety into the frightening sphere of the unknown, and in the painful process introduced her to a whole other reality.
âWell,â she said. âNow that Iâm here, I may as well make the best of it.â
Frowning in the mirror at the doubt she saw reflected so clearly in the rich caramel depths of her dark brown eyes, she tried to stem the tilting sensation that made her feel as though she was desperately endeavouring to keep her balance when a deep fissure had just cracked open beneath her feet.
âKeep breathingâ¦just keep breathing.â
Her own advice rang a little hollow round the plain whitewashed walls of the hotel room, with its lone faded picture of a Greek Madonna and childâbut still she grabbed at it, standing perfectly still until some of the terror ebbed away and she was breathing normally again. A slow trickle of sweat meandered down the valley between her breasts. She would fight thisâ¦she had to. There werenât any safety nets any more to catch her if she fell.
From the moment sheâd decided to fly out to the small Greek island she had chosen at random on the map, with a tumultuous mix of grief and excitement pounding through her heart because that was where she would start her quest of self-discovery, Ianthe had promised herself that she would avoid anything that remotely resembled routine. She would discover an adventurous spirit inside herself if she had to take a shotgun to it and force it out.
âThereâs no going back, Ianthe, so you may as well get used to the idea and just accept it.â
This time her advice didnât ring so hollow, and a strong surge of determination made her feel as if she was being carried along on a jetstream of renewed purpose. She was twenty-nine years old, until recently the owner of a thriving and successful business, and would not argue the fact that so far her life had been fairly unremarkable. The beloved only child of parents who had already been in their forties when she was born, she had been brought up with caution instilled into her very marrow, so that she almost never did anything spontaneously, and Ianthe hadnât ever rebelled against that. Until three months ago, that wasâwhen the tumultuous events that had overtaken her had propelled her into acting in a way she had never acted before.
Locking the door of her room, she hurried down the wide âRoman bathsâ-style steps that led to the hotelâs small reception, suddenly needing to be amongst people again. Her flip-flop sandals slapped almost too loudly against the cool marble as she walked, so that she was conscious of the echoes being the only blemish on the otherwise subdued atmosphere. Depositing her key in the appropriate box on the wall, she went outside into a blaze of sunshine and a cornucopia of scents. She didnât really have a clue what she was going to do with her first full day on the island, but after all wasnât that the point? Instead of planning practically every moment to the nth degree, she would let the day take her wherever it willed. She would open herself up to opportunity instead of trying to predict every outcome.
As she set off down the shiny, slippery-stoned alleyway, Ianthe silently ordered herself to relax her shoulders and slow her stride. She was on holiday, for goodnessâ sake, not running a marathon! She breathed in with another passionate burst of determination, inhaling air that was crammed with the scent of so many delicious things it was hard to pick out just one. All she knew was that the balmy cocktail was stimulatingly different from anything sheâd experienced in a long, long time.
Minutes later, sitting outside a waterside taverna that had royal blue cloths on the tables and matching umbrellas, Ianthe focused interestedly on the outrageously glamorous yachts that were moored in the harbour in front of her. They seemed to positively yell Look at me!, their luxurious clean lines and gleaming bodywork fascinating her, yet eliciting little envy. Even unimaginable wealth was not armour enough to protect a person from the crucifying agony of being betrayed or losing someone you loved.
Ianthe had lost her best friend Polly to breast cancer when she hadnât even known how seriously ill she was. Less than three months later, when sheâd been undergoing a routine blood test and the technician had innocently enquired what nationality her parents were, a seed of doubt about her ancestry had lodged itself in her mind and would not go away. There had been a couple of other occasions in the past when that same doubt had surfaced, and she had tentatively questioned her English-looking parents and been firmly reassured. In retrospect, she knew that she had never been quite convinced, but she had accepted their word and pushed the niggling questions determinedly away.