Truly, Madly, Deeply. Romantic Novelist's Association

      ELIZABETH BUCHAN began her career as a blurb writer at Penguin Books and moved on to become a fiction editor at Random House before leaving to write full time. Her novels include Light of the Moon and the prize-winning Consider the Lily –reviewed in the Independent as ‘a gorgeously well written tale: funny, sad and sophisticated’. A subsequent novel, Revenge of the Middle-Aged Woman, became an international bestseller and was made into a CBS Primetime Drama. This was followed by several other novels, including The Second Wife, Separate Beds and Daughters. She has just finished a novel about SOE agents operating in Denmark during the World War II.

      Elizabeth Buchan’s short stories are broadcast on BBC Radio 4 and published in magazines. She reviews for the Sunday Times, has chaired the Betty Trask and Desmond Elliot literary prizes, and has been a judge for the Whitbread (now Costa) awards. She is a past Chairman of the Romantic Novelists’ Association, and is currently a patron of the Guildford Book Festival and The National Academy of Writing.

       The Art Of Travel

      Polly consults the ferry timetable. Having puzzled over it many times during the past seven years, she knows its little ways.

      Buried in its print, is the key to the vessels which skim over the sunlit Greek seas and plough through the stormy ones. And, yes, there is one due to sail from Piraeus at 11.30 the following morning. This gives Polly plenty of time to arrive at the port and to find a coffee and sandwich. She is sometimes sea-sick and copes better being so on a full stomach.

      Dan used to tease her about that.

      In Athens, she checks in at her usual hotel –discovered quite early on in her travels. It is cheap and central and nobody bothers about her there. In her room there are the familiar blue-and-white striped ticking window blinds and the matching bedspread.

      The mirror is new though, and Polly peers into it. She has left London in a rush –working in the office until the very last-minute, which meant there had been no time for leisurely preparation. She doesn’t much care what she looks like but others do. If you’re travelling on your own, it’s best to make an effort.

      She phones Nico at the salon.

      ‘Ah Polly, Polly. Please come at once.’

      Nico owns a chain of hairdressing salons but is always to be found in the one near Avidi Square. He is waiting for her when she walks in.

      ‘Hallo beautiful Polly,’ he says in his mixture of Greek and English. ‘Very, very good to see you.’

      Polly replies in a similar mixture of language–only, in her case as she often teases him, her Greek improves each year.

      Nico sits her down and wraps her up in a gown. ‘Your hair is good.’ Their eyes meet in the mirror. ‘You have kept it well.’

      She has. She has. Shoulder length and still blonde with touches of honey and toffee, Dan loved her hair.

      Nico examines a lock in a professional manner. ‘A small trim?’

      ‘Please.’

      He cuts it wet and gives Polly his news. The fifth grandchild arrived. The family is well. Times are hard.

      He knows that Polly will not respond with similar information. Polly’s lack of family always shocks him.

      The scissors emit a faintly metallic sound and, despite herself, the hairs on the back of Polly’s neck rise.

      No, she lectures herself.

      ‘And where are going to this time, Polly?’

      ‘Skopolos.’

      Nico cuts a meticulous half inch of hair across her back. He knows that, after his ministrations, Polly is unlikely to visit a hairdresser for weeks and he has a professional reputation to maintain.

      ‘Why Skopolos?’

      ‘I’ve never been there.’

      ‘When are you going?’

      It’s a question Nico has asked seven times before and he knows the answer. He sighs and puts down the scissors. ‘Helena is expecting you at seven-ish. Is that alright?’

      Polly grins at them both in the mirror. ‘Your wife is a very good woman.’

      Helena never changes. Never looks a day older. Her hair is still as dark and her olive-y skin still as smooth.

      ‘You’re thinner,’ she says. She gives the once-over to Polly’s tamed, shining hair and her skinny jeans and jacket. ‘But very smart.’

      Polly kisses Helena and gives her the selection of expensive teas she has bought from England. ‘I gather another grandchild has just arrived. I hope I’m no trouble.’

      ‘Trouble? My role is to deal with trouble. Nico earns our money. I arrange the important things.’

      The new mother, Andrea, is sitting in the garden feeding the baby. Her other two children wheel like starlings around the adults who sit and gossip until Helena calls them into eat.

      Halfway through the meal of rice and meatballs, Nico rises to his feet. ‘We are so glad to have you with us again, Polly. Nothing can take away the circumstances of how we met but the friendship which has come from them…well, there is something good.’ He raises his glass. ‘Let us meet for many, many more years.’

      Towards midnight, Polly gets up to go. ‘How can I thank you both?’

      The new baby cries and Andrea catches it up with a great deal of cooing and shushing. They are happy sounds.

      Helena rests her hands on Polly’s shoulders. ‘Tomorrow is the anniversary…’

      ‘Yes.’

      Walking hand in hand with Dan along a crowded Athens street. The car veering out of control. Body and bone impacting on it. Dan sprawled on the pavement outside Nico’s salon. Bright red blood. Too bright to look at.

      Scissors in hand, Nico running out and shouting, ‘Get back everyone.’ Nico cutting Dan’s shirt away with the scissors.

       Polly cradling Dan and begging him. ‘Don’t die.’

      Nico holding Polly.

      ‘What time?’

      ‘Mid-morning.’

      Helena looks long and hard into Polly’s eyes. What she sees evidently does not please her. ‘Spend it with us,’ she says. ‘It’s Sunday tomorrow and the whole family will be here. I keep telling you that you should be with family and not travelling alone.’

      Polly says. ‘I think it’s what I do best now.’

      She kisses them all fondly, thanks them over and over again and returns to her silent room in the hotel.

      Emerging from the Metro the following morning, the warmth hits her. It’s 22 or 23 degrees which is normal for late spring. Knowing what to expect, she is dressed in linen trousers and good quality cotton T-shirt unlike many of the sweating, overdressed tourists who are arriving from the airport.

      She makes for the coffee shop adjacent to departure gate E8 and queues.

      ‘I’m worn out,’ says the woman directly in front of Polly.

      Her companion, a woman with white hair and bright pink lipstick, looks alarmed. ‘We’ve only just got here.’

      ‘And my feet have swollen.’ The woman points to her unsuitable leather shoes. ‘See.’

      Polly has some sympathy. She remembers the early years of her annual pilgrimages. The decision to go, but where? What to wear? What to pack?