The Lemon Grove by Helen Walsh Page B

wouldn’t be so cautious; so damn clever. If she had hertime again, Jenn O’Brien would bound up those stairs and unquestionably be one of those girls .
    Nathan walks ahead with Gregory. They’ve bonded over football, it seems, discussing the pros and cons of Moyes as Manchester United’s new manager. It still takes her by surprise to hear her husband pontificate on such laddish matters but even there, he can’t quite shake off his cap and gown. His didactic approach to what should be an easy, enjoyable conversation gives every impression that football – like modern art or Japanese film – is an educational topic rather than a life’s passion.

    Emma’s eyes do not leave Nathan’s back for one moment; his athletic shoulders packed into an emerald-green polo shirt. He only has to turn his head a fraction and look in her general direction and Emma stands to attention, willing a smile from his lips; a look, a wave – any kind of peace offering. Jenn places a hand on Emma’s shoulder, gives her a sympathetic squeeze.
    ‘Everything OK there?’
    ‘Yep.’
    The curt monosyllable is emphatic, a caveat. The matter is not open for discussion. Jenn is not giving up – not yet. She stops for full effect.
    ‘The thing with boys, Em …’ She sighs – she already knows how this will end up, but she soldiers on. ‘What you should know about them is that they like to play—’
    Emma spins round, exasperated. ‘Don’t. You know nothing about him.’
    As well-prepared as she thought she was, Jenn is taken aback by the venom of Emma’s delivery; the anger in her eyes. She holds up her hands in surrender, smiles, tries not to reveal her shock, her hurt. Only the day before yesterday Emma was squeezing her fingers and thanking her for making this happen. Emma shakes her head, marches on in front. The gap between her teeth is still there.

    Suddenly, the path just drops away. There is no indication in the landscape, no gradual descent or loosening of soil, nothing to suggest that the sudden splash of light and space is a sheer and deadly drop. They have walked this path many times before; they are respectful of the seasonal shifts of landscape, attentive to its ruses and hidden perils, yet it’s Nathan, the novice, who spots it. Without warning, he shoots an arm across Gregory’s chest.
    ‘Whoa!’
    Emma screams. There’s a collective gasp followed bya prolonged silence. Perhaps, if Emma hadn’t snapped at her, Jenn might have realised they were climbing over a purposely erected barrier, not detritus; she might have noticed the daub of red some distance back, directing them upwards and away from the ledge. But none of them would have seen the warning sign that blew down in last week’s gale. With both his trekking poles set firmly in the soil, Gregory inches towards the edge. He cranes his head and shoulders forward to peer down; Jenn does the same. She swoons and quickly steps back. Just below the precipice, a tiny stone hut clings miserably to the clod of earth and rock that has simply plunged straight down into the gorge, carrying the little outhouse with it. The whole thing, edifice and the clump it stands on, is wedged halfway down the cliff. Below it, there is nothing: no sea to break your fall, just boulders and fallen pines whose branches stand erect like rapiers.
    Gregory turns to them, smirking. ‘So this is how the municipality of Deià is keeping tourist saturation in check.’
    But there’s fear in his eyes. He is thinking the same as everyone else: that could have been them. He backs away from the ledge, takes Emma’s hand and squeezes it tight. Only Nathan seems indifferent; he is already retracing their steps, trying to figure out where they went wrong.
    ‘Here!’ he shouts. ‘Eureka!’ The splash of red paint on a rotted stump is inconclusive, they could veer left, or right. Nathan points up to a further flash of colour in the trees above. ‘There we go. Problem solved.’
    Gregory doesn’t