Free Island in the Sea by Anita Hughes

night.”
    â€œYou should go dancing at Barracuda’s in Palma. There’s no better sleeping pill than a double martini and an hour on a sweaty dance floor. You’ll stumble to your hotel room and fall asleep in your stilettos.”
    â€œI don’t have time to dance. I have to think about my job,” Juliet insisted.
    â€œThat’s where you’re wrong. Being in love is like drinking absinthe, your mind clears and you think you can achieve anything. I remember my first proper date with Samantha, I felt like Clark Kent becoming Superman.” He lit the cigarette with a pearl lighter and blew a thin trail of smoke. “God, she was beautiful. All blond hair and creamy skin, like a figure in a Raphael painting.”
    Lionel climbed the steps of the white Georgian manor and rang the doorbell. He wore a navy polo shirt and pleated slacks. He juggled a paper bag in one hand and a bouquet of flowers in the other.
    He had spent an hour in Harrods’s food hall, selecting Godiva chocolates and a bunch of calla lilies. But he remembered Samantha’s remarks about his public school education and pictured her giving the flowers to Georgina. Finally he went home and picked peonies from Penelope’s garden. Then he searched the pantry and found homemade butterscotch biscuits.
    â€œThese are for you,” he said, when she opened the door. “I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I covered all bases.”
    Samantha wore a green minidress and white leather sandals. Her hair was scooped into a ponytail and tied with a green ribbon. Her eyelashes were coated with mascara and she wore pink lip-gloss.
    â€œThey smell wonderful.” She glanced at his twill slacks and leather loafers. “I hope we’re not going to an elegant restaurant where waiters pour three types of wine, like a game of cups at a child’s birthday party. It’s a gorgeous day, I’d rather eat a salad sandwich and feed the pigeons in Hyde Park.”
    Lionel took her arm and propelled her down the stairs. He stopped in front of a blue Mini and opened the passenger door.
    â€œIt’s a surprise.” He hopped into the driver’s seat. “But I promise there won’t be entrées with French names or wines that cost more than this car.”
    â€œWhere did you get the car?” Samantha asked.
    Lionel turned to her and grinned. “Penelope lent it to me. I hope I remember how to drive.”
    *   *   *
    Lionel drove out of London and saw green fields and tall church spires. He glanced at the passenger seat and saw Samantha fiddle with the edge of her dress. He clutched the steering wheel and sucked in his breath.
    They drove for almost two hours and Lionel longed to stop at a pub for a beer and a plate of fish and chips. Finally he pulled into a village with thatched houses and cobblestoned streets. There was a river and lush gardens and wide willow trees.
    â€œWhere are we?” Samantha asked.
    â€œStratford-upon-Avon.” Lionel jumped out of the car. “Birthplace of the greatest poet of all time, William Shakespeare.”
    *   *   *
    They stood in the courtyard of Holy Trinity Church and gazed at the stone monuments and stained glass windows. They visited Ann Hathaway’s cottage and explored the Swan Theater. They bought vanilla drumsticks on High Street and watched canal boats glide along the Avon River.
    Finally they walked to Henley Street and stopped in front of a house with a slanted roof and lacquered window boxes. It had tall hedges and fruit trees and a goldfish pond.
    â€œShakespeare’s father was a successful glover, and they owned the largest house on Henley Street,” Lionel said, leading Samantha into the garden. “William had a privileged childhood and attended the local grammar school. He lived here until he was in his early twenties and then he ran off to London. He wrote thirty-seven plays and a hundred