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I’m fine.”
    Jerome hovered next to her, hands dug into his pockets, eyes examining her with the attention of a doctor. “In that case, let’s go see what non-carnivorous delights await us in the dining hall. I’m starving.”
    He held out his hand and Emily took it.

CHAPTER EIGHT
    Q uiet chatter rippled through the dining hall. Emily’s gaze moved from guest to guest as she attempted to put names to faces. Pamela sat at the head of the table, with Marcia on her left. Sitting opposite each other in the next two seats, discontent hanging over them like a black cloud of flies, were a man and woman in their late thirties. Ben and Sylvia, she assumed. On Ben’s right, Daniel was engaged in conversation with the young woman seated across from him. This had to be Helen. Emily stared warily at the journalist, noticing how her smile failed to reach her eyes.
    On Helen’s left, a stern-faced man in his mid-forties was hunched over the table, steely blue eyes scowling at the empty seat opposite. Beads of perspiration glinted on his bald head. Was this Oscar? As if sensing he was being watched, he turned his head and glared at Emily. She quickly looked away.
    Beside her, Jerome whispered, “Good job I like a challenge.”
    Giving her a wry wink, he headed towards the table and slipped into the chair opposite Oscar.
    “Great to meet you, I’m Jerome,” he said, extending his hand across the table. Oscar stared at him. His hands remained on his lap.
    “You know, if you stand there much longer you’ll turn into a statue.” The woman in the headscarf smiled at Emily. She nodded at the empty chair beside her. “I promise not to bite.”
    Emily sat down.
    “I’m Janelle Magoro. Should we even be doing surnames here? It sounds so formal.”
    Janelle had a kind face. Her eyes lit up like stars when she smiled.
    “Emily.”
    Jerome had already abandoned attempts at conversation with Oscar and was now talking with Daniel and Helen.
    “Are you okay, Emily? Is this your first time at a retreat?” Janelle patted her on the forearm. Why was everyone obsessed with that question? “You look like a first-timer. These places seem odd at first. A little ... out there, I suppose you could say. But once you’ve been to a few you get to know the drill. Slipping into the right headspace becomes much easier.”
    “Have you been to many?” Emily asked. Janelle’s hand remained on her forearm. She stared at it, feeling its weight.
    “Oh, I’ve done the rounds. Yoga retreats, artist retreats, women’s, monastic ... it’s good to take time and re-centre yourself, don’t you think? These days, time has become our most precious commodity. The older I get, the less I want to spend of my time trying to catch up. Coming to places like Meadow Pines helps to remind me that life should always be set at one’s own pace. Don’t you agree?”
    Janelle raised her eyebrows, waiting for Emily to share her pearls of wisdom about the tribulations of modern living.
    Emily shrugged. “It’s very peaceful here.”
    “And a wonderful space to create in. Although some of their art resources leave a lot to be desired.”
    Emily stared at the empty seat on her left. Melody was the only guest missing from the table. She was about to ask Janelle if she had seen her when the kitchen doors swung open. A sinewy young man with sandy hair, grey eyes, and a mass of wiry facial hair wheeled out a trolley filled with steaming pots of food. Marcia jumped up and began handing out plates while the man placed the pots in the centre of the table. There were dishes of lentils and beans, sticky rice, and a vegetable stew. The blend of aromas was dizzying, causing a wave of excited chatter around the table.
    Standing up, Pamela raised a quietening hand.
    “I hope everyone has found some fulfilment on their first full day at Meadow Pines,” she said. “Often, the first day is the most challenging—a rude awakening to how hectic our lives have become, how dependent