Secrets of Santorini

by Patricia Wilson

  ‘Look, here’s Crete, and there’s Santorini.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be blowed!’ His jaw dropped.

  I couldn’t resist having some fun. ‘Let’s see if we can find your house.’ I zoomed in to Santorini. ‘Let’s get our bearings. Look, here’s the bus station.’

  He hunched forward. ‘Must be early – only two buses out. Just gone seven, I’d say. I’ll bet they’re down at the main port waiting for the ferry.’

  ‘Let’s see, shall we? Yes, you’re spot on. There they are.’ I grinned at him, and he seemed uplifted. ‘Let’s look for your house.’

  His sudden enthusiasm gave me great pleasure. I continued towards the caldera. ‘Back to the bus station. Here’s the prehistoric museum. There’s the cathedral. Your house is a bit lower . . . Wait, there you are. Your patio and a bit of your roof!’ His face was radiant and my happiness matched his astonishment. ‘There’s a shadow on the patio. Let’s go right in. Yes, who would that be, Dad? There’s someone at the table.’

  ‘I don’t believe it!’ He gasped, pinched the bridge of his nose and gulped. ‘That’s my darling girl’s chair,’ he whispered. ‘At that time in the morning, it could only be Bridget, writing in her latest Book of Dreams, or her Atlantis theory, or perhaps her next article.’ He shook his head. ‘You mean a satellite was watching her . . . taking pictures?’

  I nodded, moved to see him so emotional. ‘Wait a moment. I’ll take a screenshot so you can keep the picture before it’s updated. You can have it for your wallpaper, if you want.’

  He glanced at the wall.

  ‘On the laptop, I mean.’ He nodded quickly as I saved the picture. ‘Right, now let’s zoom out and go to Crete.’

  ‘Look at that! The Pillars of Hercules,’ he whispered urgently, poking the image of Crete. ‘Bridget, you might be right.’

  He was talking to my mother, using the present tense. She was still with him all the time. My heart melted. ‘Is that where Istron is, Dad?’

  ‘No, no, east of Heraklion, a W-shaped landmass in the Bay of Mirabello, according to her dreams.’

  I crept along the north coast, travelling east. ‘There’s an Istro on the map, could that be it?’

  ‘Seems to fit the description. Can you zoom in there?’ He sucked on his inhaler. ‘God Almighty! Look, what’s that there, on the barren peninsula? Looks like the tops of walls! I’ll bet that whole area is . . . Oh, Bridget!’ He hunched over, his face only inches from the screen. ‘Zoom out. Let me see how Istron lies in respect to Santorini.’ His words came fast now, excitement in every syllable. ‘Would overloaded ships, depending on the wind, have landed here, considering the wind comes from the north-west?’ He peered and grunted. ‘I think so.’

  I glanced at the clock.

  ‘In the end, it’s all my fault,’ he said. ‘If I hadn’t had the heart attack, she wouldn’t have sold the necklace to pay for my op, and she wouldn’t have had the terrible nightmares caused by her guilt. Then we wouldn’t have sent you away for your own safety.’

  ‘No, Dad. Stop blaming yourself! The tumour caused the nightmares.’ How many times did I have to tell him? Suddenly I realised he felt responsible for everything, and refused to forgive himself. My heart was breaking for him and I was so emotional I couldn’t speak. The past seemed to be playing on a loop through his long, lonely hours in the home.

  He sucked on his inhaler again. ‘I have to try to get the dragonfly necklace back. I promised Bridget I would, but I don’t know where to start. I’ve completely let her down and she didn’t deserve that. Will you help me?’

  ‘Do you remember what she said, just before . . .’ I sighed, not wanting to say it.

  He looked at me blankly. ‘What did she say? I can’t remember.’

  ‘About a secret? My favourite game?’

  He shook his head. ‘She said she loved us, and she said “forgive”. That’s all I remember. I don’t deserve her forgiveness, I really don’t, Irini. I’m a hypocrite.’ His eyes misted. ‘Can you help me get the dragonfly necklace back?’

  Of course I wanted to help him, but I hadn’t a clue where to start. ‘Look, I’m going to Crete on Saturday to do some modelling. I’ll be there for a week, so I’ll think about it while I’m away and see what I can find out. Who knows, I might even get to Istron. You see if you can come up with anything too. Try and figure out your phone, or use the laptop to search the web for information. Let’s turn it into “The Santorini Project”. Make notes of any ideas you get, and I’ll do the same.’

  He reached out and took my hand. ‘We always loved you, Irini. You have to understand that.’

  *

  I dived into the Raglan Road at seven o’clock. ‘Am I late, Brian? Sorry, sorry!’

  ‘Calm down, Irini. You’re right on time. What’s wrong? You look flustered.’

  ‘It’s been a crazy day!’ I threw my coat on the rack, slipped behind the bar, and started taking glasses out of the dishwasher. ‘Dad made this mad promise to my mother, just before she died, and now he wants my help and I’ve no idea where to start.’

  The bar was always quiet on a Monday night. Fergus sat in the corner with his Guinness. Siobhan from the post office and Molly from the Truly Irish gift shop played dominoes with their husbands, who both worked on the docks. Quinlan would be in shortly.

  ‘Nice frock!’ Brian said, his eyes travelling down my jersey harlequin dress to my short red boots.

  ‘Do you think I should wear black . . . you know, go into mourning for my mother?’

  ‘Of course not. Bridget would have loved to see you in that.’

  Everyone turned to face the bar. I lifted my hands. ‘If anyone has any ideas on how I can help Dad, I’d love to hear them.’

  They lifted their drinks and came over, taking up five of the six bar stools. I’d just started explaining when Quinlan arrived. I poured his Campari and continued to tell them everything.

  ‘Sure to God that’s a tragedy,’ Molly said. ‘You’ve made me go all weepy.’

  ‘How on earth can I find the dragonfly necklace? I’ve no idea where to start.’

  ‘Seems to me,’ Molly’s Billy said, ‘you should start with Amazon. Buy this Aaron’s book so you know exactly what you’re looking for.’

  ‘China,’ Molly said. ‘You need to go to China.’

  ‘Don’t be mad, Molly. I can’t go to China, and anyway, what’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘Your mother said artefacts are moved around the world with fakes and souvenirs. Go on the web and search “dragonfly jewellery”. There’ll be hundreds of pages of it, to be sure. When you find a copy of this necklace, you need to find out who ordered the original batch to be made. I’ll bet it was copied from a photograph, and that photograph would be of the original. Yes, China’s your best bet. That’s where we get most of our stuff for the shop.’

  ‘You mean they’re not all made in Ireland?’ I recalled the silver harp pendants, the map of Ireland tea towels, and the cute leprechaun garden ornaments. Molly scrunched her mouth to one side and gave me a stupid look that made everyone laugh.

  Siobhan lifted a tablet from her bag and tapped a few keys. ‘Thirty million, seven hundred results on dragonfly jewellery, to be exact.’

  We all stared at her in silence until Quinlan spoke. ‘No point in looking at anything until you’ve seen what the original looks like. Can you pull Aaron’s book up and order it, Siobhan, and I’ll give you the money?’

  She nodded and tapped away. It took a few minutes as we didn’t know the title of the book, or Aaron’s full name.

  ‘Here we are: The Frescoes of Santorini by Aaron Flint, twenty-five euro.’

  Quinlan pulled a twenty and a five from his wallet and passed the notes over.

  ‘You can have it sent to the shop, if you like,’ Molly said. ‘As you’re all at work through the day.’

  ‘Good idea,’ I said. ‘I’d like to take it with me to Greece on Saturday; see if I get a chance to go
over to Santorini and talk to Aaron. I could ask him to autograph the book and see what I can find out from him. It’s mad, but I still don’t know exactly how my mother’s accident happened.’

  *

  Through the flight to Athens, I worried about Dad, money, and my reaction to Angelo. After passport control, I approached the lobby and saw Angelo straight ahead of me, staring anxiously into the stream of arrivals. He looked exactly the same as in Santorini, pristine white shirt, snug jeans, and those expensive shoes. My heart thumped and, for a moment, my feet refused to move.

  Somebody bumped against my back. Travellers jostled left and right. Harsh airport noises faded and I seemed to be in a glass bubble with only Angelo’s romantic words for company. Would he remember the things he said? I longed to fall into his arms, yet at the same time my anger and hurt made me wish I would never have to see him again.

  Except now I was. I shouldn’t have come.

  ‘Hello, Angelo,’ I said, meeting his gaze, then quickly looking away.

  ‘Hello, Iris,’ he replied and grinned.

  ‘Stop it, don’t call me that.’ I turned away again, yet the moment confirmed: I loved this man and yet I almost hated him, too. Could I keep it a secret, even from him? Could I hold it inside me for the rest of my life?

  ‘You’re angry with me?’ he said. ‘Forgive me, I did try to call you many times, but the phone was always busy or turned off. I missed you, but now you’re here . . .’

  ‘No, Angelo, don’t go any further.’ I took a breath. ‘I’m here for the work, nothing else.’ I couldn’t meet his eyes, so I concentrated on his mouth. Oh, that mouth, I could taste it, feel it against me in the most intimate embrace. I stared at the floor and feared I might blush.

  Angelo slid a finger under my chin and lifted my face. ‘I don’t understand why you’re angry. Come, we’ll sit while you tell me everything. Can I take your bag?’ He reached for the handle.

  ‘No, I can manage perfectly well, thank you.’

  ‘I was thinking of my shoes. Am I safe? Are you still a catastrophe?’

  Despite my anxiety, I almost smiled, remembering our very first encounter.

  ‘We have some time before the flight to Crete,’ he said. ‘Let’s sit in the café.’

  I was thinking how to handle Angelo. I didn’t want to be unkind, but I had a moral obligation to keep my love hidden and discourage him from further advances. Perhaps then my feelings would fade.

  ‘Irini, are you listening?’ he said, as we sat at a Starbucks table. ‘You look troubled. Perhaps the travelling upset you. Wait, I’ll get you some water. I don’t want you fainting again.’ He seemed to recall every detail of our time together.

  Angelo had gone before I could protest. He returned with a paper cup. ‘Here, drink, it will make you feel better.’ He grinned. ‘I have never forgotten how much you like cold water.’ He blew through pursed lips, shaking his fingers and rolling his eyes. ‘Hot!’

  I recalled that night, standing before him in my wet T-shirt. If I could turn the clock back, would I change anything?

  He sat opposite me, took my hand and placed the water in it. I noticed the plaster cast had gone.

  ‘Sorry, it’s all the excitement, I guess. How’s your arm?’ Aware his hand still covered mine, I pulled away.

  ‘It’s okay.’ He dragged his chair closer, placed his feet either side of my shoes.

  ‘Please don’t,’ I said, shifting back.

  ‘Irini, what’s wrong? I’ve waited so long. Is there somebody else? It’s better if you tell me.’

  ‘There’s nobody else.’ I looked away.

  ‘Then why? I thought—’

  ‘It’s better if you don’t think. We made a mistake. Forget it. I have.’ I spoke kindly, but struggled to stay on track. ‘Excuse me, I need the Ladies.’ Even as I looked at him I felt he belonged to me. If I was angry it would help, but all I had was remorse. How could I let go of that smile and frown that lingered in the back of my mind, lifting my spirit? What was its charm? Why had it captured my heart from the first moment I saw him at Heraklion airport?

  Working together would be hell.

  CHAPTER 37

  IRINI

  Crete, present day.

  WHEN I EMERGED into the fresh, herb-scented air outside the arrivals foyer, Paula breezed her way towards me. A line of taxi drivers seemed fascinated by the cut of her white pants.

  ‘Irini, darling.’ She kissed air on either side of my cheeks. ‘Come on, I’m double-parked and the officer’s given me two minutes, or I’ll be for it.’

  Paula had Angelo’s 4x4. ‘How was Angelo?’ she asked as we buckled up.

  ‘He’s worried about his father, and disappointed that he’s not coming to Crete with me, but apart from that he seemed okay.’

  ‘They operate on Mr Rodakis tomorrow, something to do with his throat. Anyway, I’m glad Angelo isn’t involved with this shoot.’

  ‘Really? Why?’

  ‘You’ll find out soon enough.’ She smiled at the windscreen.

  We raced along the National Road towards Elounda and I cringed as we passed the garage where I literally ran into Angelo.

  Crete, in autumn, had to be the most beautiful place on earth. Thanks to one unexpected night of thunderstorms and torrential rain, flowers grew everywhere, and the sea and sky were bluer than I imagined possible. Inland, high mountains rose steeply to challenge the sun. The island was so much greener and cleaner without the dust of summer. My thoughts returned to my mother. Would I get a free day to visit Santorini? I longed to be back in my parents’ house.

  At the hotel, I shared a suite with Tracy and Amanda. Although we could have done with two bathrooms, I got along well with my fellow models.

  ‘Where’s Sofia?’ I asked the new make-up artist on my first day.

  ‘She doesn’t work when her son’s home from school,’ Joy said as she spread foundation over my face.

  Oh, Joy! I was relieved.

  *

  Our working day started before the tourists surfaced, then, between twelve and three in the afternoon we took a break. On the first day we were on the tiny island of Spinalonga, on the following morning, I posed on a brightly painted fishing boat, and on the third day, we spent four hours after sunrise on a luxurious sailing yacht, chartered out by the hotel. The swimwear shoot would be on the hotel’s beach, and the eveningwear at the pool cocktail bar.

  The sun streaked my hair with strands of gold, and the fresh air and healthy food filled me with vitality. In my new bikini, shaded from the sun by a huge umbrella, I read my mother’s notebooks. I preferred to keep my own company during our breaks. The promises I made my father worried me, and I searched for ideas on how to get the dragonfly necklace back.

  Lying face down and looking at the pictures in Aaron’s book, I tried to get sun cream between my shoulder blades. Someone took the bottle from my hand.

  ‘Let me help,’ Paula said, squirting lotion the length of my spine. ‘Look, there’s been a change of plan, Irini, and I’d like to discuss it over dinner. Meet me at eight in the dining room, will you?’

  ‘Sure, happy to.’ I rolled over and sat up, but she was already walking away.

  I wondered what this was about.

  At five to eight I entered the dining room. Paula already had a table before windows that looked over the darkening sea. To the left, colourful taverna lights twinkled along the promenade. Behind the village of Elounda, a row of wind turbines turned elegantly against the dusk sky.

  ‘What an amazing view,’ I said.

  ‘Sure is. Let’s order. I want to talk to you and I need an early night too.’

  We both ordered the fish of the day, green salad, and sparkling water.

  ‘We have a proposition for you, Irini,’ Paula said, snapping the menu closed and narrowing her eyes at the waiter as he departed.

  ‘We?’

  ‘In confidence – I’m going into partnership with Angelo, in relation to Retro Emporio. The
re are some things I want to change.’

  ‘That sounds exciting, but how would this involve me?’

  ‘Bear with me for a moment,’ she said. ‘Have you ever modelled for anybody else?’ I shook my head. ‘That’s what I hoped. You’ve done very well, considering.’

  ‘Thanks . . .’

  ‘You must be wondering what this is about.’ She raised her eyebrows but didn’t wait for a reply. ‘I plan to bring out two new fashion lines with their own dedicated fragrances. One is a high-end mature range, which I’d like you to model. In fact, I want you as part of its branding.’

  ‘Branding? I don’t understand.’

  ‘Yes, branding. You’ll become part of our product; create emotional ties with our customers. They’ll want the perfume and clothes because they want to mirror the image you’ll put out. The problem is we need a mature model, but a fresh face, not botoxed, lip-plumped, and eyebrow-tattooed. Somebody “real”. All the mature models in the business have worked many years, so finding a fresh face proved difficult. Then we came across you. Perfect.’

  I frowned. ‘I’m twenty-nine.’

  She nodded. ‘As we’re aiming at the thirty-five-plus market, you tick all the boxes. Now, to get back to branding. Imagine George Clooney and I know you’ll think of coffee, that smile, a certain vulnerability, richness, and humour – pleasant moments connected with the drink. That’s successful branding. Effective advertising gives us a major edge in increasingly competitive markets.’

  I stared at her. ‘So . . . I’m sorry, are you offering me a job?’

  She nodded. The food arrived.

  ‘My God, I’m speechless.’

  ‘Now there’s a first. Irish and speechless,’ she quipped, and we both laughed. ‘If you agree, you’ll be under contract to work for us alone. There’ll be three months’ hard work with the photographers and advertising. You’ll do promotional trips, and you’ll be well paid, more than double your teaching salary, plus expenses to start, with a review in six months.’

  I couldn’t believe what she was saying. This was a dream come true. Twice my salary? Then Angelo came to mind and I hesitated. ‘I need time to think. Can I tell you tomorrow?’