Secrets of Santorini

by Patricia Wilson

  CHAPTER 20

  IRINI

  Crete, present day.

  ANGELO STOOD IN FRONT OF ME. ‘Now, prove me wrong. Show us you can do this. Give me a long neck with your shoulders down and chin in,’ he said.

  I did, still gripping the edge of the barrel. The metal rim dug into the backs of my thighs.

  ‘Lean forward, half close your eyes and make your mouth like you’re going to kiss me.’

  I swivelled a glance at the watching crowd.

  Angelo glared. ‘Concentrate! Forget them!’ he said sharply, nodding sideway at the onlookers. ‘Focus on the shot. Let your body soak up the glamour of the dress, how it makes you feel. Take a deep breath and let it out slowly. Imagine we are alone, and you’re a very sexy woman. Anyway, you are a very sexy woman. You are beautiful, desirable – women want to wear this dress because they dream of looking like you. Show them how it feels to wear this gorgeous creation right now. This isn’t about you looking nice. The dress costs one-and-a-half grand and the shoot is all about showing how this amazing ensemble of exquisite fabric and ultimately flattering design makes a woman feel. Now own it!’

  No man had called me beautiful before. Well, that’s not quite true, Jason did once, but he was asleep in my bed at the time. You’re so beautiful, I want you all the time, he had whispered. But when I reached for him, he turned over, away from me.

  For a vicious second, I imagined dragging my fabulous acrylic nails down Calla’s face. I could feel her skin collecting beneath them, smell the oozing blood, hear her scream. My jaw stiffened, my back arched, and I gave Angelo a little nod.

  The dress cost more than the MRI scan, which made it feel obscene. I shook off the feeling and concentrated. With my eyes closed for a moment, I felt the rich, delicate fabric against my skin, the softness, the voluptuousness, and I sensed myself become one with the garment.

  He placed his hands on my knees and moved closer. ‘Now lean in and keep your eyes lowered until Nick tells you to do otherwise, then flirt with the camera, but do not blink.’

  I leaned forward as far as I dared and pouted a kiss towards him.

  ‘Good,’ he said, before shouting, ‘Start the fan!’

  A massive gust of wind blew the skirt fabric all over the place, but I clung on, determined to get the shot. My hair was whipped back and I feared my eyes would start watering when I opened them.

  ‘Look in the lens, Irini,’ Nick, the photographer, called, while ducking and diving around me. ‘Lovely. More neck. Chin out. Shoulders down. Wide eyes, chest out, jaw forward. Give me arrogance. Over here. Look at the sky. Down into the lens again. Relax those feet. Stretch your neck!’

  My skin prickled with excitement. Angelo stood behind the photographer, mimicking the actions Nick wanted.

  Suddenly Nick stopped, turned, and shook hands with Angelo. He nodded at Paula, who gave orders for the fan and lights to go off.

  Paula shouted, ‘That’s in the bag! Great work, everybody!’

  A spontaneous round of applause drove away the day’s tension and smiles were exchanged between the crew.

  ‘You did good,’ Angelo said matter-of-factly. ‘It’s not easy when it is so hot.’

  You’re hot, I thought, then gave myself a mental kicking for being unprofessional.

  In the excitement I’d hardly noticed the heat, but suddenly I was sweltering and desperate for an iced drink.

  ‘What’s tomorrow’s weather?’ Paula yelled.

  ‘Is that a joke?’ Angelo replied as he gripped my waist and lifted me down.

  My legs, pressed against the barrel rim for an hour, were dead and folded beneath me. I stumbled and staggered forward in the tight stilettos. Angelo caught me and guided me to a nearby director’s chair. He went down on one knee.

  ‘Let’s get these shoes off, shall we?’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Paula cried. ‘Not another model problem? There’s been a jinx on this shoot right from the start. What now?’

  ‘Just give us a moment,’ Angelo said, before calling over his shoulder, ‘Sofia, bring a cold drink and Irini’s shoes.’ He crouched on his haunches and peered into my face. ‘Are you okay?’

  Again, I felt genuine concern come from him. ‘Sure, just my legs have gone numb from the edge of the barrel.’ I rubbed them vigorously and wiggled my toes. ‘I’ll be fine. They’re coming back now – pins and needles.’

  ‘Pins and needles? What is this? You mean you have the tingles?’

  I had to smile. ‘I do indeed.’ Blood rushed into my dead legs, making me wince. ‘Ouch, don’t you hate it when that happens?’

  ‘Here, let me help.’ He rubbed his hands up and down my calves. ‘It’s getting better?’

  ‘It is, it is. Please . . .’ Embarrassment, and something electric brought on by his touch, warmed my face.

  He saw it, withdrew, averted his eyes and stood. Sofia appeared with a wonderfully cold bottle of water.

  ‘I have to speak to the driver,’ Angelo said. ‘Don’t move until everything is working, okay?’

  ‘I’ll be grand in a moment.’

  The bustle of packing up continued around me. I studied Angelo’s back as he walked away. Waves of dark hair met the shoulders of a pale blue sweatshirt, and well-worn jeans sculpted themselves to his thighs. Just before he reached the driver, he turned and made a little bow. His eyes flicked down before returning to mine, as if he knew I would be watching him. Then he focused his attention on the wagon driver.

  Paula clapped for everyone’s attention. ‘Heads up, people. Eight o’clock start at the port.’ She interrupted Angelo’s conversation with the van man. ‘Could you work with the barmaid this evening? She needs some idea of tomorrow’s procedure. The last thing we want is another bloody hold-up.’

  Angelo glanced my way and nodded.

  I stood and tested my legs. They were fine.

  As I headed for the trailer, Angelo caught my arm. ‘Nine o’clock in the Ferryman Taverna?’ He lifted his chin towards the port. ‘We’ll go over tomorrow’s shoot, okay?’

  ‘Sorry, I can’t. I’m desperate to get to the hospital and learn the result of my mother’s MRI.’

  His brow furrowed. ‘Ah, yes, of course, your mother. Then be at the port at seven o’clock in the morning.’ He paused. ‘Περαστικά,’ he said, and when I frowned, he translated: ‘Perastika. I hope she gets well soon.’

  *

  I rushed into the trailer and changed into my own clothes. Sofia barely acknowledged me when I thanked her and said goodbye. Her face was sullen, her eyes red-rimmed. I should be on my way back to the hospital, but I’d made a commitment to Jack so I dashed back into the pub.

  ‘Oh, Jack! I’m so sorry I abandoned the bar. I wouldn’t have done it, but your father insisted. Not that I’m blaming him. It was just . . .’

  ‘Don’t worry, he explained. Look at you.’ He had a mug of tea ready for me. ‘Stay on that side of the counter; it seems you’ve worked hard enough for one day. I’ve been watching you. You looked amazing. Still do, in fact.’

  Relieved that he wasn’t angry, I took a sip of tea. ‘What a disaster for the models, Jack. Sofia, the make-up woman, says they’ve been taken to hospital. They think it’s food poisoning or the norovirus.’ I spread my fingers on the bar top and stared at my glossy nails. ‘I’ve never done anything like this before, Jack. Today was one of the most exciting days of my life, and now I have to go and see how my mother is doing. I have such a strong feeling it will be good news.’

  He dropped his head to one side and smiled.

  ‘They say they might want me for another two or three days, but I should be finished in time for the evening shifts. What a day, Jack!’

  ‘No worries.’ His grin lifted me. People were so nice. All these strangers seemed to have no notion of how much they were helping me at this critical time. ‘We’ve never had a top model working behind the bar before – it should pull in some extra punters.’

  ‘Top model? I don’t
think so.’ I rolled my eyes. ‘Look, Jack, I’m frantic to find out how my mother is. Could you pass my bag over?’

  ‘Ah, yes. My father told me why you’re in Crete. Under the circumstances, it’s very good of you to stand in for Jane. We both appreciate it.’

  ‘To be honest, I really need the money. If you’ll excuse me, I’m desperate to call the hospital.’

  *

  On the way into town, I wondered why the hospital insisted that I came in straight away, despite the late hour. I convinced myself it could only be one of two reasons. Either the brain damage was so extensive that Mam had no chance of regaining consciousness, even if they brought her out of the coma. The thought squeezed my heart. In that case, the life support must be turned off and my mother allowed to die peacefully. Or there was a slight chance that she might recover, and live a life without the machines and drugs. I had never hoped for anything as much.

  I found the specialist waiting for me. We shook hands and he led me to his office.

  ‘Take a seat, Irini. Can I get you a drink – coffee, water?’

  I shook my head. We sat at his desk, silent for a moment.

  ‘I’m eager to know the result of the scan,’ I said.

  He nodded slowly, placing his scrubbed hands on a report sheet in front of him. ‘I’m sorry, it’s not good news, Irini.’ He gave me a moment to come to terms. ‘We discovered your mother has had a slow-growing brain tumour for many years. I see from her medical reports she suffered from headaches, vivid dreams, and hallucinations ever since she was pregnant with you. In hindsight, we now understand that these were caused by the tumour pressing on her brain.’

  Hope! Faith and hope. Don’t tell me it’s all useless. Don’t!

  ‘Can you operate to remove the tumour?’ My voice seemed unreal, calm, as if it didn’t belong to me, while my heart was torn apart by every conceivable emotion.

  It can’t end like this, please.

  He placed the tips of his fingers together, stared at them and sighed. After a moment, he looked up and shook his head. ‘Patients with a high-grade malignant brain tumour have a poor prognosis and cannot be cured. Despite aggressive treatment, surgery, radiation therapy, and chemotherapy, there is no real chance of recovery.

  ‘We can remove the tumour, but the head trauma has disturbed it, and cancer cells, released into her bloodstream, will probably set up home in her spinal cord and every available organ. Yes, we can keep her alive, in an induced coma, but even that will not stop her demise.’ He paused to allow the information time to sink in. ‘Another problem is that we’ll have to handle her pain by administering even greater doses of barbiturates as she becomes more tolerant. This in itself can cause unpleasant reactions, and we can’t know what your mother is experiencing mentally. We may be inadvertantly extending her suffering rather than relieving it. The morphine alone could ultimately cause her death.’

  I had to take a few deep breaths before I could speak. I was aware that my tears welled, but it no longer mattered. All I cared about was Mam. Already, it felt as though she was slipping away from me.

  ‘What can I do for her?’

  His eyes were sympathetic. ‘Although your mother’s body is shutting down, she might well hold on, longing to have the family she loves around her. Hearing you talk, feeling you close, will be comforting for her. Knowing her family are together and that your lives will go on without her is important for her peace of mind. I understand it will be hard for you, but this, I think, is the kindest and most loving thing you can do for your mother.’

  ‘Will I have time to bring my father over from Ireland? He wasn’t well enough to travel with me when this happened.’

  ‘Yes, bring him. Let Bridget know that you’re both here for her. Share your memories and feelings with her. It’s important to reassure your mother that it’s all right to let go, whenever she’s ready. I know that’s difficult, but sometimes people hold on until they’ve heard this from the ones they love. Trust me, it’s the best thing you can do, Irini.’

  My throat ached. I nodded, unable to speak for a minute. I wanted to change what was happening, shake off this misery, but I couldn’t.

  ‘There’s something else you should know, Irini. The specific type of brain tumour that your mother has, there’s a very slight chance it’s genetic, a gene that may’ve been passed on from her mother or grandmother. If we’d caught the tumour way back, when it was small, she’d have lived a normal life. However, we didn’t have the technology then. You should have some tests, just to make sure you’re clear.’

  *

  Outside the hospital, I phoned Dublin and listened to the ringtone, determined not to cry when it was answered.

  ‘Uncle Quinlan, it’s Irini. I’m in Crete.’

  ‘Poor girl. How’s Bridget?’

  I had to take a very deep breath before I could speak. ‘She’s dying, Quinlan. She’s dying but she needs my dad to come and make peace with her before she will let go. There’s no hope.’ I paused, struggling to push my voice past the pain that constricted my throat. ‘I know it’s a lot to ask, but can you bring him over, even if it’s only for one day? She needs to hear that he loves her. Please, Quinlan, please.’

  ‘Of course I will. We’ll try and be there tomorrow. Crete, you say?’

  ‘Yes. Heraklion. Let me know your arrival time and I’ll pick you up at the airport. I have to work tomorrow, to pay the hospital bills, but I’ll find a way to get to the airport when you arrive. I can take care of everything else . . . it’s just that one thing.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Irini, we’ll be there and get to a hotel.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I hung up and cried.

  *

  The next morning, I was miserable beyond belief, but I had the shoot to contend with. I needed the money. I made sure I was wearing my best white undies, and stuffed a set of black lace bra and pants into my holdall. They were new, still on their little hangers. I’d bought them for my honeymoon. Now, the thought of being sexy with Jason made me feel sick. At least the new underwear meant I wouldn’t have a repeat of yesterday’s embarrassing performance. I was literally covered for all eventualities.

  After a hurried hotel breakfast, I arrived at the harbour just before seven-thirty. The Portakabin was there already, as were Sofia and the London photographer, Nick. At first, I didn’t recognise Angelo. His beard was neatly trimmed back to little more than designer stubble, and his mop of unruly hair was smooth and shiny, and just touching his collar. He wore an immaculate white shirt, instead of the well-worn blue tee of yesterday. He glanced at his watch as I approached.

  ‘Sorry I’m late, the traffic—’

  ‘Go straight in to Sofia,’ he said without formality.

  Paula and the crew arrived at eight. Clearly, Paula was not a morning person either. The photographer hurried everyone. The light, I came to learn, is perfect early on and deteriorates as the sun gets higher.

  By eight-fifteen, I was thrilled with my appearance. Sofia had excelled again. I was dressed in a flouncy floral frock. Angelo glanced over me and nodded approvingly. He went to tug his beard, a habit I’d noticed, but for a second the shortness of it appeared to confuse him. His eyes met mine and for some stupid reason I blushed.

  I was told to sit on a great pile of yellow fishing net, which was not easy.

  ‘My sandal buckle’s tangled in the stuff,’ I cried as everything slid beneath me and I ended up rather like the morning’s catch. Angelo and one of the crew sorted me out and we tried again.

  The sun gathered strength, and although someone was holding a huge white diffuser to soften the glare and keep me in semi-shade, I found it hard not to squint.

  ‘Lower your eyes until Nick says: “lens”!’ Angelo shouted.

  ‘She’s doing all right,’ Nick said. ‘You can leave her to me.’

  When Angelo backed off, I found Nick was easier to work with. The town woke and I became aware of what was going on in my peripheral vision. The harbour came
to life as local fishermen returned with their night’s catch. Chunky traditional boats – red, blue, yellow, and white – fringed the quayside. Sparkles flashed from the turquoise water, which I could hear lapping at the wooden hulls. Across the little port, shopkeepers dragged racks of sun hats and postcards onto the pavement. Taverna owners opened their doors and enthusiastically hurled starched gingham cloths over pavement tables. A street cleaner swept the gutters with a giant brush and a dustpan made from half a plastic barrel nailed to a broom-pole.

  Stout women in black dresses and grey headscarves waddled out of the bakery with carrier bags of fresh bread. Everyone grinned. Everyone shouted: ‘Kalimera!’ – which I knew meant ‘Good day!’ but I realised this was not a greeting, it was a statement.

  Half a dozen cats gathered on the quayside, motionless apart from a slight flick of their tail-tips, eyes fixed on the men sorting their catch. There was a flash of silver, a small fish thrown onto the cement. The felines pounced and the victor raced away, tearing under table legs, around postcard racks, and up an alley. The losers returned to the wharf like vigilantes. They stared, twitching, waiting for another chance.

  ‘Next outfit!’ Paula cried. ‘Quick as you can, Irini.’

  Ten minutes later, I was back out. I had to drape myself around a huge anchor and pose on the harbour wall.

  ‘Try not to get fish shit on the frock, will you?’ Paula shouted.

  As the air warmed, patience melted, and by eleven, everyone was irritable. Then the shoot was over and I quickly changed into my own clothes. When I left the Portakabin, Paula called my name, but I was eager to get to my mother and pretended I hadn’t heard. She called again, and this time I couldn’t ignore her.

  ‘Irini, here!’ She thrust a baguette wrapped in clingfilm towards me. ‘I guess you’re going straight to the hospital?’

  I nodded, eager to get away.

  ‘Be back by three, okay?’

  ‘Thanks for this. Really kind.’ I lifted the bread roll.

  She peered over my shoulder, rolled her eyes and muttered, ‘What now?’