Secrets of Santorini

by Patricia Wilson

  I sat on the patio and cried as her plane flew over.

  Then you started getting chest pains and shortness of breath. I feared for your heart, but the doctor said the problem was your lungs. They were caked with dust from years of working at the site.

  The inhaler helped, but your health deteriorated, and eventually you couldn’t walk more than a few metres without having to stop and hold on to something. I could see myself having to push a wheelchair in the not too distant future, and such a thing would be impossible in the steep and uneven streets of Santorini. I knew we had to return to Ireland and the National Health Service.

  By this time, Irini was a teacher and had made the little house in Sitric Road her home. There was no question about where we would stay when we returned to Dublin.

  My mind’s drifting. I must concentrate. What did you say, Tommy? Irini’s gone back to Santorini, to our house?

  I’m afraid she’s in danger!

  CHAPTER 28

  IRINI

  Crete, present day.

  AT THE HOSPITAL, I found my uncle and father were still with Mam.

  Uncle Quinlan had a heart of gold and I loved him dearly. He rose from his seat and gave me a stiff hug. His bow tie bobbed as he swallowed hard. ‘Chin up, lovey,’ he said.

  I kissed his cheek and turned to my father, knowing this was going to be difficult. ‘Are you all right, Dad?’

  He nodded, gave my hand a squeeze, then pressed the tips of his fingers against his eyes. After a big breath, he tried to speak. ‘I . . .’ Then he shook his head, unable to say more.

  ‘Do you really think she can hear us?’ he said after a moment.

  ‘I believe she can, at least some of the time.’

  He took her hand in both of his and lifted it to his mouth. ‘I’ve been a bastard. Poor girl.’ He turned to me. ‘Where’ve you been? We waited all day.’

  Quinlan cut in. ‘I told you, Tommy, Irini went back to your house in Santorini to get Bridget’s papers, she phoned us, remember? Missed the ferry. Then she had to go to work, to pay the hospital bills.’

  Dad sighed. ‘That was how it all started – my hospital bills. Is there much to pay?’

  ‘A few thousand. Don’t worry, I’m getting there. I was lucky to get an amazing job, modelling.’ I wanted to tell him about it, but it seemed indecent to voice my pleasure when he looked so defeated. I glanced at Quinlan and saw he understood.

  My phone pinged with a message. ‘Speak of the devil, it’s Paula, my boss,’ I said, reading it out. ‘ “Can you work for two hours tomorrow morning? There’s a problem with one of the shots.” ’

  ‘Go,’ Quinlan said. ‘It’ll do you good to have something else to think about. Take your mind away from all this.’ He rested his hand on my father’s shoulder. ‘I can take care of your father, lovey, and he needs to be alone with Bridget for a little longer.’

  *

  That night, I lay in bed thinking about my parents, and Angelo. Since I’d had a call from someone interested in my wedding dress, I’d started to wonder if I should keep it. A mad idea. Yet my mind was uplifted every time I thought about Angelo and our time together. I had hopes, dreams, and crazy heart-melting imaginings.

  At six-thirty the next morning, I drove to Malia for the shoot. I needed to see Angelo, look into his eyes, and feel the strength of his arms around me. I desperately hoped we would get a moment alone, and perhaps that night . . . Oh, to be back in his arms. I wouldn’t tell him I thought I was falling in love, but I wondered how he felt about me? He had said such passionate things in the heat of the moment, but were they true?

  Paula, stressed to the hilt, made everyone jumpy. ‘Quickly! Get ready. Tell Sofia to make my coffee the second she’s finished with you. The tech’s gone for a new gas bottle.’

  I hurried to the trailer.

  While I stared at myself in the mirror, my thoughts went back to Mam. What would happen when they turned the machines off? My tears came dangerously close so I tried to put the hospital out of my mind by thinking about Angelo. Hardly difficult; I seemed to be obsessed. Just recalling his arms around me made my toes curl up. He excited me, yet at the same time calmed me. I wondered what it would be like to live with him. A ridiculous thought. I hardly knew him and we lived in different countries. At the same time, I felt as if I’d waited for him all my life. Were we meant for each other?

  Sofia’s small hands twisted my hair around dozens of bendy rollers. Had she known such love?

  ‘I like much the red hairs,’ she said, and it reminded me of the Book of Dreams. The fiery-haired princess Oia and her troubled queen. I wondered what happened to them. The notebooks lay in the bottom of my suitcase, to read when I got home.

  With so much on my mind, I hardly listened to Sofia rabbiting on. Mam’s accident, the glamour of modelling, the prospect of assembling a portfolio, and the love I had shared with Angelo in my parents’ house. My life had changed dramatically in a few short days. Once Angelo and I returned to Crete, I had wanted him to stay the night but in the small suite I shared with my father and Quinlan, there was no real privacy.

  Paula’s voice winged in from the trailer door, snapping me from my daydream. ‘Twenty minutes! Make sure you’re ready, everyone!’

  Where was Angelo? I hoped he would turn up any second, wearing the smile of a shared secret. Sofia chattered away, her Greek accent so heavy I gave up trying to understand. She finished my make-up, then undid the curlers. My frizz was transformed into cascades of glossy waves that tumbled over my shoulders.

  ‘. . . and so Angelo say I come works with hims, together. I no have choice, lady.’

  Jolted from my musings, I paid attention.

  ‘He is big, charming, my husband . . .’

  Husband? Sofia’s husband?

  ‘. . . no ones know what malákas, bastards, he is. Angelo know ’e’s bastards but say ’e can’t change nothing. ’E say is my mistake. I should no to marry ’im. But I ’ave boy mine. I ’ave big love for Michalis mine. I wants much more childrens, but nows insides kaput after my Michalis borns.’

  The air seemed to rush out of my lungs. Images of Sofia’s misery on the first shoot, when Angelo was giving me all his attention, rushed into my head.

  Sofia continued. ‘So many girlfriends, there in front me. Maláka. What I do, lady? If I goes, husband mine takes my boy. I much love boy mine. Bastards husband!’

  He had a son? Was married with a child? What have I done?

  Sofia paused and, as the echo of her words faded, I could hear nothing but the blood pumping from my broken heart.

  ‘Once, I complains for his poutanas, whores, and ’e’s threatens divorce,’ Sofia said. ‘Fathers-in-laws, he takes boy mine to stay London schools. I much sad, lady.’

  Why didn’t I think Angelo might be married?!

  ‘Look, is photographea of sons mine, is ten years befores.’ Sofia moved the bottles aside and there, taped to the mirror, a faded snapshot of a much younger, but just as glamorous, Sofia holding a baby. Standing behind her, Angelo, clean-shaven, smartly dressed and a few pounds heavier, but those eyes, yes, it was Angelo.

  Nothing remained inside me but despair. Wasn’t I a fool not to think of it before? That the only two Greeks working together in a London company, and showing a certain affection for each other, might be man and wife? I touched my eyes.

  ‘Eeh, why you look so sad, lady?’ Sofia said. ‘Ah, you have problems with love, yous, yes? I no ask. Love is much difficult. Befores, I ’ad much love for husbands mine. No now. Is bastards now. And . . .’ Sofia went on.

  I wanted to scream: Shut up, just shut up, I don’t want to hear any more, but Sofia didn’t shut up.

  ‘Fathers-in-laws sick now, they fly him Athens. Angelo go Athens for be with father his. I not know when Angelo come back. He like you much, he says so when you works with hims.’

  He even told his wife he fancied me? No wonder she looked so upset when she saw us working together. An
d all the shouting and arm-waving on the set . . .

  The make-up artist continued: ‘I don’t cares for husbands, I no cares what he do, who he with. I go sees sons soon as. You understands?’

  Paula stuck her head through the doorway. ‘Are you ready? Quickly now!’

  ‘Okay!’ Sofia answered.

  ‘Lady, how I make yous eyes nice when yous is cry.’ She handed me a bunch of tissues. ‘Ah, you remembers, love makes you cry. Dry eyes, lady. I never make talks of bastards husbands again.’

  A knock sounded on the door and a young man’s voice shouted: ‘Mrs Rodakis, the new gas bottle’s on!’

  Mrs Rodakis – that confirmed it then: Sofia was Angelo’s wife.

  *

  How could I have let it happen? Poor Sofia must never find out. Angelo’s behaviour had lifted me from my gloom, a spark of hope for the future in the darkness of my mother’s death. Something wonderful to cling to, to look forward to. Something short-lived.

  Without Angelo’s help, work got behind and Paula’s mood worsened. ‘Irini!’ Her voice cut through my thoughts like a rusty razor. ‘Listen to the photographer, will you? Christ, I’ll kill that bloody Angelo. Drops me a novice then buggers off to Athens.’

  There I had it, double confirmation – Angelo had gone to Athens. A few hours ago, I’d lain in his arms. He told me he loved me, said all the things I wanted to hear, then he ran off without a word. Those whispered endearments had meant so much, stolen my heart, and just as quickly abandoned it. I’d given him everything and he hadn’t even bothered to say goodbye. A gullible fool I’d been.

  *

  I agreed to meet my father and Quinlan in the Shamrock after work. Trying to hide my pain, I walked into the bar. Quinlan recognised my distress immediately. ‘Stiff upper lip, lovey. Do you want a drink?’

  ‘No, thanks. Can we go next door for something to eat? Then I’d like to visit Mam for an hour or two.’

  Jack came over. ‘Sorry about your mother, Irini. Your uncle’s just told me there’s not much hope. Under the circumstances, I can’t expect you to work tonight.’

  His kindness made me feel worse. ‘Thanks, Jack, but I can work, don’t worry. I’ll be here at nine.’

  Quinlan took a last sip of his Campari and turned to my father. ‘Drink up, Tommy. We’ll get a bite to eat, I’ll drop Irini at the hospital, then I’ll take you to the hotel for a rest.’

  ‘Irini, me love,’ Fergus chortled as he hobbled across the lounge and struggled onto a bar stool. His mischievous twinkle changed to concern when he saw my face. ‘You all right? How’s your ma?’

  ‘There’s no change, Mr McFadden.’

  ‘Poor woman, God bless her.’ He stared at the ceiling for a moment and I had the impression he said a little prayer, then he returned his attention to me. ‘Me and your pa had a good old natter, but this place is miserable-quiet without you, Irini. I hope you’re going to work here when you’ve finished the fancy modelling stuff.’ The twinkle returned and I understood he was trying to lift my spirits. ‘I hope those fashion people are paying you pots of money. And where’s the Greek that couldn’t take his eyes off you the other day?’

  Before I could think of an answer, Quinlan cut in. ‘Sorry to interrupt, Fergus, but I need to get some food inside these two before Irini comes back at nine.’ He ushered me outside and Dad followed. ‘Are you all right, lovey?’ His eyes were soft and his mouth a rare straight line.

  ‘Oh dear, Quinlan . . .’

  He pulled out a chair at the neighbouring taverna. ‘Come on, let’s get some food. Boys, beer, and banter – that’s what you need right now.’

  I managed a smile.

  ‘That’s better,’ Quinlan said. ‘It’s a difficult time for us all, but I’ll tell you something, your mother would not want you to be so unhappy.’

  ‘You don’t understand, Quinlan. It’s not just Mam. I was . . .’

  Quinlan raised his hand to a waiter. ‘Three of tonight’s specials, a jug of dry red and a bottle of water, please. We’re in a hurry.’

  ‘What have you ordered, Quinlan?’ my father asked.

  ‘No idea, Tommy. Let’s live dangerously, on the knife edge, see what turns up.’

  ‘I hope it’s not snails,’ Dad muttered.

  Quinlan made a mischievous pout at my father, then turned to me. ‘I suspect love’s let you down again, Irini. We’ve all been there lovey, even me. Everyone in that bar’s had their heart broken, probably more than once. Unfortunately, it’s happened now, just when you need a shoulder, but it’s not such a catastrophe.’

  ‘I’m a catastrophe,’ I said, remembering.

  He shook his head. ‘We’re your family – trust us, you’re not alone. Affairs of the heart sort themselves out. Que sera sera. Let’s stick to our plan, do what we can to support Bridget, and when we get home, we’ll put a portfolio together. Even if this thing with Retro Emporio doesn’t materialise, you should be submitting your work to other fashion houses. You’ve talent, Irini – too much to be spending your time teaching six-year-olds and working behind a bar.’

  The waiter appeared with pastítsio, Greek salad, and drinks. The delicious aroma of mince, cinnamon, and cheese made me realise how hungry I was. I looked up to see my father frown.

  ‘Nobody bakes a pastítsio like my Bridget,’ he said.

  *

  That evening, the Shamrock was mad busy, but at ten o’clock the place emptied.

  ‘Where’s everyone gone?’ I asked.

  ‘Beach party,’ Jack said. ‘Goes on till sun-up. You can finish early if you want, Irini.’

  I was just thinking of calling Quinlan when Paula, wearing a tight red shift that was barely decent, sauntered into the Shamrock.

  ‘Ah, here you are. I was hoping to catch you,’ she said, pulling herself onto a barstool. ‘Get me a large G&T, would you? Ice and a slice. I’ve brought your wages.’ She pushed a brown envelope over the counter. ‘Cash.’

  ‘Thanks, I’m really grateful. That’s going straight off the hospital bill.’

  ‘Thank God it’s in the bag, darling,’ Paula said, her scarlet fingernail tracing the glass rim. ‘You saved the day, Irini. Did you enjoy it?’

  ‘I did indeed, and the money, I mean . . . things were getting behind – travel, medical costs, you know.’

  ‘Yah, sure.’ She poked the slice of lemon in her drink. ‘That’s what I want to talk to you about. Angelo suggested that you submit a collection of designs to us.’ She crossed her legs and appraised the few men left in the room.

  Angelo? My heart skipped. He’s married with a child.

  ‘Yes, I plan to work on it as soon as I get home.’ This was a lot to think about. Would he still want the portfolio when he discovered that I was not the sort to have an affair with a married man? But then again, as I recall, it was me that threw myself at him. Did I regret it? Oh, God, no! Not really. The big question was: could I resist doing it again when this terrible hurt I was feeling faded?

  Paula finished her assessment of the opposite sex and returned to me.

  ‘Quinlan, my uncle, designs costumes for the Abbey Theatre in Dublin. He’s helping me put the portfolio together.’

  ‘We’re looking for fresh talent. Angelo’s away for a while, but he’s asked me to look after you.’ She met my eyes with a knowing look. ‘I’ll give you my number. Call me when the portfolio’s ready. Okay?’

  Jack slid a mug of tea in front of me.

  ‘Meanwhile, I want to discuss our next promo shoot. The location’s undecided yet.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘I want you to work for us again, Irini. You know the ropes, so it will be easier next time. Also, using the same models keeps continuity on the website, helps with our image. In the trade, it’s called branding.

  ‘I’ve been scouting for a mature model for some time. Those already in the business are botoxed and lip-plumped. Not what we want. You’ve a very natural look about you – just the job. If you agree to work for Retro Emporio again,
it’s all expenses paid and an eight-hundred-euro retainer. When’s half-term?’

  ‘Mid-October.’ Eight hundred euro!

  ‘Perfect.’ Paula uncrossed her legs and sipped her drink.

  I stared at a crescent of scarlet lipstick on the glass while she wrote a cheque and passed it over. I had never held a cheque before. ‘It’s all so sudden . . .’

  ‘Bank it and don’t forget to call me when the portfolio’s ready. Make sure your passport’s up to date too.’ Paula stood and smoothed her dress. ‘Oh, and sorry to hear about your mother.’

  Jack rolled his eyes. ‘A bucket of sympathy, that one,’ he said as she left.

  CHAPTER 29

  BRIDGET

  Dublin, 1 year ago.

  WE DID NOT LIVE HARMONIOUSLY. Tommy resented the return to Dublin and blamed it on me. He said I should have let him die with the heart attack. We bickered from dawn till dusk, and this made Irini’s life hell, not that we saw much of her. She worked at the school all day, and behind a bar in the evenings. When home, she was sewing, had books to mark, food to cook, or rushed around cleaning the house.

  I did my best to ease her workload, but nobody was happy.

  After only a week at Sitric Road, everything changed again. I received a call from the member of Interpol that I corresponded with occasionally in relation to my articles. I helped Harry Edwards by writing about missing artefacts, and he reciprocated whenever he had information to share. He even took me out to lunch when he had business in Santorini, and I enjoyed his company.

  With the arrival of the computer, I continued to communicate with him on the subject of antiquity theft. The Athens archaeologists passed on information too, keeping me up to speed with the latest finds.

  ‘Some Minoan artefacts have come onto the market,’ Harry said. ‘We suspect they’re from Crete and we’re looking for information that might lead us to an excavator, broker, or collector. Have you heard anything?’

  ‘Nothing. What are they?’