Secrets of Santorini

by Patricia Wilson

  ‘Of course. Meet me for lunch here immediately after the early shoot, okay?’

  *

  The next day, after the hardest morning’s work I had ever done, I sat at a table and watched Paula march into the restaurant. I couldn’t help wondering what it felt like to have such small feet and wear towering stilettos.

  ‘This is all so sudden, and the pay, well, it’s wonderful,’ I said.

  ‘Irini, that’s a base figure. You’ll actually earn much more.’

  ‘It’s such a change . . .’

  ‘We need a taster shoot, which we’ll do tomorrow and Friday so that you can go back to Dublin for a fortnight and work your notice.’

  Paula had an answer for everything and I didn’t doubt she could knock me into shape. The woman could go through a combine harvester and still come out Vogue-ish.

  ‘You say everything’s set up. Where?’ I asked.

  ‘We need a minimalist location, rustic, rich, but earthy, to show off the reds and ochres of the collection, and the warm tones of the perfume. We are going to Nea Kameni. Do you know it?’

  Hit by a jolt of excitement, I said, ‘Isn’t that Santorini – Burnt Island?’ Perhaps I could see Aaron and get back on track with the dragonfly necklace . . .

  ‘It is. So, what do you say?’

  I grinned, nodding. ‘When do I start?’

  ‘Immediately. You’ll be on a flight to Santorini this afternoon, and meet the team when we get there. We shoot for two days – one fashion, one perfume – then you have a day for yourself and a flight back to Dublin on Saturday evening.’

  I thought about Angelo again and doubt set in. Then I forced myself to focus on Dad and the dragonfly necklace. With a free day, I would be able to visit the house and the site, and investigate.

  ‘Right, I’ve things to do.’ Paula stood. ‘Pack your things, Irini, you’re leaving for Santorini in an hour and a half.’ Her phone rang. She glanced at the number, then at me. ‘It’s Angelo. I’m going to tell him what’s happened. Keep quiet.’ She put her phone on speaker.

  ‘Hi Angelo. How’s your father?’

  ‘He’s in theatre. Paula, there’s a disaster. Something viral has wiped half the hard drives and, although the designers have backed up, they’re clamouring for new computers in the office. When are you back in London?’

  ‘Actually, we’re almost finished here. I’ve managed to pull everything forward. I’m taking Irini to Santorini for a test shoot for the new range this afternoon. She’s joining the company.’

  There was a pause. ‘Irini? Santorini? Okay, I’m coming over,’ he said.

  I shook my head.

  Paula cut in. ‘Rather you didn’t, Angelo. Stay with your father for a few more days. I’ll deal with this, thanks. See you back in the city, Monday. Ciao, baby.’ She ended the call.

  *

  Outside Santorini airport, I stood in the puddle of my own shadow as the sun blazed down. I hoped our taxi driver wouldn’t be Spiro, but I had no need to worry. Paula’s hire car waited. We whisked ourselves away to a beautiful private villa with a key-card entrance and a security guard outside. The view from the terrace was breathtaking, but no different from my parents’ patio.

  The meeting went on for an hour. Mostly about the logistics of moving equipment to the right places. The crew left and we continued with the photography team. They had a storyboard, and discussed lighting and make-up. I tried to concentrate but most of it was over my head.

  ‘Any questions?’ Paula asked.

  ‘Will you need me this evening?’ I asked. ‘My mother’s house is just up the road and there’s a few things I’d like to collect.’ I wondered if Paula remembered that she’d died.

  Paula ran a pen down her list. ‘We’ll be finished here shortly. You can go but be back by seven, okay?’ She pulled a clear plastic bag from her briefcase and handed it to me. ‘Here, you’ll need these.’

  Inside, I found a black suede eye-mask, a pair of earplugs, a couple of razors, and a tube of shaving cream.

  Paula continued. ‘Just to remind you all, there’s a wake-up call at four o’clock, and I want everyone on the quayside at four-thirty! No excuses. See you all in two hours for dinner.’

  As I was leaving, Paula caught my arm. ‘Use the razors and cream to remove all your body hair. Usually we wax, but there isn’t time tomorrow.’

  ‘All?’ I blinked at her.

  ‘Yes, even that bit. Every hair, unless you want someone checking your bikini-line on the beach.’

  *

  I called Aaron again and twenty minutes later I was beside him in the old pick-up, driving to the archaeological site.

  ‘This is very good of you, Aaron. Thanks.’

  ‘Sure, it’s nothing. Glad to help, Irini.’

  ‘Can you show me exactly where my mother had her accident?’ I asked, when we arrived at the site.

  ‘Of course. It’s bothering you too then, whether it was an accident or not?’

  ‘It’s too horrible to think otherwise, isn’t it? I just want to be sure, you know?’

  He nodded. I followed him past the souvenir shop and through a maze of rubble walls until we came to the place where I was born. I stared at the blank wall.

  ‘Where’s it gone, the fresco?’

  ‘Athens, I’m afraid. But you can see it in my book; I photographed all the frescoes before they took them away.’

  I pulled his book from my bag. He opened it on the right page and handed it back. I stared at the image and took a breath. My mother’s brutal nightmares painted up to look pretty. Pastel colours and swirling lines, pleasing to the eye – so distant from the pure terror Mam experienced in some of her dreams.

  ‘The fresco appears quite new in print, considering. Wasn’t it around four thousand years old?’

  Aaron nodded. ‘That’s because of the procedure. It was strengthened and cleaned with resin compresses; the entire wall and pictorial layer were treated with barium hydrate.’ I blinked at him. ‘We have to do that before they take them away, to stabilise them.’ His mouth turned down. ‘The Greeks don’t seem to realise that people don’t come here because there’s nothing interesting for the general public to see.’ Anger buffeted his voice. ‘This place could be a huge tourist attraction, and it would add so much to our coffers as archaeologists, but I’m banging my head against a thick wall. Even reproductions would be better than a blank space. Look how many people visit Knossos, which was pillaged and painted – this site is far superior.’

  I remembered my mother’s notes. ‘Can you show me the last pieces you found?’

  He smiled, his voice lifting with the pleasant memory. ‘That was an exciting day. We stopped the cracks and detachments with lime putty, and then injected an epoxy resin mix into them to make the fresco strong. I’d been stalling for years, knowing what they’d do.’

  ‘It all sounds very technical and, to be honest, I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.’

  He grinned. ‘Sorry, I forget myself. When the frescoes were complete and stabilised, the powers-that-be decided they should be in Athens, along with the other main finds from here. The procedure for making them stronger takes a long time, but it’s worth it of course. But to answer your question, the last pieces in the queen’s fresco were mostly from the neck.’ He took the book from me and pointed at the relevant picture.

  I stared at the dragonfly necklace, clearly visible on the goddess. ‘Where did my mother have her accident?’

  He stepped to one side and placed his hand against a seven-foot rubble wall. ‘Just here. This toppled and fell on her.’

  I put my hands against it and pushed with all my might. It didn’t budge.

  Aaron smiled sadly. ‘You won’t move it, Irini. I re-built the whole thing myself.’

  ‘So it was really unstable before?’

  ‘Some of them are, that’s why you see scaffolding about the place.’ He picked up a scaffolding pole and came towards me.

  ‘Are y
ou sure it was an accident, Aaron?’

  His eyes widened as he lifted the scaffold pole high above his head and put it to rest on top of the wall.

  ‘Someone could trip over that. Students can be careless.’ He turned to face me. ‘I’m almost sure it was an accident. Why would anyone want to harm Bridget? I’ve thought about it long and hard.’

  ‘You mean you had doubts?’

  He shrugged. ‘I just don’t know. According to Poppy, we’d only had three visitors that morning: a man and an elderly Chinese couple. We don’t keep records of who visits. They buy a three-euro ticket at the shop, come in, take pictures, and look around.’

  ‘Were the police called? Did they check for footprints or anything like that?’

  He shook his head. ‘When we realised what had happened, we were in shock. I called an ambulance, and everyone helped to get the stones off her.’ He lowered his eyes. ‘She was in a mess, and to be honest, we thought she was dead already.’ He swallowed hard and, staring at the ground, put his hand over his mouth for a moment.

  ‘Sorry, Irini. It was awful. Bridget was like a mother to me.’

  I remembered my father saying so. This time it didn’t sting so much. ‘She was very fond of you, Aaron. When she came back to Dublin, I know she missed you terribly.’

  He looked into my eyes, and then turned away. ‘One minute she was here. She waved at me when I pulled up outside, then I drove around to park my pick-up. When I returned . . . well . . .’ He stared at the ground.

  ‘It must have been awful for you.’

  He nodded. ‘I was a student when I first came here. My father in prison, my mother off with some bloke. I held a grudge against the world, but Bridget gently got me back together. She was a good woman, always looking out for people in need.’

  I swelled with pride.

  ‘Bridget and Tommy were excavation directors. Eventually they made me site manager, and once Tommy had retired to Dublin, your mother promoted me to excavation director too. A great honour. I had huge admiration for her. She struggled to get her qualifications long before these things could be done online.’

  ‘So she did get her degree eventually? I never knew.’

  ‘More than her degree, Irini. Doctor Bridget McGuire was very qualified, highly educated, and greatly admired for her work in archaeology.’

  ‘Doctor Bridget McGuire,’ I whispered.

  ‘You know I was very fond of her? No, more than fond. The awful thing is, I keep asking myself: would it have happened if I had come straight back after she phoned?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I was at the petrol station. She phoned, said she needed me right away, but I got delayed. The police came the next day and asked a few questions, but it seemed clear-cut.’

  I nodded sadly and turned away. When I looked up again, I found myself staring at the bare wall that once supported the fresco. I lifted the book and pointed. ‘I particularly like that necklace the goddess is wearing – the dragonfly one. It’s lovely, isn’t it?’

  ‘Your mother was fascinated by it! I often found her standing just here, staring at the fresco. Come with me, I’ll show you something.’

  He led me up out of the site, towards the stone-built souvenir shop. Inside, there was a whole shelf of his books, framed photographs of various frescoes, and fake pots and urns.

  ‘Come over to the counter,’ he said.

  Closer, I realised it was a display case and there, in the centre, was the dragonfly necklace. I stared at it. ‘Oh my God, it’s beautiful!’

  ‘It’s our bestseller . . . unfortunately,’ he said, glancing at the bookshelf. ‘It’s an exact copy of the central dragonfly in the fresco.’

  ‘But how?’

  ‘I drew it, and eventually got a company in Asia to make them for us. Wait a minute.’ He took a stumpy key from his pocket and opened the cupboard under the counter. ‘Here, look on it as a gift from Bridget.’ He passed me a brown box, and when I opened it, there lay the exquisite dragonfly on a chain.

  ‘Aaron, I don’t know what to say. Thank you! I’ll treasure it.’ I touched the crucifix hanging from my neck and wondered if my mother had seen this replica of the dragonfly necklace. Perhaps she would have worn it once or twice, held it against her chest like some ancient talisman and made a wish. Reinvented the future.

  Everything seemed so unfair. If I could change one thing, I wondered what it would be. Then I knew: I would go back to the beginning of time and zap that tumour gene. The thought reminded me: I must get myself checked out, and I would, the moment I got home.

  ‘There is one thing that’s bothering me,’ Aaron said, breaking my thoughts. ‘A few days before the accident, Bridget received a phone call here and was in such a state I had to take her home. The next morning, she went to Crete. No explanation. I told the police, but they didn’t think it was relevant.’

  ‘Do you think her accident, the trip, and the phone call were connected?’

  He shrugged. ‘I don’t know, but it seems strange. I can’t quite put my finger on what’s bothering me . . . Just an uneasy feeling that perhaps they’re linked.’

  *

  Back in town, I returned to the villa, Aaron’s words going around in my mind.

  I longed to visit the cemetery, to be close to my mother. However, after the five o’clock start and such a busy day, tiredness got the better of me. I settled in my room, intending to read the notebooks. Would I find more answers in there? But my eyes were tired and the words seemed to shimmer on the page. Soon, I made use of the mask and earplugs, and fell asleep.

  *

  Before sunrise, we boarded a minibus and raced down to the port. Paula, immaculate as always, hurried everyone aboard a chartered vessel. The wooden schooner’s canvas sails were furled and we pitched and tossed with the engines at full speed across the caldera. Relieved to be on land again, I squeezed onto one of the overloaded quadbikes and then we raced to the location.

  Burnt Island, the volcano that still smouldered, was black as coal with streaks of umber and rust-red. Fantastic rock formations scattered the landscape giving the impression of a Henry Moore sculpture park. Distorted towers of lava subtly changed, like dark reflections on water. Brittle, treacly-glass obelisks morphed into soft, liquorice-suede pillars, the gathering light tricking my eyes. As the sun rose, gentle, rounded profiles of wind-worn boulders huddled together to form dark, prehistoric monsters. The entire landscape seemed surreal, constantly shape-shifting, mesmerising.

  At the site, Paula hurried me to the make-up tent. My eyes were blacked up and my lips exaggerated with scarlet matt crayon. On set, my surroundings buzzed with activity. There were two photographers, both of whom I had met the day before. The lead photographer, Simone, a French woman in her early sixties, dominated the shoot. Her back-up pro-tog was Andrew, a dark, thirtyish Londoner.

  The clothes were incredible. Classic styles in rich, natural colours: cashmere, angora, heavy silk, and linen fabrics, in gold, cream, tan, and charcoal. We worked until eleven, had a break until three o’clock, then worked until six. By the end of an incredible day, we were all exhausted.

  *

  Another four o’clock start the next morning, but this time the shoot was on Santorini, in a remote area with cream, wind-sculptured cliffs. Below the bluffs, chunky black rocks and great clumps of delicate, white sea daffodils dotted a pale sandy beach. The flowers’ exotic perfume was incredible and reminded me of why we were there. I couldn’t imagine a more perfect location. The narrow beach led into a turquoise sea so clear I could see every pebble below the water.

  Once again, I went straight into the make-up tent. Puzzled by a tall, clear polythene tube, like a portable shower, I asked, ‘What’s that?’

  Joy, a gothic German woman you wouldn’t want to mess with, told me.

  ‘It’s a spray-tan booth. Take your clothes off, put on the goggles, shower cap, and mask, and get inside.’

  I glanced at the tent entrance.<
br />
  ‘Don’t worry, nobody will come in. Please hurry, we don’t have much time.’

  Paula came in and tied the door closed. ‘Quick as you can, Irini. Chop-chop!’

  ‘Twenty minutes, darlings!’ Simone called in her terribly posh voice.

  Suddenly, everything was urgent. I pulled my clothes off, but hesitated at my underwear.

  ‘Come on, Irini, you haven’t got anything that we haven’t. Get your kit off!’ Paula cried. ‘It’s cost over a grand to set this shoot up. We can’t miss the morning light.’

  To hell with it! I stripped and stepped into the tube. Joy sprayed every inch of me, apart from my face. I had to stand with my arms up and legs apart for five minutes while the tan dried, then I emerged, sun-bronzed and ready for make-up. Paula passed me a robe. My face and hair were dealt with by Joy, who, unlike Sofia, hardly spoke.

  ‘Right, we’re ready. Pop the flip-flops on and let’s go,’ Paula said.

  ‘Wait, I haven’t got the bikini on!’

  ‘No bikini for this; we’re advertising women’s perfume. A woman and a personification of the perfume’s all we need.’

  Under the heavy make-up, I blanched. ‘Paula, you don’t expect me to pose naked?!’

  ‘Yes, I do. Come on!’

  ‘No . . . I mean, I can’t! Not in front of all those people!’

  ‘Irini, they’ve seen it all before; it’s their job. Now come on! Here, use the umbrella to keep the sun off, I don’t want you squinting.’

  I followed her out, imagining dropping the robe in front of everyone. My heart thumped and I feared I would vomit with nerves. Everyone turned as I followed her to the foot of the cliff. Simone was ready, camera on tripod, remote in hand. Andrew stood behind her, his handheld Canon glued to his face. One of the crew, a woman in cut-offs and a bikini top, led me to a crevasse in the cliff face and then used a squeegee to erase our footprints in the sand.

  ‘Okay, lose the robe, Irini,’ Simone called.

  All eyes were on me. Horrified, I stared at Simone. With a look of despair, she glanced at Paula.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw one of the male crew rub his hands together and grin. I shook my head at the photographer and pointed at the offending guy, who repeated the gesture.