‘But then what happened? It all sounds good so far.’
‘It does, doesn’t it? So you’re as gullible as I am. Well … just as I’d got used to the idea that I was going to sell, the guy calls me back and says he’s spoken to his boss and I need to put ten per cent of the shares’ value up-front as security. If the sale doesn’t go through, I’ll get the security deposit back, so I agree to it. It’s to be held in an account until the sale goes through.’
‘You paid it? How much?’
‘Forty thousand pounds.’
‘What?’
‘Exactly.’
‘And … then what?’
‘Nothing. Never heard from him again. Couldn’t trace him. Gone. The pair of them, with my savings. Nearly half a million quid.’
‘I had no idea.’
‘No one did. You’re the only person I’ve told.’
‘No wonder you’re so uptight about money.’
‘Uptight? I’m paranoid. We have nothing. It’s hand-to-mouth at the moment while I claw it back. Anastasia has no idea. No idea! She’s still spending faster than I’m earning and there’s no backup. The inheritance … oh my God, Lex. I can’t even begin to say what it means to me. Even if we have to wait years, the thought that it’s coming. I can take a loan. We can get by. I don’t need to tell Anastasia anything.’
All I could do was repeat myself. ‘I had no idea.’
‘How long …’ John looked down at the table. His words were so quiet I strained to hear. ‘How long do you think …?’
I did a double-take. ‘What? You mean Mum?’
He nodded. ‘I mean, she’s seventy tomorrow …’
‘Oh my God. John. No. Don’t talk like that! She’s got ages yet.’
My brother shrugged. ‘She doesn’t have to die of old age, you know. It can be sudden. Look what happened with Valya. One day there, gone by lunchtime. You never know.’
The hairs on the back of my neck – they prickled again.
15 July 2013, 7.30 a.m.
I woke early the next morning, still rattled by a dream in which I’d been chasing Mum through the maze of streets in Corfu’s old town and slightly anxious at what the day would bring. Without Mum’s knowledge I’d arranged for her suite butler to bring a champagne breakfast for all of us to her room. But now, as I lay in bed, I wondered what I’d been thinking offering her alcohol at eight in the morning. She was going to have to negotiate the twists and turns of Mykonos’s cobbled streets slightly inebriated. On top of that, we had her birthday dinner and then the White Night party that didn’t even start till ten.
I could hear water running in the cabin next door: John was up. At least he hadn’t forgotten our breakfast date with Mum. I thought about him and Anastasia. I’d always been cynical about her reasons for picking my brother as a husband but now he’d spelt out the essence of their marriage, I felt cheated. I’d enjoyed speculating with Mark about the status of their relationship, but I saw now that I’d wanted to believe deep down that there was some magic; that, beyond all odds, Anastasia loved my brother; saw him as something more than a means to an end. I felt devastated for John that his feelings were largely unrequited. Would it have unravelled something inside him if she’d genuinely loved him? Would the right woman have been able to unlock his emotions?
I knocked on John’s door. ‘Ready?
‘Yep,’ he said. His face was shadowed with tiredness and his eyes cushioned with grey; he looked like he hadn’t slept at all. His dark hair, still wet, was combed into that centre-parted style that he’d worn since he was at primary school.
‘Sleep well?’ I asked, but his monosyllabic grunt of a reply didn’t encourage further chat. We walked to Mum’s room in silence and I realised then that the confidences exchanged the previous night would never again be mentioned. My childlessness, John’s financial worries, and the question of Anastasia’s love were relegated back to the box from which they’d come. The closeness that we’d experienced in the Buzz Bar had been nothing more than a fleeting moment, not the dawn of something new. I wondered if John felt embarrassed at all that he’d told me.
‘Do you think she’ll be up?’ I said as we knocked on Mum’s door but I needn’t have worried. When she opened it, she was fully dressed and made up. It was clear she’d been up for some time, though she seemed flustered to see us.
‘What’s wrong?’ she asked, holding onto the door. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Happy birthday! We’ve come to have breakfast with you.’ I waited but she didn’t move to invite us in. ‘Are you going to make us sing out here in the corridor?’
‘Well, let me get my key and we’ll go,’ she said, reaching to take her key card out of the light switch.
‘No, you’re having breakfast in your suite today. We’re joining you. If you don’t mind!’
‘What?’ Mum shook her head and still didn’t let us in.
‘Here, in your suite! Your butler should be along,’ I looked at my watch, ‘any minute to set it all up. I thought we’d start the day in style. Since you hate how crowded the Ocean Breeze place gets at breakfast.’
‘Oh … okay then. You’d better come in, then. But just give me a second to tidy up.’ Mum started to close the door but I caught it.
‘What do you mean? Tidy up what?’
Mum was halfway across her living room. ‘Oh, just papers. I have papers all over the table,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘Won’t take a sec.’
I pushed open the door and followed her into the room. Mum’s dining table was indeed covered in papers; her reading glasses lay on top. She stacked the papers, bundled them into a plastic folder, and took that into her dressing room, from where I heard the safe clunk shut. John and I stood awkwardly in the living area, not knowing what to do. Mum bustled back out.
‘Right. Why didn’t you warn me you were coming?’ she asked. ‘Oh, I see. It was a surprise. Well, thank you very much.’
I gave Mum a hug. ‘Happy birthday.’ I handed her a small box. ‘This is from both of us.’
John wandered about the room, picking things up while Mum carefully unwrapped the box and opened it to see the delicate silver locket I’d chosen for her in Cornwall.
‘Thank you! It’s lovely,’ she said.
‘It opens. Look inside.’ I helped Mum crack open the locket. Inside I’d put tiny pictures of John and me. ‘It’s bit cheesy, but it means we’ll always be with you.’
‘Thank you, both of you. I shall treasure it always,’ Mum said, and I helped her fasten it around her neck.
I looked at John. He was standing with his hands on his hips, looking through the picture window to the side terrace. ‘Right. One, two, three,’ I said pointedly, and started to sing. ‘Happy birthday to you … come on John … Happy birthday to you … John … Happy birthday dear Mu-um, happy birthday to you! Hip-hip hurray! Hip-hip hurray! Hip-hip hurray!’ I gave myself a self-conscious round of applause. John hadn’t sung a word. The doorbell rang; an electronic note that made us all jump.
‘That’ll be breakfast,’ I said.
Mum made for the door.
‘Well. That was awkward,’ said John, his back still to the room.
‘At least I made an effort,’ I hissed. ‘I can’t believe you didn’t sing.’
The butler rolled a trolley over to the dining table. ‘Good morning, good morning, how are we all today? Special occasion?’ He started to set out the breakfast. A bowl of baked goods, a steel flask of coffee, a bottle of champagne, three glasses of orange juice and then, from the hot box, three plates of bacon, sausages, and eggs.
‘It’s my mother’s birthday,’ I said.
The butler stopped what he was doing and turned to face Mum. ‘Many happy returns,’ he said. ‘Special day for a special lady.’ His smile was warm.
‘I’m too old for all this.’ Mum sank onto the arm chair, a flush rising in her cheeks.
The butler turned back to his work. ‘Mykonos today. Have you b
een before?’
John slid open the terrace door and slipped out onto the balcony, pulling the door closed after him. He stood, hands on the railing, looking out to sea.
‘Er, no. None of us has,’ I said. ‘Got any recommendations?’
‘I don’t tend to get there much myself, but most of the guests, they see the windmills or they go to the beaches.’
‘Beaches aren’t really for us,’ I said, nodding in the direction of Mum. ‘Bit hot for …’
‘Then windmills. You walk through town, take some photos, you put them on your Facebook, make everybody at home jealous … you are from England?’ I nodded. ‘You take picture of white houses, blue sky, you make them jealous. It’s always raining in England.’
I laughed. ‘Is it far? To walk?’
‘You walk as far as you like,’ he said. ‘Then you stop in a taverna, have some lunch, drink some ouzo, and you come back.’ He folded the last napkin and placed it carefully on the table. ‘Would you like me to open this?’ he asked, pointing to the bottle of champagne. ‘Or leave it?’
‘Leave it, please. We’ll do it. Thank you.’
The butler left and I banged on the window to summon John. He didn’t move so I opened the balcony door and shouted. He started, as if I’d shaken him out of a trance.
‘Breakfast,’ I called. ‘Come on! Stay with the programme.’
We took our places at the table and I picked up the Champagne. ‘Anyone interested? I’m sure the sun’s over the yard-arm somewhere …’
‘Why not?’ said Mum, so I popped the cork and filled the three glasses.
‘Happy birthday,’ said John.
‘Happy seventieth,’ I said. ‘May there be seventy more!’
‘Oh, please,’ said Mum.
15 July 2013, 10 a.m.
After our champagne breakfast, Mum and I took our time getting ready then reconvened by the lifts ready to catch the shuttle bus from the pier into Mykonos Town. We had no plans bar what the butler had recommended: to potter about, taking in the beauty of the Byzantine alleyways, to nose in a few shops, to take some photos and maybe enjoy a bit of refreshment in one of the tavernas but, when we emerged from the air-conditioned bus into the dazzling glare of the sunshine, Mum squinted her eyes towards a bay in the distance, craning her neck forward to see better. We stood next to a harbour, the ridiculously blue sea studded with luxury yachts, sailing boats, and motor launches. Ahead of us, a few minutes’ walk away, a neat little bay curved around. I saw a beach, cafés, and restaurants, rows of white-washed buildings rising up the hill behind the sea.
‘Oh, look! Is that one of those little seaside trains?’ Mum asked, pointing towards the bay. ‘Look, going along the front there. It is!’
I saw what she meant: in the distance, a colourful little caterpillar was weaving its way through crowds of pedestrians and mopeds.
‘Oh, we must go on it. Birthday treat?’ Mum said. ‘I love those trains. We used to go on one on holiday down on the south coast when I was a child. I haven’t seen one for years. Come on!’
We made our way carefully to the harbour, walking past restaurants, cafés full of people sitting back and drinking in the picture-postcard views, their chairs almost overhanging the edge of the harbour.
‘It’s so pretty,’ I sighed.
Mum didn’t reply and I looked back to see her shielding her eyes from the glare of the sun as she picked her way carefully along the uneven path. I took her arm.
‘Here,’ I said. ‘Let’s find somewhere shaded to have a sit down and plan what we’re going to do.’
‘No, no. Don’t fuss.’ She patted my hand. ‘I want to go on that train. I’m going on that train if it kills me! It’ll be fun. Show us the lay of the land, so to speak, then we can plan what we’re going to do.’
The crowds got denser as we approached the seafront; masses of tourists and cruise ship passengers thronged the narrow streets, all with the same goal in mind: get some nice photos, have a look for some souvenirs, sit down and have a drink. Bar owners called to us; waitresses approached with smiles and open menus. The smells of a hundred different dishes tickled our noses. Mum and I edged slowly through the chaos, searching for the point where the tourist train began.
‘It’s going to be down there by the seafront,’ I said. ‘I wonder what John’s making of all this. Not really his scene, is it?’
‘He’ll have got on a bus to some remote town or something. Ooh, look!’ she turned abruptly into an art gallery we’d been passing and I followed her inside, where canvases of Greek scenes lined the walls. Some seemed clunky, done with an amateurish hand, but others truly captured the warmth and light that I’d noticed both in Corfu and here in Mykonos. Mum was staring at a picture of a hillside of white-washed houses. The artist had captured the view from above, the canvas a cascade of blue-domed homes leading down a steep cliff to the sparkling sea below. Just looking at the picture, I could smell the heavy scent of oleander; hear the song of the birds brought to me on the hot wind.
‘It’s lovely,’ I said, joining Mum. ‘I wonder if it’s Mykonos.’
‘Santorini,’ said the sales assistant, materialising behind us. ‘Done by a local artist. Originally British, I think.’
‘Oh, lovely. We’re going to Santorini tomorrow.’ I immediately regretted identifying myself as a cruise ship passenger lest it add fifty euros to the price, but Mum was oblivious, lost in the painting. Very gently, almost without touching, she put her fingertips to the canvas.
‘It’s lovely,’ I said. ‘Would you like it? It could be a birthday present?’
‘It’s your birthday?’ the sales assistant asked.
‘Yes.’ I turned to her. ‘Today.’
‘Then I do very special price for you. One-time only, birthday price.’
‘Mum?’
She pulled her hand back from the canvas and looked up at me as if noticing me for the first time. ‘What?’
‘Would you like the painting? As a birthday present?’
She shook her head. ‘Oh, no. No. Thank you but no. How could I carry this around with us? No, thank you dear. No need.’
She looked briefly around the shop at the other paintings, none catching her eye in quite the same way, and we made our way back out into the sunshine.
‘I could have bought it for you. I was happy to,’ I said. ‘A reminder of this trip.’
‘Really, dear. It’s enough for me that you’re both here with me,’ said Mum. ‘No need for any more gifts.’
In a way, I could see why Mum had been so keen on the tourist train but, once we’d found the stop and seen the crowds of people waiting, I hesitated, drawn more towards a seafront café where we could sit back and people-watch. Mum, however, was adamant. Along with the rest of the tourists, we bundled into the open carriages as soon as the train had pulled up to its stop and bagged a couple of seats. I was relieved to see the carriages had a roof to shield us from the midday sun but, even so, Mum fanned herself with the fan she’d picked up in Corfu.
‘Your father would never have entertained something like this,’ she said. ‘I used to look at these trains and wish I could go on one, just one more time, but he would never have let me.’ She played with the chain that crossed the open door, clicking it open and shut. Her voice was quiet. ‘Sometimes I think Ralph would work out what it was that I wanted in life and then prevent me from doing it just for his own amusement.’ She sighed. ‘My ride on that train when I was little was the highlight of that summer. How difficult would it have been for him to let me do it again?’
‘What would have happened if you’d stood up to him?’
Mum snorted. ‘I wasn’t willing to find out.’
‘I used to watch how dealt with him and wonder how you had the patience.’
Mum patted my hand. ‘It was all about crisis aversion, dear. I may not have gone to university, but I majored in crisis aversion.’ She gave a little laugh and turned her head towards the harbour. Before I could think of any
thing to say, the train started with a jerk and we both lurched forward, grabbing the handrails to stop ourselves from falling onto the people opposite. With a toot and a whistle, we started to edge forward through the crowds of people.
‘Happy birthday again,’ I said.
Mum grinned at me. ‘Thank you.’
‘I can’t help but feel a taxi might have been more efficient,’ I said as we crawled down the road thronging with pedestrians, most of whom were walking faster than us.
‘More efficient, maybe, but nowhere near as much fun.’
Climbing up the steps of the bus that was to take us back to the ship, I felt a hand on my shoulder and spun around: John. His top was wet with sweat; his face red and shiny. My nose wrinkled involuntarily.
‘Hello.’ I plonked myself down next to Mum and John took a spare seat across the aisle.
‘Enjoy Mykonos?’ he asked. ‘What did you two do?’
‘It was great. We took the tourist train, then had a glass of wine in one of the cafés. What about you? Hitchhike to a ruined village and climb a pile of rubble?’
‘Something like that. The town was a nightmare, wasn’t it? All those scooters. I got away from all of that; found some authenticity. That’s the problem with cruises: even when you get off the ship you can’t get away from the passengers.’ He paused and I didn’t reply; we were, after all, two of those passengers. ‘And all those people in town selling that tourist tit-tat. They see us coming. We’re like cash cows getting off these ships. And people buy it! Think what they’re seeing is real. That’s the saddest part.’ John shook his head.
The Disappearance Page 18