Page 3 of Villa of Secrets

A shape lurched out of the night. Naomi squealed and cowered, unable to move her feet. Bubba staggered towards her, clutching a splintered plank that Naomi recognised as part of a wrecked fishing boat.

‘Are they home, Naomi? Are they safe?’ the old woman wailed.

‘No, I haven’t heard, Bubba, but they’ll be all right. Papa’s a good sailor.’ Overcome with relief, she was ready to deny, even to herself, she had been scared.

Naomi took Bubba’s gnarled hand and led her back to the house. ‘Shush, you’ll wake the baby,’ she said, quite the grown-up one. Her parents would be proud. When they returned, she might receive a pocket-money rise. ‘You dry your eyes and wash your hands, and I’ll make you some cocoa,’ she told her grandmother, because that was what her mother would say when Naomi got upset about anything.

The next morning, haggard and red-eyed, Bubba rocked Rebecca to quieten her crying.

‘Get dressed, Naomi. We must go to the chemist for baby formula,’ she said.

*

Naomi flung a flat stone across the water and counted four bounces before it disappeared. Although her memories were painful, there was something pure and cleansing about them.

The fisherman was re-baiting his hook. ‘Any luck?’ she called.

He shook his head. ‘Nothing.’

‘Perhaps tomorrow,’ she said encouragingly.

He smiled, eyes crinkling in the corners, rugged features lifting. She had the impression he didn’t smile often enough.

Naomi arrived home, pushed open the blue front door, and stopped dead.

Sweet old Bubba sat on the edge of the bed, crying, struggling with a gun in her good hand.

Naomi leapt forward. ‘No!’

In a flash, she imagined a deafening explosion with grotesque consequences. Everything frothed up inside her like milk on the boil and she almost vomited on the pebble mosaic floor.

She lunged, desperate to grab the weapon before her grandmother could pull the trigger.

Chapter 2

Bromley, London.

Rebecca came out of the gym honed, toned, and looking good. She pushed herself through a thorough workout at least twice a week to prepare her body for pregnancy, and had never been in better shape. The last of the sunlight streamed through the kerbside trees, throwing mottled shadows onto the pavement. The air was sweet and fresh after a recent shower, and the world sparkled with the vibrancy of late summer.

A man walked towards her and she sensed his appraisal of her body. Her skinny jeans and skimpy white t-shirt revealed a sliver of tight abs, and at thirty-three her breasts were still firm enough to allow her to go braless occasionally. She avoided his eyes as he passed.

Such moments made her feel good . . . yet she knew she wasn’t perfect, and her buoyant mood plummeted. Just a glitch, she thought, as if God had decided to hold back on something. But these days what nature wouldn’t bestow, technology delivered for a price – that was where her hopes and dreams lay. Over the course of a decade these thoughts had become her constant mantra. They kept Rebecca sane in her darkest hours.

In vitro fertilisation was constantly improving, and the clinic Rebecca and Fritz attended had all the latest equipment. One day she would have her family.

Up ahead, a woman at the bus shelter stuck her hand out. Rebecca could have jogged to catch her ride, but she decided to walk to the next stop, passing the gorgeous baby boutique on the way. Her little boy would be a blue-eyed blond, just like Fritz, and her daughter would have wild dark hair and the olive complexion of the Cohen family.

She stopped at the shop front, disappointed to see a woman at work and the space a disorganised jumble of clothes, toys, and a wigless mannequin. The window dresser dragged an antique rocking horse, dappled grey with a real-hair mane and tail, across the floor. Rebecca wondered how many toddlers had settled in that leather saddle over the years, and the ghost of their laughter rang in her ears. She was smiling when the naked mannequin toppled towards the glass.

Instinctively, Rebecca threw her hands up and gasped. The dummy hit the window with such a crash she was surprised the glass didn’t crack. The window dresser lunged and caught the sliding dummy before it reached the floor. Rebecca’s palms were still against the window when the young woman looked up and mouthed, ‘Sorry!’

She shook her head and, slightly nauseous, turned away. The sun disappeared for the day and a few spots of rain plopped onto the pavement.

Chapter 3

Rhodes, Greece.

Papas Yiannis, an overweight Moses with tortoiseshell glasses, unruly hair, and a long beard the colour of damp cigarette ash, had walked over from his house across the road. He and Bubba had hatched a plan and wanted Naomi to take care of it.