Page 5 of Villa of Secrets

‘Don’t be silly. You’ve nothing to apologise for. Try and get another hour, then I’ll bring you a nice mug of mountain tea, okay?’ She smoothed a strand of silver-white hair away from Bubba’s cheek.

‘Will you take me to the hairdresser’s sometime this week?’ the old lady asked.

Speechless for a moment, Naomi lay her hand protectively over the thick braid that snaked across Bubba’s pillow. ‘But you’ve never been to the salon in your life. What’s brought this on?’

‘I want it cut off. Short and spiky like that TV woman. It’ll knock years off me and be easier to manage.’ She smiled at Naomi, her mouth pulling up on the good side of her face. ‘No need to look so shocked, child. It’s only a haircut I’m asking for, not Botox and a boob-job.’

Naomi giggled, glanced at the small flat screen on the opposite wall and said, ‘You’ve been watching too much American TV. Don’t ever change, darling Bubba.’ She kissed her grandmother’s forehead but, as she stood, Bubba snatched her hand.

‘You will do it, won’t you?’

Instantly, Naomi knew she wasn’t referring to the hair appointment. Her voice hardened. ‘I said I would, didn’t I?’ She tugged her hand from Bubba’s grasp and moved to the door. ‘Have I ever let you down, Bubba?’ The words came out harder than she intended as she left the room.

‘I said words I regret . . . to Rebecca,’ Bubba cried. ‘They’ve haunted me every day since.’

‘Sleep now . . . Sleep.’ Naomi allowed the rug to fall behind her.

She needed to put her mind to work. The fact that Naomi felt she could rightfully call it ‘work’ was an achievement in itself. A landmark in her business’ progress, and she was obviously grateful for the extra cash. Her last batch of candles and beauty products had made her fifty-three euros. A turning point. Earnings of less than two euros an hour, but that didn’t matter. She had a profit margin. The recent rise in electricity, water and phone prices strained her finances, and she considered every cent that came in and went out.

Naomi longed to have her own shop, with her products artistically displayed on glass shelves. When things got tough, it was this dream that kept her going. She would mix creams and perfumes for her loyal customers, and always have fresh wild flowers on the counter.

The window over the sink drew her attention. Above it, a bare plank fixed by three cheap brackets supported decades of her grandmother’s writing. Greek, Italian, and kosher cookery books, volumes of handwritten lotion and potion recipes, and several hard-backed notebooks containing Bubba’s perfume formulas. A burgundy silk-bound book labelled THE POEMS AND SONGS OF PANDORA COHEN also stood on the shelf. Naomi smiled at reading her grandmother’s beautiful name on the spine and promised herself she would find the time to study the verses. At the opposite end of the bookshelf was the only ornament in the room: the china figure of a singing girl.

She flung the cobalt shutters open, allowing a cool draft to enter the stuffy kitchen. A sudden gust extinguished the candle, leaving a thin wisp of smoke coiling and rising for a moment . . . like a smoking gun. She glanced at the drawer, reached for the light switch, but hesitated when a window across the street lit up. Papas Yiannis was making his early-morning coffee before he left for church.

Movement on the priest’s flat roof caught her attention. Silhouetted by fading moonlight, his granddaughter Marina kissed her boyfriend goodnight, one floor above Papas Yiannis’s head. From the darkness of her kitchen, Naomi watched them and recalled the magic of romance. He lifted a simple ladder and lowered it onto Marina’s balcony. After another hurried embrace, Marina slipped off her high-heels, hitched her short skirt even higher and climbed down to her room.

The two were in love, Naomi knew it. Since his wife and daughter had died, Papas Yiannis, who was already an old man, had become overprotective of his teenage granddaughter.

The boyfriend hauled up the ladder, lay it out of sight, and crossed the rooftops like a cat burglar making his escape.

Naomi recalled the breathless passion between her and Costa when they’d met in Crete. Nothing would have stopped her from seeing the athletic brown-eyed man she’d fallen for and then married. Time proved the strength of their love with two fine sons at university and a husband that she missed terribly throughout the summer season. She turned on the kitchen light and headed for the coffee pot.

Despite his bullying her about the gun the night before, Naomi was fond of Papas Yiannis. His offer to look in on Bubba this morning was a kindness in itself. Since the stroke, Naomi had little time for herself. She mused over what she could fit into her upcoming hour of freedom. Before she left, there were Bubba’s ablutions to deal with, and breakfast . . . then the pistol. She shivered, wondering once again if dreadful deeds were connected to the weapon. Surely not. Nevertheless, the sooner she got rid of it, the better for everyone.

She filled an enamel jug and stepped outside to water the geraniums. The lingering night air cooled her damp skin. She studied the fading stars, glum for a moment as Bubba’s emotional outburst came back to her: after everything I’ve done for you and your sister. So out of character. She didn’t understand what had upset the feisty old woman. The stroke? These days most patients made a reasonable recovery. Bubba knew that.

Strokes were common in Paradissi Village. People blamed the airport, the planes, something to do with exhaust fumes or jet vibrations.

Just a month ago life had been normal, calm and organised. Naomi had ambitions and a modest business plan. Her routine teetered on the brink of change and a tinge of excitement hung in the air.

After many years of putting others first, her days had become her own once more. An adventure. She wore makeup, painted her toenails, and socialised in a quiet way. The girls’ poker night was the highlight of her month. She regarded her occasional lunch at a beachside taverna and her fortnightly trip to the hairdresser’s as pure luxury.

How short-lived that precious interlude had been. Now she had a bedridden grandmother in the living room, and a gun stashed in the kitchen drawer.

There was no doubting that the stroke had been severe. Naomi wondered how she would cope if, after living an active life, she was so cruelly poleaxed. To lie on a bed with nothing but a sponge ball to squeeze and a lifetime of memories to contemplate must be torture.

The illness brought on a type of dementia that triggered Bubba’s maudlin recollections, especially when she was tired. One moment she was fine, her old self; the next she would slip into a time of danger and sorrow, and relive her darkest hours. A single word could flip a switch and send her hurtling into a past that Naomi knew nothing about. Bizarrely, she found herself fascinated by these ramblings, although they seldom made sense.

Bubba claimed her old life was nobody’s business but her own. However, when these moments took her, she returned to an era of emotional turmoil; her eyes glazed, tears welled, and she often called out for her father.

Chapter 4

Bromley, London.

Rebecca put the toilet seat down and sat with her back against the cistern. She popped the syringe out of its packet, and took a breath. This awful moment made her stomach churn. Her heart thudded and her mouth felt dry. The loneliest minutes of her life. She thought of Naomi, a trained nurse. Naomi must have done this a hundred times, to others of course. She chewed her lip, wishing her sister was here right now to take care of the injection for her. God, how she missed Naomi, and Bubba, although the resentment at their split had never quite gone away.

She put the point of the needle against her skin, her head swimming. Quickly, or she would faint. With a whimper, she pushed it into her flesh and shoved the plunger all the way down. She couldn’t look at it now, so she threw her shoulders back and stared at the ceiling, waiting a moment before withdrawing the needle.