Free Aphrodite's Island by Hilary Green

everything. What you need is a break, a chance to get away from it all and have fun.’
    The trouble was, Sue’s idea of fun was the last thing I felt I needed at that moment. Baking on the beach all day and plunging into the stifling cacophony of a nightclub each evening has lost its appeal. I’ve had enough of the effort to repel the attentions of sweaty-handed men looking for a one-night stand and of waking in the morning to the bitter flavour of solitude and too much alcohol. Perhaps I’ve grown out of it. Perhaps I’m growing up. Perhaps I’m getting old!
    But the doctor who had looked after Mother told me I ought to take a holiday. ‘You look worn out,’ he said. ‘You need a rest.’ Yes, that’s it. Above all else I wanted a rest. I can’t remember ever before feeling so completely exhausted. And when I found the photographs, hidden at the bottom of a drawer when I was going through Mother’s things, that decided me.
    Mezeli shepherds the group out towards a waiting bus and as the last of them pass him he looks across the room and for a moment his eyes meet mine and I feel an electric tingle at the pit of my stomach. He turns away and goes out, the doors closing behind him.
    I finish my coffee and go up to my room. The envelope containing the photographs is in the drawer of the dressing table. I take it out and the feel of it, the smell of old, slightly mouldy paper, transports me back through the days to another place altogether. Sunlight slanted through gaps in the curtains that covered the grimy windows, illuminating firefly hordes of dustmotes. The bedstead stood naked, its stained mattress consigned to the dump. The empty wardrobe gaped like a hungry mouth. There was a lingering, musty odour, a mixture of stale alcohol and
Je Reviens
, my mother’s favourite perfume. I took the photographs from their hiding place and went downstairs. Then I closed the front door for the last time and walked to the garden gate. The house watched me expressionlessly from its blank windows. Along the path Grandmother’s once-prized roses had grown leggy for want of pruning, but still flaunted their blooms above the encroaching dandelions and buttercups. Close by, on the verge, the dustbin awaited collection, its lid bulging open to reveal its cargo of empty sherry bottles.
    I twitch my shoulders, physically shaking off the memory, telling myself it’s too late now to have regrets, too late to feel guilty. I did my best, after all. All those interminable weekends, trying to persuade my mother to go for a walk, visit friends, take an interest in current affairs – anything to distract her from the lure of the bottle. It was useless but I did try. And it cost me more than my time. In the end it cost me Paul. What more could have been expected of me? But there is a further memory that I cannot suppress. ‘Sorry, Mum, not this weekend … No, it’s work – well sort of … Paul’s got to entertain some important clients. He wants me to be with him … I’ll be down next weekend, without fail …’ The hospital telephoned on the Monday morning. ‘I’m sorry, your mother passed away during the night …’
    I open the envelope and slide the contents onto the polished surface of the table, spreading them out, my eyes flicking from one image to the next, until I find the one I am looking for - a couple with a small child. The man is tall and very fair, his face and arms deeply tanned; the woman is less striking, her hair in the picture neither dark nor blonde, her face rounded and without make-up. He wears flared jeans, she a loose caftan of some light material. Between them a child of three or four with a mop of silver-blonde hair screws up her face at the photographer. I pick up the picture and study it more closely. In the background thereis a house; white walls supporting a riot of purple bougainvillea, a terrace with tables and umbrellas, beyond that three pointed Moorish arches leading into the dark interior;