My Map of You (5 page)

There it was: the house that had always been in her life. The house that had meant so much to her mother that she had carried a keepsake of it with her until the day she died. Despite the warmth of the evening, Holly felt a shiver run through her and prickles of anxiety start to wrap around her guts, like barbed wire pulled tight.

It felt familiar, yet at the same time frightening, and as she stood looking up at the darkened windows, Holly found she was unable to move any closer. She'd spent the past week thinking about this moment and how it would play out. She knew that coming here would feel strange, but she hadn't been prepared for the weight of emotions that were now fighting their way to the surface. It was just a house, for God's sake – how scary could it really be?

Very.

Forcing her eyes down, she spotted a large pot lurking in the shadows under the front porch. This must be the pot from the letter – the one hiding the front-door key. Taking a tentative few steps forward, Holly forced down the bubbling waves of anxiety and pushed the pot to one side. The key was there, shining brightly against the stone tiles.

What if the place was filthy and full of cockroaches?

What if her aunt's clothes still smelled of her?

What if she was about to open the door into a past she wasn't ready to see?

Holly's hand shook as she watched it extend out towards the lock. There was a small click, and she was in.

Her first thought as she flicked on the light switch was relief that she could smell disinfectant rather than decay. And any fears she may have had about opening the door into a hoarder's paradise were immediately allayed, because the space she was looking into was largely clear of clutter.

Dropping her bag beside her, Holly took a very deep breath and stepped further into the house. She felt so much like an intruder. Her brain was telling her that this was
her
house now, and that she should feel at home here, but her heart was determinedly doing its best to hammer its way out through her chest. This had been someone's home – someone who knew her, but who was also a total stranger. Now that she was here, it seemed unbelievable that she should be. It was all too much to take in, and Holly's eyes began to speckle with black spots.

Glancing round in desperation for something to hold on to, her eyes grazed over the open-plan space, taking in
a table and chairs, a sofa covered with a yellow blanket, a low coffee table and a large vase of pink flowers.

What the hell was a vase of flowers doing here?

Someone must have been here in the house. Someone must have put them there.

Holly lurched forward and gripped the back of the sofa, her breath coming in ragged pants and cold sweat dappling her back and arms. As she stood there, trying to concentrate her way out of the fog, she stared again at the flowers. They really were very beautiful, and as she looked at them she regained her composure. The feeling that she was intruding here itched at her skin like heat rash, but she focused her mind and made it as far as the back doors, which were glass-fronted and nestled behind thin red curtains.

The space directly behind the house was mostly paved in large, square, honey- and white-coloured stones, with a few terracotta pots forming a makeshift wall along the right-hand side. Past the end of the paved area was a low wall, similar to the one by the road outside, and beyond that a steep drop obscured by a tangle of lush green plants. Holly could see the tops of trees, which clearly had roots further down the slope. Wandering across the space and enjoying the freedom of being back outside, she mounted the wall and gasped – below her, spread out like an endless inky blue tapestry, was the ocean. It was breathtaking.

Holly stood on her spot on the wall for what felt like an age, taking comfort from the calming energy of the sea and the gentle hum of insects coming from the surrounding trees.

She knew she had to go back inside. Face whatever it was waiting for her in the cupboards and under the beds; confront the unmistakable feelings of déjà vu that had been prodding her since she arrived.

Had she been here before? It hadn't even occurred to her before now, but perhaps she had. There was definitely a feeling inside her, something unfamiliar but impossible to ignore – an insistent whispering from the very deepest and most forgotten parts of her mind.

‘I saw you every day until you were five,' Sandra had written in her letter. Holly had presumed that her aunt had been referring to time spent in the UK, but perhaps it wasn't that simple. If her mum had kept the model of this place for so many years, it stood to reason that she'd been here – perhaps even lived here. Perhaps she, Holly, had lived here too.

Reluctantly stepping down from her viewing platform and sucking in one last lungful of warm evening air, Holly headed stoically back into the house and straight up the stone stairs.

There were two bedrooms on the first floor, one of which had very obviously been her aunt's. In here, unlike the rest of the house, clutter and trinkets covered every available surface and the bed was neatly made. The other room, by contrast, was stripped bare save for a small wardrobe and single bed. It reminded Holly of her own room in her rented flat back in London. That, too, was nondescript and sparsely decorated. Both bedrooms contained doors that led out on to a wide balcony and, peering through the dusty glass, Holly could make out a table and chairs.

She felt horribly uncomfortable in her aunt's old room. She could detect a faint hint of lavender under the more powerful smell of disinfectant coming from downstairs, but there was an awful sadness to the place. Abandoned heaps of jewellery nestled in clumps of dust on the dressing table and the silk scarves knotted to the framed mirror hung flat and defeated.

Holly thought about searching through the place there and then, but her uneasiness took over and she backed quickly out of the room, shutting the door firmly behind her. By the time she got back downstairs, the uneasiness had grown so much that the need to escape was overwhelming. Grabbing her bag from the floor and shoving the key in her pocket, she slammed the front door behind her and practically ran out to the path. What her dry mouth needed now was water – and maybe something a bit stronger, as well.

‘Kalispera.'
The Greek man behind the till in the supermarket greeted Holly cheerfully as she walked up the stone steps into his shop. Already feeling better after putting a safe distance between herself and the house, Holly managed a smile and a ‘hello'. She found water, bread, cheese, milk and toilet roll, and then tossed in a few yoghurts. It was a long time since she'd eaten breakfast and her stomach was growling.

‘
Ti kanis?
How are you?' The Greek man smiled again as he bagged her goods. He looked around fifty, and had a large dark beard speckled with grey and an even larger belly, which he was resting gently on the edge of the counter.

Realising
that she was getting a lesson in how to speak Greek, Holly tentatively repeated
‘ti kanis'
back to him.

He laughed. ‘I am Kostas,' he told her, reaching over to shake her hand.

‘Holly,' she smiled.

‘This is your first time Zakynthos?'

Clearly this was a common question. ‘Yes.'

‘Ah, you are a friend of Aidan,' he declared.

Holly's face must have registered confusion, because Kostas peered at her for a second and laughed again. ‘You stay there?' This time he pointed over her shoulder, towards the road he'd presumably watched her walk down. She didn't quite know what to tell him. How do you explain to a Greek man you've never met before that you've inherited a house from a woman you never knew in a country you've never visited? She settled for nodding and handing over some money.

Kostas merely smiled when he gave her back the change, but she got the impression that he would have liked her to be more forthcoming. If he worked here all the time, then it stood to reason that he would have known her aunt; probably known her quite well. She would have to save that conversation for another day.

A drink: that was what she needed. Thankfully, the place next door was both open and serving a variety of beverages. Pulling out a stool at the bar, Holly dumped her shopping bags on the floor and ordered a large red wine, all the time trying to silence the relentless hammering of her heart inside her chest.

‘Everything all right, love?' The barmaid leaned
towards her, her greying bun wobbling precariously on the top of her head. Holly recognised a Yorkshire accent.

‘I'm fine, thanks,' she said, although it came out as more of a choking noise.

‘You look like you've seen a ghost,' the woman informed her cheerily, and without a hint of irony. Holly agreed with the judgement wholeheartedly, but she merely shook her head.

‘Just been a long day,' she explained, sipping her wine. ‘This is lovely.'

‘It's village wine,' the woman told her. ‘It's made here on the island and it's far better than any of that crap they import from Italy or wherever.'

Holly nodded politely. ‘It's very good.'

‘I shouldn't tell you this,' the woman was whispering now, ‘but you can get a whole litre of the stuff from Kostas next door for three euros.'

Holly thought back to the twenty-five-pound bottles of Pinot Grigio that Rupert had ordered in the bar the week before and gulped. This stuff tasted much nicer. She was fully aware that she would most definitely wake up the next day with the mother of all hangovers, but at the moment she couldn't care less.

‘Thanks for the tip – but won't you get in trouble with the boss?'

This seemed to amuse her new friend. ‘I
am
the boss, darling,' she giggled. ‘My name's Annie.'

They shook hands, but when Holly told Annie her name the woman frowned.

‘You're Sandra's Holly?' she asked, her crinkled eyes immediately full of pity.

‘She was my aunt,' Holly admitted, taking another sip.

‘Sandra was such a peach,' Annie smiled. ‘It was such a shame what happened. She was younger than me, for God's sake.'

Holly still had no idea what had actually happened, but she wasn't about to admit it.

‘Did you know her well?' the wine helped her ask.

‘Of course I did.' Annie seemed surprised by the question. ‘Did she never mention me?'

Holly was sure that her aunt Sandra would have, had they ever spoken. ‘Yes, she did – I just forgot,' she lied, adding a ‘Silly me!' for effect.

Annie was about to reply, but was interrupted by a group of three older couples who had just made their way to one of the tables at the front. Scooping up some laminated cocktail menus from the back bar, she scurried over to turn on the charm. Holly didn't mind; she was happy to sit and drink her wine, enjoying the feel of the warm night air on her bare legs.

She tried to imagine her aunt sitting here, gossiping with Annie and talking about her, the niece she had never met. But clearly Sandra hadn't told Annie the whole truth, either. Was this why Holly found it so hard to be honest with people? Perhaps it was genetic, and she was part of a family of natural-born liars. Her mother had certainly been an expert.

‘Same again?' Annie was holding up her empty wine glass.

‘Keep it coming.' Holly really was feeling rather merry now, and the panic she'd felt while nosing around the house had subsided. In the warmth of the bar, with the music playing and the relative normality of the situation,
the whole thing seemed less of a big deal. Tomorrow she would go through all her aunt's stuff and find what she needed, simple as that. How hard could it really be?

‘Have you met Aidan yet?' asked Annie, who had just returned from delivering a tray full of multi-coloured cocktails.

‘No.' Holly raised a quizzical eyebrow. Who the hell was this Aidan?

‘Oh, you will soon – he's your neighbour,' Annie told her, with what looked an awful lot like a wink. She picked up a glass from the draining board and started drying it with a cloth that was hanging off her apron. ‘He's pretty dishy. Aidan, I mean.'

‘Oh?' Holly was careful to keep her tone non-committal.

‘He moved here with his girlfriend a few years back – gorgeous thing, she was, looked like a model – but they broke up,' she continued. ‘I don't know who ended it, but it was her that left the island. Such a shame, nice-looking couple like that.'

Holly wondered what this Aidan person would think if he knew that the locals were gossiping about him with total strangers.

‘I'm sure he'll meet someone else,' she replied, mostly because it sounded like the right thing to say. ‘If he's as good-looking as you say, he'll have no trouble.'

‘Ah, but Aidan's a fussy one, see?' Annie told her conspiratorially, topping up her glass. ‘I've seen girls in here throw themselves at him plenty of times and he's never done anything more than politely turn them down. He must still be hung up on his ex, I reckon. She did look like a model, as I said.'

‘Sounds too good to be true,' Holly said. She could already tell that Aidan was Annie's favourite subject. Her cheeks were glowing brighter than the neon ‘cocktails' sign that was hanging up behind the bar.

‘Are you, erm, spoken for?' Annie enquired, staring pointedly at Holly's left hand.

‘I'm not married, if that's what you mean,' Holly replied. ‘But I am with someone.'

Annie tried to hide her relief. ‘Oh. Well, that's nice. Make sure you say hello to him while you're here, though. Aidan, I mean. He is only next door after all.'

Wow. This Aidan guy must need to carry around a fire extinguisher for his ears with Annie going on about him this much. Holly couldn't believe any man could be as perfect as Annie was making out. What she really wanted to do was ask the older woman to tell her stories about her aunt, but even three glasses of village wine hadn't given her enough courage. Her stomach rumbled again, loudly this time. ‘I'd better be off,' she called to Annie, who was busy wiping down tables. ‘Nice to meet you.'