Rhodes, Greece.
Naomi’s elbow slid off the arm of the chair. She woke with a start, her heart racing. The day had fallen into darkness, the diary open in her lap.
She pulled herself up and went inside for a coffee. Rebecca would have received the gun by now. If she still lived at the same address, that is. The thought worried Naomi: her sister could have moved over the years. Why hadn’t she thought of that before? A total stranger may have received the gun parts, and, even worse, handed them to the police. The whole idea had been ludicrous, and she deeply regretted giving in to Bubba and Papas Yiannis’s plan.
The following hour drifted by in a breathless haze filled with words never said, questions never asked, and hope that all of this would sort itself out. She had tried to phone Rebecca’s old mobile, but found it unavailable. She phoned directory enquiries, gave Rebecca’s address, and scribbled down the number.
Why hadn’t that occurred to her sooner, too?
Naomi keyed in the number. The phone, an old-fashioned affair, needed a good clean. Not long ago her house had been spotless. Lately, she had let things slide a little, not finding enough hours in a day for everything.
Knowing she was about to open old wounds, her trepidation rose. If she didn’t handle this right, it might turn nasty and rip them all further apart.
Would Rebecca realise something important must have happened for her sister to call? Naomi longed to hear her voice. She punched in the long number, misdialled, and started again. Her heart thudded and her fingernails drummed on the worktop as she waited for her sister to pick up; then she realised she had no idea what to say. She hung up.
Best to write a few things down, prompts in case she got stuck for words.
*
Bromley, London.
From her home office, Rebecca cancelled wedding photography bookings. Brides-to-be pleaded with her, but when she told them why, they offered their best wishes.
While in the middle of returning a booking deposit, the phone interrupted her. She didn’t recognise the number, picked up, and said, ‘Rebecca Neumanner.’
‘Rebecca, it’s Naomi.’
Rebecca’s stomach lurched. She stabbed the red button. End call. Bloody hell. Then she regretted it. How did Naomi get her number? She stroked her belly. The last thing she wanted was stress. Perhaps – oh please God – perhaps she would hang on to her baby this time. Her hand shook as she turned the phone to voicemail. Was it bad news? Bubba?
Don’t think about it.
She would be devastated if her grandmother died and they hadn’t spoken since falling out. Rebecca closed her eyes and hugged herself, desperate to nurture the spark of life that nestled in her womb. Would her body keep it safe for nine whole months? She imagined the scrunched-up face of her infant, moments after birth. How she would love her child. She had read every book on parenting, determined to be the perfect mother.
Her phone rang again. What the hell? She walked out of the office, glancing back, undecided. Should she answer? She stared at the floor, willing the phone to kick into voicemail.
Her sister sounded different, older, nervous. Or was she upset? Rebecca turned the coffee machine on, then off. She shouldn’t drink coffee. In the lounge, small and alone in the spacious room, she curled foetus-like on the expensive cream sofa. The soft leather cooled her skin. The phone rang again, redirected to voicemail.
She pulled a cushion under her head, closed her eyes and concentrated on her breathing. The doorbell caused her to flinch. Friday, the day of the gun parcels. What was this now? Instructions to follow? She felt herself living in some weird screenplay and imagined the postman would turn out to be Alfred Hitchcock.
‘Be calm,’ she whispered before concentrating on deep even breaths. She could ignore the postman; however, if it was another parcel he would leave it next door. She hurried down the hall, recognising the yellow GPO jacket through her stained-glass window.
*
Rebecca dropped the chunky brown envelope on the kitchen worktop and stared at the phone. She should check the voicemail . . . she should. What was the point of fretting? She picked up and listened.
‘Rebecca, I need to speak to you, urgently. I’ll call back in ten minutes.’
She sat there, staring at the phone and then the envelope. Absolutely no stress, they’d said at the clinic. ‘Take yoga classes if it helps, but we need you to keep your blood pressure down.’
The phone rang again. Voicemail. She placed her hand flat over the envelope. No stress. She marched across the kitchen, toed the pedal bin, and dropped the envelope into the rubbish. The steel lid fell with a clatter. Nothing in the world was more important to Rebecca than her pregnancy.
The phone rang again. That’s Naomi, determined as always. Perhaps it was about Bubba. Dear Bubba. She needed to know. Her hand trembled as she picked up. If there were any dramatics from Naomi, she’d hang up immediately.
‘You have to read it,’ Naomi said. ‘I don’t know if it’s arrived yet, but it’s important. I’m not trying to make trouble, Rebecca. I miss you more than you can imagine. Goodbye.’
‘Wait! Bubba? Is she . . .?’
‘She’s suffered a stroke. Read the diary. I’ll call you tomorrow.’ And with that, she ended the call.
Bubba, a stroke, how awful. How was she? She recalled Bubba’s last words. ‘I never want to see you again, Rebecca. You’re no longer part of this family!’
Rebecca had screamed back that she didn’t want to be part of a family that included a bitter old Jewish bigot. She remembered the instant shock on Bubba’s face. Why had she said such a disgraceful thing? Bubba was a kind old lady who wouldn’t hurt a fly, and Rebecca regretted those cruel words, but there was no going back on all that now. The damage was done, and ‘sorry’ wouldn’t heal such deep wounds on either side.
She glanced at the pedal bin. What was so important about a diary? She retrieved the envelope, opened it, and started reading.