Chapter Twelve

At the Tiggles Rescue Centre, Ginnie was feeling disheartened. Two of the cats that had recently come in had feline aids, and the vet was advising they be put down. She knew in her heart it was the right thing to do, but still Ginnie cried inside. She cried at the injustice of it all - because no one bothered to neuter their toms numerous stray kittens were born; because loads of stray toms were wandering about the place they had to fight to maintain their territory; and because in those fights they inevitably swapped blood and saliva, feline aids was rampant.

‘We need a public awareness campaign,’ she sobbed to Nigel, the centre’s founder. ‘Adverts, incentives, that kind of thing.’

‘What a brilliant idea,’ said Nigel. ‘Why has nobody else thought of that? Let’s just do it then, shall we? After all, we’ve got so much spare money sploshing about and I’d been wondering how to spend it.’

Ginnie looked up from the ginger and white tom she’d been stroking. Although she knew him to be a good man, Nigel had an abrasive edge she didn’t always appreciate. ‘A benefactor, or a sponsor, then,’ she went on, determined to make her point. ‘Someone who’d care about them as much as we do.’

‘And there are so many around, after all.’ Nigel raised his arms to clasp his hands around his head, revealing two sweaty armpits. ‘That should be a breeze. I’ll make a couple of calls and it’ll all be sorted within minutes.’

‘Nigel, sometimes I think you can be a bit defeatist. We’re as good as putting a band-aid on a broken leg here. But the leg needs surgery. We need to - ‘

‘You’re such a blue sky thinker, Ginnie.’ Nigel cut her off. ‘While all I need around here are volunteers to feed the inmates and clean out their litter trays. Strategic types like you are wasted on us.’

‘Are you saying you want me out?’ Ginnie’s hand tightened on the ginger tom’s fur.

‘I’m saying, Tiggles is what Tiggles is. And this island has its limitations. Now, say goodbye to Orpheus and go and make yourself a cup of tea.’

Ginnie stroked the ginger and white tom for the last time, big fat tears beginning to splash down her cheeks. In her mind all sorts of mad ideas were racing: she could take them both, snatch them away from the vet and keep them somewhere near home; at least feed them every day. But then that would just spread yet more aids, she told herself gloomily. And as there was no cure, prevention was better than nothing at all.

She left the room, tears now streaming down her face. She thought she might have hardened to it by now. She’d seen enough cats being put to sleep and picked enough dead bodies off the road, giving them solemn funerals in the bit of scrubland beyond the bins at Fig Tree Villas, to have grown accustomed to it all by now. Why did it still hurt so much? And why did no one else seem to care?

She liked Nigel and his wife Trisha well enough, but felt they were too bogged down in the short-term. Nigel just didn’t want to face the big picture, when he should be out there, bullying people to raise funds. Nigel wasn’t the type, she’d realised a while ago. He just didn’t have it in him. In the tiny kitchen behind the office, Ginnie made herself some tea, as advised. She’d cut back on her alcohol intake since her episode with Douglas and was feeling quite pleased with herself. She wasn’t the dependent type after all; she was a strong, capable woman who could make things happen. And this was her challenge. As Nigel clearly wasn’t on board with her suggestions, Ginnie would be the one to do something; she could be the dynamic one, the one to persuade corporate Cyprus to get involved.

The idea took grip and refused to go away. A sponsor, she mused as she started on the afternoon feed. Who, with money, would want to neuter cats? And what kind of business might get behind the cause? A cat food company, she wondered, spooning some food into a bowl. Cat litter? Ginnie yelped as Humphrey the tabby scratched her hand in his excitement to get at the crunchy nibbles. She watched as a thin trace of blood appeared, but stroked his head affectionately anyway. It wasn’t his fault.

She’d do a thorough internet search that evening, Ginnie decided, beginning to get excited. She’d find them a sponsor if it was the last thing she did. She was a passionate, driven woman and she wasn’t going to stop for anyone.

If she didn’t meet a man soon, life would be very unfair indeed.

***

Yannakis had asked Tanya to follow up on all recent internet requests that afternoon, and as she did so, she couldn’t help but look down at the bags tucked under her desk in excitement. She’d bought the sandals she loved, and had even splashed out on a new handbag, too! Her car was being fixed, but something told her that if things carried on this way she’d soon be able to buy a replacement. Her commissions would take a while to come through, but now she seemed to have stumbled upon some “extra revenue”, as Dolores had called it, her prospects were looking pretty bright. And for what? For lying there while he huffed and puffed for a couple of minutes on top of her. Was that really how much sex meant to some men? Tanya didn’t feel any shame, because it had been all so meaningless. It was no more intimate than having her teeth cleaned.

Her mobile rang and there was the familiar voice. ‘Tanya, my dear, you are free to spend some time with me this evening?’

‘Of course I am,’ she told him, fighting back any anxiety she felt over their arrangement. She was doing nothing wrong, she kept telling herself.

This was survival.

***

Anna returned to her own villa a new woman. Her skin felt soft and silky, having been massaged for much of the afternoon with a mixture of Nathalie’s soothing oils: ground almond, evening primrose and sandalwood, she seemed to remember. This had been their third afternoon together, but now she had to last a whole weekend without. She ached to be away from Nathalie, but the memories lingered vividly in her mind, and would keep her going until Monday.

She sat at her laptop with renewed enthusiasm. Suddenly everything seemed possible. She even wanted to cook Richard a decent meal! They had chicken in the freezer, she remembered. She’d cook it in some Middle Eastern way, with saffron rice. She’d open another bottle of that delicious wine and sip it later that evening, remembering how it tasted on her lover’s nipples. How she ached to delve her tongue inside her folds again, how passionately she wanted to insert her fingers in Nathalie’s cunt. Anna felt renewed, as if her life to this point had been lived in an underground cage, and now she was free to explore and experience.

Her novel, she thought. Why shouldn’t she be able to write a novel? She opened the bottle of oils Nathalie had given her and inhaled the scent. Her mind raced. Having told everyone she was writing about Aphrodite, there had to be some kind of parallel she could draw. A beautiful young girl, growing up on the sunshine isle, having to be married off to some old duffer. She has affairs left, right and centre. An arranged marriage, set in Cyprus? Now Anna started to get excited. A beautiful Turkish girl, and the whole thing could be set in northern Cyprus, in the seventies, against a backdrop of the invasion.

She typed her ideas furiously at the keyboard. A young Turkish girl married to a man old enough to be her father. She has an affair with a Greek boy. A coming-of-age novel set against the backdrop of the Turkish invasion, didn’t publishers love that kind of thing? Of course, Anna would have to do her research, but then, wasn’t she in exactly the right place to do so? And wouldn’t this provide her with exactly the perfect excuse to spend time with Nathalie? They could cross the border together, explore the north, find locations, spend nights in secluded hotels together - why would anyone suspect, least of all Richard?

Why not a Greek girl, Anna thought suddenly. Why not push the boundaries, break all the taboos? A young Turkish girl has an affair with a Greek girl, and they get separated during the invasion, only to lead very different lives and reunite in later life, each never having stopped loving the other?

She was straying out of Aphrodite territory and straight into Sappho, Anna realised, but she didn’t care. If writing her novel gave her the opportunity to spend all day thinking about her lover, dwelling on silky flesh, soft smooth thighs, soft laughter, warm caresses, tender nipples - then a lesbian novel this would be. A lesbian - was that really what Anna had become? She shook her hair out of her eyes, deciding not to care about convention. Anna felt alive for the first time since she could remember, as if she’d awakened at last from a long coma. Nathalie’s touch had brought her back to life.