collect her from The Paradise Beach later this morning.’
Frau Bruchmeyer had come on holiday to Cyprus the year before and never gone home. That November, her niece had arrived from Berlin with some slightly warmer clothing (a few cashmere cardigans, slacks and a woollen jacket), her jewellery (a piece of which she wore to dinner each night) and some books. The rest of it – her furniture, her family portraits and her furs – was left behind.
‘I don’t need those things,’ she said. ‘I need very little here. Just some money to keep me going.’
Day to day, she had little need for cash, just enough to tip the staff, which she did constantly and generously. Her monthly bill was paid by banker’s draft.
She began each day with a forty-minute swim from the golden sands beneath her room. Early risers, mostly workers in other hotels, would see her taking her supple body through a routine of stretches and exercises. Then they saw her white-capped head moving towards the horizon and back again. Finally, she sat to contemplate the sea.
‘I have swum in every ocean in the world,’ she said, ‘but in none more beautiful than this. Where else would I want to spend the rest of my days?’
No aspect of her life would have been better back in Germany. Here, her laundry was taken care of and her room kept spick and span. She ate like a queen and, just like royalty, never had to shop or cook. There was a constant supply and variety of company, of which she never tired, and she was only alone when she chose to be.
From her balcony across the bay, she had watched the progress of The Sunrise, and had set her heart on taking the penthouse suite. Until that time, The Paradise Beach had seemed comfortable enough – she occupied the best of its rooms – but she could see that the new hotel was going to be in a different league. With the sale of a few diamond rings, she calculated that she had enough in the bank to last her another fifteen years. She imagined this should suffice, even though she had the energy and vigour of someone half her age.
A few hours later, Frau Bruchmeyer arrived at her new home. The staff at The Paradise Beach had been sorry to see her go. She was like a lucky mascot. A small team carried her luggage down to a waiting taxi. Four expensive suitcases were loaded into the car, two into the boot and the others on to the front seat. She carried a matching vanity case herself, and with promises that she would return to see them all she had discreetly handed each of the staff who came to wave her off ‘a little something’.
By lunchtime, she was settled into her luxurious abode, a sitting room with bedroom and bathroom en suite. To her eyes, it was a glorious palace, with huge mirrors on the walls, a large oil painting of a French landscape, a pair of crystal chandeliers, furniture that was upholstered, piped and tasselled, a grand bureau and a four-poster bed. Her clothes all fitted comfortably inside the double wardrobe.
Once she had unpacked, ordered a light lunch in her room and rested for a few hours on the chaise longue, Frau Bruchmeyer then showered and began her slow and elaborate preparations for the evening. The nightclub at The Sunrise would be opening for the first time but, before that, she had an invitation to dinner with the hotel proprietors.
She fastened her charm bracelet, the last gift that her husband had given her, and caught the lift down to the foyer.
At around the same time, Aphroditi was carefully selecting her own jewellery for the evening. She unlocked the top left-hand drawer of the dressing table. Almost without glancing down, she picked up a pair of earrings and fastened them to her ears. They were round, like coat buttons, with a huge stone in the centre. Then she slid on a broad bangle (slightly too large for her slender wrist, but she had not yet had time to get it adjusted) with eight of the same aquamarines set in gold, and after that she slipped over her head a thick
Frau Bruchmeyer had come on holiday to Cyprus the year before and never gone home. That November, her niece had arrived from Berlin with some slightly warmer clothing (a few cashmere cardigans, slacks and a woollen jacket), her jewellery (a piece of which she wore to dinner each night) and some books. The rest of it – her furniture, her family portraits and her furs – was left behind.
‘I don’t need those things,’ she said. ‘I need very little here. Just some money to keep me going.’
Day to day, she had little need for cash, just enough to tip the staff, which she did constantly and generously. Her monthly bill was paid by banker’s draft.
She began each day with a forty-minute swim from the golden sands beneath her room. Early risers, mostly workers in other hotels, would see her taking her supple body through a routine of stretches and exercises. Then they saw her white-capped head moving towards the horizon and back again. Finally, she sat to contemplate the sea.
‘I have swum in every ocean in the world,’ she said, ‘but in none more beautiful than this. Where else would I want to spend the rest of my days?’
No aspect of her life would have been better back in Germany. Here, her laundry was taken care of and her room kept spick and span. She ate like a queen and, just like royalty, never had to shop or cook. There was a constant supply and variety of company, of which she never tired, and she was only alone when she chose to be.
From her balcony across the bay, she had watched the progress of The Sunrise, and had set her heart on taking the penthouse suite. Until that time, The Paradise Beach had seemed comfortable enough – she occupied the best of its rooms – but she could see that the new hotel was going to be in a different league. With the sale of a few diamond rings, she calculated that she had enough in the bank to last her another fifteen years. She imagined this should suffice, even though she had the energy and vigour of someone half her age.
A few hours later, Frau Bruchmeyer arrived at her new home. The staff at The Paradise Beach had been sorry to see her go. She was like a lucky mascot. A small team carried her luggage down to a waiting taxi. Four expensive suitcases were loaded into the car, two into the boot and the others on to the front seat. She carried a matching vanity case herself, and with promises that she would return to see them all she had discreetly handed each of the staff who came to wave her off ‘a little something’.
By lunchtime, she was settled into her luxurious abode, a sitting room with bedroom and bathroom en suite. To her eyes, it was a glorious palace, with huge mirrors on the walls, a large oil painting of a French landscape, a pair of crystal chandeliers, furniture that was upholstered, piped and tasselled, a grand bureau and a four-poster bed. Her clothes all fitted comfortably inside the double wardrobe.
Once she had unpacked, ordered a light lunch in her room and rested for a few hours on the chaise longue, Frau Bruchmeyer then showered and began her slow and elaborate preparations for the evening. The nightclub at The Sunrise would be opening for the first time but, before that, she had an invitation to dinner with the hotel proprietors.
She fastened her charm bracelet, the last gift that her husband had given her, and caught the lift down to the foyer.
At around the same time, Aphroditi was carefully selecting her own jewellery for the evening. She unlocked the top left-hand drawer of the dressing table. Almost without glancing down, she picked up a pair of earrings and fastened them to her ears. They were round, like coat buttons, with a huge stone in the centre. Then she slid on a broad bangle (slightly too large for her slender wrist, but she had not yet had time to get it adjusted) with eight of the same aquamarines set in gold, and after that she slipped over her head a thick
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