Moira dumped her bags with relief as she struggled through the front door. She was just happy to have finally arrived, albeit dripping wet and several hours after she’d intended. Her holiday plans, months in the making, had not included the torrential downpour she’d just encountered. She also hadn’t anticipated driving around for an hour trying to find her accommodation; the obscure Airbnb directions accompanied by the incorrect street number had not helped matters.
She had been so excited about this trip, her first experience travelling solo. It was liberating to make decisions on her own, and it meant she could have the holiday she wanted without compromise. Croatia had been on her destination bucket list for a while now, but Jeremy had never wanted to go – too expensive and too touristy apparently. Well, she didn’t have to worry about what he wanted now; that was one positive from the relationship’s demise.
Travelling alone had exceeded her expectations so far. She’d loved wandering around Dubrovnik experimenting with her new camera. Moira had discovered a few delightfully hidden little cafes where she’d ensconced herself, devouring books and writing in her journal. It was the low season, so the hoards of invading cruise ship tourists were less prevalent and the street hawkers hadn’t bothered her too much. It was only now, grappling with the unfamiliar streets of Split in the rain, that she craved company.
She’d chosen this apartment for the view, and it didn’t disappoint. Despite the inclement weather, the generous balcony showcased the magnificence of Split’s harbour and the surrounding ocean. As Moira surveyed the possibilities below, she finally relaxed.
Her Airbnb host was a woman called Vera whom Moira was yet to meet. The emails from Vera organising her stay had all been pleasant and helpful, if a little stilted. Moira put that down to hesitance using English, which was fair enough; it was much better than her Croatian! On her arrival, she was met by a gentleman called Ivan who appeared to live in the apartment underneath. He had been friendly enough, an older portly man with broken English who’d handed over the keys and given her a cursory tour before disappearing downstairs again. There was something odd in his manner, Moira thought. His unkempt appearance didn’t help: a stained shirt that barely covered his ample belly, and several days of grey stubble apparent on his chin. Moira chided herself – she was probably just spooked by the storm and imagining things.
The apartment appeared to be unchanged since its construction in the seventies. The motif encompassed the stereotypical orange, green and brown geometric design with linoleum floors. Even the bath tub and basin were brown; it was slightly disconcerting but concealed the dirt, Moira supposed. It wasn’t the décor she would have chosen, but it was a spacious apartment with a fantastic view, and it was hers for the next few days.
***
The next morning, Moira woke to the sun streaming through her bedroom window. She padded out to the balcony in her pyjamas and was gratified by the sight of sparkling blue water; no sign of rain today. This view really was special. It would be better appreciated with a cup of tea, Moira decided.
She had been so exhausted when she’d arrived the previous evening that she hadn’t properly explored the apartment. Moira had haphazardly placed her milk and other supplies in the kitchen before showering and falling into bed. She now eyed the orange cupboards with interest; she was an avid cook and was always optimistic (though often disappointed) about how well her various holiday kitchens were stocked. As she rummaged through the cupboards, Moira was surprised by how unusually well‑equipped this kitchen was, down to piping bags and cookie cutters. Perhaps Vera usually lived here and simply vacated when they had tenants? She couldn’t really imagine old Ivan baking cookies, although she chuckled at the image of him in an apron, elbow deep in dough. It was strange, though: despite its vintage, all the kitchen equipment appeared unused. Shaking herself out of her reverie, Moira got down to the important business of making tea and prepared for the day’s adventures.
***
Several hours later, Moira returned to the apartment slightly sunburnt but wholly satisfied. She had seen the obligatory Game of Thrones sights, and managed to avoid paying exorbitant prices for dubious looking ‘authentic’ souvenirs. A climb up a seemingly never-ending set of stairs was rewarded with a delicious lunch and a glass of wine while overlooking the harbour. Moira had enjoyed playing the tourist, but was ready to settle down with her book and her journal to contemplate her own private vista.
Pouring herself a generous glass of wine, Moira sat down on the balcony and reflected on the day. Keen to capture her thoughts on paper, she was chagrined to find that her favourite pen had run out. She rifled through the drawers in the sideboard in search of a replacement, but was distracted by what appeared to be personal cards and letters. They were all addressed to the elusive Vera; she must live here, Moira decided. Now she considered it, the rest of the furnishings in the apartment were in the same preserved state as the kitchen, as if someone had hurriedly vacated. The ornaments displayed on the sideboard had the nature of a personal collection, amassed over many years. Mementos from holidays were interspersed with china figurines and retro yellow champagne saucers. No photographs though, she noted.
Her curiosity piqued, Moira set about investigating the rest of the apartment for evidence of Vera. The bathroom had no personal touches, though the linen press was brimming with immaculately folded towels and linen. The bedroom Moira was sleeping in was sparsely furnished, and she assumed it usually functioned as the guest bedroom. There was another room at the end of the hall that was locked. Moira recalled an old-fashioned key in the drawer with the correspondence. She balked at reading the cards and letters, but if the key was readily accessible surely she could have a quick peek inside a locked room.
A little guiltily, Moira turned the key in the lock. The door creaked open. The room had a musty feel to it, she noted as she poked around. The four poster bed was clad with a pink floral bedspread and frilly lace throw cushions. The dressing table was laid out with an old-fashioned hairbrush in front of a circular mirror and myriad lotions and sprays. Vintage dresses lined the wardrobe, neatly pressed and hung. Despite the furnishings, the room had the same untouched atmosphere as the rest of the apartment. She closed the door and locked it again, returning the key to its original position.
Moira looked up the Airbnb booking on her phone. Vera’s profile had no personal details, and the profile picture was blurry taken from a distance. Her Airbnb host was noticeably absent under unusual circumstances. The mysterious Vera had eclipsed the sights of Split for Moira and she was determined to find out more.
***
Moira (quite boldly, she thought) knocked on Ivan’s door. Several minutes passed and she was about to turn away in defeat when the door suddenly swung open. Ivan stood there in the same filthy shirt, looking at her expectantly. She hadn’t noticed before how big he was, towering over her like a disgruntled bear. Nervous suddenly, Moira’s carefully rehearsed script was abandoned.
“Is Vera here?” she blurted.
“She’s away”, Ivan replied, regarding her like an interesting-looking morsel of food he was deciding whether or not to eat.
Moira tried to salvage the conversation, speaking too quickly and tripping over words. “I just wanted to thank her in person for her hospitality. The apartment has such a lovely view, just lovely. Does Vera live there usually? Is she a relation of yours?”
“She’s my daughter. She travels a lot.” Ivan concluded the exchange by firmly closing the door.
Moira stood staring at the door for a moment. She had no reason to doubt Ivan’s explanation, but for some reason it didn’t ring true. It was too tidy, too glib, and the apartment was somehow too perfect. She turned at the sound of an accented croaky voice behind her.
“There’s no woman living there”. The owner of the voice was a hunched little woman shrouded in colourful skirts, standing on the stoop next door.
“Sorry?” Moira said, blinking in surprise.
“There’s no woman living there”, the woman repeated. “I’ve lived next door for forty years, and in that time there has never been a woman there, only Ivan”. She nodded her head as if that was the end of the matter, and shuffled back inside her own apartment.
Moira’s head was spinning now – what was going on here? Who, and where, was Vera?
***
Moira watched through the back curtains until she saw Ivan leave his apartment and drive away. She quickly approached his front door, glancing around furtively, and was relieved when her hunch paid off: the same key opened both apartments. Moira had a vague idea about tumblers and paperclips, but thought her first foray into lock picking was best conducted without the threat of incarceration in a Croatian prison.
As she descended the dinghy stairwell, Moira shook her head. What was she doing breaking into someone’s apartment? Vera had become an obsession for her, and she was compelled to get to the bottom of the mystery, regardless of the consequences.
Ivan’s apartment was dark and had a generally dirty feel to it. There were unwashed dishes in the sink, and a thick coating of dust on the furniture. The layout was identical to the apartment above, and Moira quickly searched the rooms, conscious that Ivan’s return could be imminent. There was nothing obvious indicating Vera’s fate, and there certainly didn’t appear to be a woman living here.
Moira was startled by a sudden noise, and stumbled backwards into a cupboard. Just a bird outside, she saw with relief, breathing deeply to slow her racing heart. Her clumsiness had dislodged some papers from the cupboard and she crouched to gather them. A faded newspaper clipping was uppermost on the pile. She glanced at the headline: Local Woman Drowns. The article was from 1976, about forty years ago. How sad, Moira thought, scanning the article. The woman had been heavily pregnant when she died. Her eyes widened as reached the final paragraph: Distraught husband Ivan Drazic was interviewed, but through his sobs he just kept repeating, “We were going to call her Vera…”
***
Moira quietly replaced the papers and let herself out of Ivan’s apartment. She sat on her balcony contemplating what she had discovered. Nothing sinister had befallen Vera; she had simply never been there in the first place. In his grief, Ivan had perpetuated his daughter’s existence, to the point of creating an apartment and an entire persona for her. It didn’t harm anyone, Moira supposed, and if it provided him solace in his loneliness, who was she to judge? She watched the sunset from her balcony, content in her own company. She was grateful that, for her, travelling solo was by choice.