Copyright © 2019 Pamela D Holloway
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study,
or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents
Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in
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concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events
and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination
or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Matador
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ISBN 9781838597863
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Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd
My wonderful grandchildren for all the joy they give me. Alice, Rose, Sam, Dominic, Jacob and Rupert.
contents
acknowledgements
chapter 1
chapter 2
chapter 3
chapter 4
chapter 5
chapter 6
chapter 7
chapter 8
chapter 9
chapter 10
chapter 11
chapter 12
chapter 13
chapter 14
chapter 15
chapter 16
chapter 17
chapter 18
chapter 19
chapter 20
chapter 21
chapter 22
chapter 23
chapter 24
chapter 25
chapter 26
chapter 27
chapter 28
chapter 29
chapter 30
chapter 31
chapter 32
chapter 33
chapter 34
chapter 35
chapter 36
chapter 37
chapter 38
chapter 39
chapter 40
chapter 41
chapter 42
chapter 43
chapter 44
acknowledgements
So many thanks to the supportive team at Matador/Troubador including Jonathan White and Joe Shillito. The Editor and Proofreader, Author Alfred Douglas. Dezi Dalton for, as ever her caring and enthusiastic support. Finally, Martin Wimbush (actor) for his kind and encouraging words.
chapter 1
Liz O’Malley stood on her balcony watching the sunset. It was like no sunset she had ever seen before, a great red ball sinking slowly into the sea. A boat silently moved over the water and for a moment its silhouette was like a black shadow picture against the orangey-red backdrop.
It was gone. With a sigh, she picked up the vodka and tonic from the glass-topped table and took a gulp. God, it was strong. Still, after that journey, it was exactly what was needed. For a few more moments she gazed out at the peaceful scene, the caw-caw of rooks sitting in the palm trees the only sound.
She sat in one of the two rattan chairs on the small balcony and leaned back, her head resting on the attached towelling-covered pillow. The last month had been difficult, no, she corrected herself, not difficult, a taste of hell. She closed her green-grey eyes in pain at her thoughts and buried her face in her hands, her thick, almost black hair falling over her face like a shield. For a moment she fought back the threatening tears. Then she could almost hear her father’s voice, his lovely Irish brogue saying, “Now Elizabeth O’Malley, and what’s my beautiful daughter got to cry about. Remember the O’Malleys are not quitters. Remember girl, never give in.”
She smiled to herself, he had been dead almost three years now, but it was his words she always remembered in times of crisis. Padraig O’Malley had been both father and mother to his two girls when Sinead had died in the car accident that snowy Christmas. Breaking the news to his little girls, Elizabeth, aged seven, and Kathy, who was only four, had been as hard as losing Sinead all over again. He was grateful that Sinead had always said that if anything ever happened to her she would want the girls to attend her funeral and the mass. Elizabeth couldn’t see the sense of it: “We won’t see Mammy, she is in heaven now.” Kathy had cried for her mammy. She missed the cuddles and little songs that Mammy would sing as she bathed them. So, Padraig, to his surprise, found himself singing them now, songs he didn’t even know he knew, and he and his daughters bonded in a way that they never had before. It was as if Sinead was part of him now and he was able to display emotions he never knew he had.
In Derry, they all thought he was a fine father. The girls loved him and trusted his every judgement. Over the years, Liz, in particular, loved reading and writing short stories. Her father enjoyed reading the stories she wrote both at home and in school and she would write stories especially for her little sister. In time Liz became a writer and had four books published in fairly quick succession and was working on her fifth when she met Steve. He became her agent and she was swept off her feet from the moment she met him. He teased her later that from the moment he saw her “straight off the boat” he loved her too.
Her almost feline good looks and glossy black hair that hung below her shoulders like a cloak, and her pale, almost translucent skin ensnared him immediately. “My little cat,” he called her in moments of affection.
Daddy, she recalled, had not been happy that she was marrying an Englishman, and a Protestant at that! But if Steve made Elizabeth happy then he accepted it and welcomed Steve into the family.
They had been so happy, she recalled. Her husband, Steve, was so proud of her achievements. Her second book had been shortlisted for the Whitbread Award and the film rights had been subsequently purchased. Oh yes, Steve was proud of her. She remembered their first serious row. They had only been married a few months when she began to talk about having a baby. Although a good Catholic girl, she had been on the pill and felt the time was right, at twenty-five, to start a family. They had talked before they married, of course, about children. “Oh dozens!” she had said carelessly when she expressed her feelings about a future family. She couldn’t understand the change.
“Not yet, dear, your work is important, so is mine. We need a life together for a few more years,” Steve said.
“A few years!” She had been scandalised. That night they lay as far apart as they were able. Her, up to the edge of the mattress on one side of the bed, and him up to the edge on the other side. He was cool, she remembered, in the morning, and every time she raised the subject he fobbed her off. By the time they had been married for four years she had, with deep sadness, accepted that he did not want children. Her writing became ever more her solace, and she poured out raw emotions that were not there before into her books. Her last book won th
e Booker Prize and Steve was proud to be at her side at all the many functions they attended. They were an A-list couple now. Young, good-looking, successful and, she in particular, talented.
Thinking back, she began to see where it had all gone wrong. She was wealthy now. Independent, while he just played the supporting role. He became withdrawn. At first, she had tried so hard to get close to him again but there seemed to be a wall between them. He went away to meet clients – and stayed overnight. She half wondered if he might be having an affair, but put it out of her mind because in bed at least life was good. He knew how to excite her and she knew she excited him. It was therefore totally out of the blue the evening he came home and instead of coming into the studio she heard him go straight to the bedroom. Intrigued, she had turned off the computer and wandered along the landing to their bedroom. He had collected one of the large holiday suitcases which was now open on the bed. “Goodness,” she had said in surprise. “That looks like a long trip.”
“I’m leaving,” had been his response. She still hadn’t grasped it. “Leaving when?” she had wondered. He had turned from the packing and looked at her, not, she noticed, quite meeting her eyes. “I’m leaving you,” he had stated quite baldly. She remembered walking to the chair and almost collapsing on it. Had she heard correctly? He was leaving her…she felt a thrumming in her ears. She mustn’t faint – she was made of sterner stuff, but she couldn’t take it in, believe even what was happening in front of her eyes. He had closed the case and pulled it off the bed. “Just tell me why,” she asked. Even now she could feel the physical pain his answer had given her. He was leaving her for Miranda. That had not been the worst. Miranda, his secretary. The secretary she had always thought so sweet, so caring, so efficient too she was always being told by Steve. The secretary who was now expecting a child. His. Steve’s child. Once again, the pain seemed to cut into the very heart of her like a knife. She could hardly believe it, and he seemed happy, pleased even. She had wanted to shout and scream. Why Steve? Why her? Why not our baby? Something held her back, she managed somehow to keep her dignity, to remember she was an O’Malley. She could almost hear her father’s voice in that soft brogue. “Remember Elizabeth, O’Malleys are not quitters.”
She had stood up, walked back to the studio and quietly locked the door. It was only when she saw him from the window walking to his car that, knowing she was alone in the house, she could cry, but she didn’t. Instead, she sat in front of the computer, turned it back on and started to write.
The divorce, uncontested of course, was going ahead with all speed. Steve didn’t want his child born out of wedlock. It would be funny, she had thought over the past months, if it were not also so ironic.
She was glad her father was no longer alive to see her suffering. Her sister, Kathy, had been wonderful. They had always been close and Kathy, a successful fashion model, had come to live with her. She seemed to sense Liz’s need for solitude though and never once came uninvited into the studio. She had let her flat and was planning to stay with Liz indefinitely. Her own life had been complicated enough.
The modelling world had its sleazy side and Liz had often been taken aback at some of the things she heard from her younger sister. Kathy was, as she put it, between affairs. Thank God, she was principled enough not to have affairs with married men. She swore she never wanted to marry. Miss Independence, she liked to call herself.
It had been her idea for Liz to come to India. A few months previously she had done a photo shoot on a beach in south Goa, staying at the stunning Taj Exotica Hotel. When she returned she had been full of excitement about India, longing to return and visit places other than Goa.
With Kathy’s encouragement, Liz had emailed the Taj and reserved a room for a month. She had flown directly to Bombay and spent a few days sightseeing and a little desultory shopping, neither taking in the sights nor particularly interested in her purchases. Finally, she had arrived at her destination and it appeared to be all that Kathy had said.
Her arrival by air-conditioned taxi was through some of the worst housing she had seen or imagined. Shacks at the sides of the unmade-up roads, often with only plastic sheeting in the place of the walls or roofs. Women standing by water taps, ever graceful in their saris, and with the inevitable small child or children by their sides. Finally, thankfully, she had arrived at her sanctuary. The taxi had swept through the wrought-iron gates, a uniformed guard saluting as they passed. They drove through beautifully maintained gardens where bougainvillea grew in abundance and flocks of egrets pecked over the newly watered lawns.
They drove up to reception where a security guard opened her door. As she stepped out someone came forward to greet her and before she knew it, with minimal “check-in” fuss, she was whisked by buggy, her suitcases on the back, to her room.
Now, with her suitcase still packed, she was in the solitude of her room. Slowly, and with a certain reluctance, she searched in her bag for her keys and opened her main case. The thought of unpacking filled her with horror. On impulse, she delved around and found a bikini. Going to the bathroom to change she noticed a white robe hanging on a coat hanger on the back of the door. She undressed quickly, put on her bikini and the robe, and left her room following signs to the pool. The evening was dark, but the subtle lighting on palm trees or in tubs on either side of the path showed her the way.
The pool was, as Kathy had described, a wonderful oasis, particularly at night with no one around. It was like a lake with its curves edged with vegetation. The smell of frangipani and jasmine hung in the air and, as she slipped off the robe and walked down the broad steps, the water washed over her like velvet. She swam strongly, changing her stroke from breast to crawl as she turned to swim back the way she had come. She counted her strokes, it gave her an idea of how far she had swum. Thirty-three breaststroke and sixty-seven crawl so far. Up and down she swam, at first her mind rushing from one thought to another, but gradually feeling the stress ebbing out of her.
She got out of the pool. The balmy air seemed to caress her wet skin and almost with reluctance she put the robe back on. She sat for a while taking in the scene, hardly noticed by couples crossing near her as they walked to dinner. Finally, she looked at her watch and found to her amazement it was nearly nine p.m. Taking a final look at the pool she headed back to her room realising for the first time in a while she felt hungry.
Deciding that she couldn’t contemplate ‘sorting out’ something to wear for dinner and quite happy padding round in the robe and the towelling slippers they had provided she rang room service and ordered a light dinner. Whilst she was waiting she started to unpack and had almost finished when a knock at the door meant dinner had arrived.
Liz’s days took on a regular pattern. She rose early, and at seven a.m. she was swimming in the pool. She only swam when there was nobody about and she hated the idea of lying on a sun-bed all day, so instead, she would swim early, shower and dress and have breakfast in the almost deserted open-air breakfast room. At first, she only ate fresh fruit and drank lemon tea, but after a while, she found her appetite was returning, and the chef would cook her a fresh omelette or scrambled egg and bring it to her. His smile, like that of nearly all the staff, was charming and friendly, helpful but not servile.
After breakfast she would set up her laptop on the balcony and, with an upright chair delivered to her from the dining room, she would work for up to three hours. Firstly, she would edit the previous day’s work then she would continue with the plot. This book was different from previous ones as it was her first venture into the political scene and her characters were, as always, taking off in directions she had not foreseen.
Every day she read the Times of India, and she found it to be a revelation. Corruption seemed not only rife, but seemed to be the accepted norm in many quarters. Politicians equalled corruption in many eyes.
It began to change her own book and the research she had done before s
he began writing seemed almost a waste of time when here she had material she hadn’t even dreamed of.
At lunch-time she walked down to the beach, wandering into one of the beach shacks where she generally ordered a litre of water, seldom wanting food. With a shudder she watched people tucking into curried eggs. Curried vegetables looked bearable, but she just wasn’t hungry.
The water lasted her about an hour, and during that time she watched the walkers passing by on the beach, the dogs that, for the most part, roamed freely, generally somewhat mangy and the females frequently pregnant or obviously having had a recent litter. She felt sorry for them all. Their lives she believed must be hard and short-lived.
She noticed couples eating together and saw holiday friendships form as people met and re-met. Soon she was able to judge by their tans, whether their holidays were coming to an end or whether they had just arrived. Mostly coming from northern Europe people were, for the most part, very white when they arrived, by the end of the first week they were decidedly pink, by week two nicely tanned and those, like her she supposed, fortunate enough to stay longer were quite bronzed. Liz, despite not sitting in the sun, had turned a pale gold just from her lunch-time meanderings.
By around seven in the evening, the pool area was generally deserted and Liz would round off her day with a solitary swim in the pool. During her fourth week, she realised she was not ready to return home yet. There was, after all, nothing to go home for. She spoke to Kathy once or twice a week. Her new agent, Alex, telephoned her once and she asked him not to phone again. Apart from Kathy, she had no interest in being reminded of home.
One evening, on a sudden impulse she rang the front desk. “Liz O’Malley, room twenty-two,” she announced firmly. “I would like to extend my stay for another month. To stay preferably in this room of course,” she concluded. “May we call you back?” the disembodied voice answered. Liz put down the telephone, wondering as she did so if she was doing the right thing.
The Portuguese House Page 1