‘I’ll show you to your room.’
Had he forgotten his promise to show her around? She doubted it. ‘Are all of these olive trees yours? They seem to stretch on for ever.’
He nodded. ‘There are over five hundred trees in total.’
‘That’s a lot of olives for one person to eat.’
He raised an eyebrow at her feigned innocence. ‘My neighbouring farmers harvest them. I get some olive oil in return.’
‘You don’t keep it all for yourself?’
He shrugged. ‘They do the work. Life is not easy for olive producers on the island, so they need as much support as they can get.’
Unable to help herself, she walked to a nearby tree, placing a hand against the warm, gnarled trunk. ‘The earth here seems so parched, it’s miraculous that they survive.’
‘Some are over three hundred years old.’
Her attention caught by a group of different trees, she moved towards them. ‘And you have lemon and fig trees too.’ Wandering up some steps to a flat terrace, she added, ‘And a vegetable garden. Do you have many staff working for you...a housekeeper, a gardener?’ He had said they would be alone, but maybe he hadn’t factored domestic staff into that equation.
Standing on the steps, the fading evening sun creating a long shadow of him on the dry earth, he answered with a hint of wariness, as though he didn’t trust her reasons for asking the question, ‘I have a housekeeper who comes in during the week. I take care of the garden myself.’
‘Wow, really?’ Her only attempt at gardening was a tomato plant on the windowsill of her apartment kitchen...she hadn’t realised that too much watering wasn’t a good thing. Moving further into the plot, she said, ‘There are chillies, peppers, cucumbers, broad beans...’ she reached across and from a vine plucked a glossy red tomato, adding, ‘and an endless supply of tomatoes. And now I’m going to try one.’ Biting into it, she sighed at the warm sweetness of the fruit before turning in Ivo’s direction. ‘Wow, that tastes amazing.’
He didn’t smile. It was as though he was trying to figure her out.
And she hadn’t ever thought of him as someone who would garden. ‘I didn’t think you’d have the time to garden...or the interest.’
His expression tightened for a moment before he gestured to the miles of coastline in either direction of the finca. ‘I need to be self-sufficient here.’
Following him back along a path that ran around the house, she shielded her eyes when they arrived back at the entrance of the house, the westerly sun dipping lower and lower. In the far distance she could just about make out a cluster of houses set low in the mountainous coastline, boats in the harbour below the town. ‘Is that the nearest town?’
‘Yes. Laredo.’
‘Wow. You really are isolated here.’
‘Yes, and I like it that way.’ His tone carried an impatience and, not waiting for a response, he opened the door to the finca that was painted in the same pale blue as the open shutters on the windows.
She rushed after him, conscious to keep their dialogue going for the sake of her listeners. Inside, the entrance hallway was cool in comparison to the intense heat out on the terrace, shafts of sunlight falling on the stone floors. ‘How often do you stay here?’
‘Four or five nights a week.’
Stopping to study the bright oil paintings hanging on the whitewashed walls, she asked, ‘Why did you choose to live here in particular?’ The finca was small. A fraction of the size of the palace apartments.
‘It suits me perfectly—I live alone and don’t need or want a lot of living space. It’s the outdoors that is important here.’
She followed as he walked away and into an open-plan kitchen and living room, embarrassed that her surprise at the finca’s size had shown through. Opening the terrace doors in front of a slightly faded yellow corner sofa, he stepped out onto a covered terrace, heavy with trailing vines, and pointed towards the Mediterranean. ‘I bought San Jorbo for the views and access to the sea. I like to swim and sail.’
Joining him on a patch of grass beyond the covered terrace, she saw that a path ran from the terrace down to the sea. Standing on tiptoe, she could see golden sand at the bottom of the path. ‘You have your own beach...that’s incredible. And is that your boat tied up at the dock?’
Bending over to straighten a pot that had tiny buds poking up from the soil, he patted the earth gently before finding a more sheltered spot for it amongst a cluster of other growing pots that were bunched together along the length of the low garden wall. ‘It’s a ten-minute journey over to Laredo by boat but a thirty-minute drive. The car has to negotiate the mountain roads between here and Laredo.’
Crouching down, he began to pluck some weeds from the pots, the gentleness of his movements so at odds with his size. His shirt strained across his back, the muscles beneath working as he reached and pulled. The sun caught dark copper tones in his hair and the very odd temptation to rest her hand on his shoulder grew in her. His silence moved something in her. He was as remote as his home was. In past interviews, recording the tour of the house had been fun and insightful...but with Ivo it just felt all wrong. Moving to sit on the wall near to where he was crouched, she closed down the recording app and placed her phone on the wall. ‘I think we’ve covered enough for today—we can record more tomorrow.’
He paused in his work and they stared at each other for long moments, her heart pounding. She wanted to know him, she wanted to reach him. And not for the sake of the podcasts. She swallowed, realising it was because she recognised a vulnerability in him beneath all of that solid silence that at first she had mistaken for uncompromising self-confidence.
‘I was brought up in London. I’ve never been to anywhere so remote...’ She paused, the fear that she was falling into the old trap of oversharing making her hesitate for a moment before she admitted, ‘I reckon there would be way too much thinking time here for me.’
Moving to sit beside her, their backs to the sea, he leant forward, his arms resting on his thighs, tilting his head to meet her gaze before staring towards the finca. ‘You don’t have to stay here.’
His tone was gentle...as though he was freeing her of an obligation. She went to speak but before she could he added, his hand gesturing towards the finca, ‘The accommodation is basic. I like it that way. But I accept it’s not to everyone’s taste.’
She studied the pale stone and blue shutters of the house, the gardens beyond that a little wild but utterly in keeping with the surroundings. It was all a far cry from the glamour of the royal palace but Ivo’s finca had a soothing stillness that somehow was already seeping into her bones. ‘You have a beautiful home. I would like to stay...if that’s okay with you.’
‘Because of the podcast?’
The easy and perhaps right thing would be to say yes. To not expose herself. In past podcasts she had revealed few details of her own personal life, not needing to, as her interviewees had all been forthright and comfortable with sharing their lives, but with Ivo she had to do things differently to reach him...and every instinct told her it had to be by being brutally honest about herself. Even if it flew in the face of her pledge to protect herself by being more closed. ‘For the podcast...but for myself too. It might do me good. This week has been difficult...seeing the photos of my ex marrying...it has brought back memories I’d have preferred not to think about.’
She dropped her head, embarrassed at how exposed she felt to admit that to him, and waited for him to ask her for more details, but instead he said, ‘I think you’re right. Time here might help you. San Jorbo is a place of healing.’
Really? Ivo calling his home healing had to be up there as one of the most unexpected things she had ever heard. Yes, she had briefly glimpsed a softer, more compassionate side to him at the wedding...but she hadn’t been certain if that had been a temporary glitch in his usual aloof demeano
ur. She studied him, but he would not meet her gaze. And she got the distinct impression that he was annoyed with himself for what he had just said. ‘Does it heal you?’
He shrugged. ‘I enjoy having time alone to think. There’s too much noise in the world. Silence is underrated.’
She wished she could agree with him, but the thought of staying here all on her own for days on end would panic her. She didn’t think she would cope. She’d desperately miss chatting to people. ‘Do you know, I’ve just realised that I’ve never actually lived on my own?’
His eyebrows shot up. ‘Never?’
Oh, crikey...he really was handsome. Of course, she had recognised it at Alice’s wedding, had felt flustered around him in fact, but she had compartmentalised it away because she was with Dan. She jumped up from the wall and tried to gather herself as she bent to pat Paco and Lore, who were lying in the shade. ‘I know that sounds strange, now that I say it...but I’ve always lived with people. I moved in with my ex while we were still at university. And when we separated I moved home for a while...but now I flat-share. My mum and I get on...but we drove each other crazy when I moved back in with her. She reckons I’m too messy.’ She came to a stop. Ivo did not need to know about how perpetually disorganised she was. Time to get the conversation back to him. ‘So, what do you do apart from gardening, swimming and sailing when you are here?’
Stretching his legs out in front of him, he asked, ‘How long were you with your ex?’
‘Ten years.’
She saw his wince. And wasn’t surprised. It was how most people reacted. And what usually followed was pity. She braced herself for Ivo to say something similar.
‘Are you still in love with him?’
Taken aback by the bluntness of his question and the intense way he was staring at her, she garbled out, ‘I’m not still in love with him but I miss him being around... We were good friends.’
He stood, his broadness making him look even taller than his six-foot-two height. He approached her, those grey eyes holding hers all the while. She swallowed.
‘Friends don’t hurt you the way he did.’
‘Our relationship changed...that wasn’t his fault.’
‘And it wasn’t yours.’
‘I’m not saying that...’
‘You deserved better, Toni. You didn’t deserve him walking out on you after ten years without explanation...or the fact that he started dating someone else a week later. You didn’t deserve him marrying in secret and not having the decency to tell you.’
She took a step back. ‘How do you know all of that? Alice?’
He didn’t answer except for the minute movement of one shoulder.
‘No...then it had to be Kara.’ She made an exasperated sound. ‘Why did she tell you?’ She held out her hand to stop him answering her question, even though he looked as though he had no intention of doing so. ‘Don’t tell me...so that you would do the podcast. I don’t need your pity.’
He folded his arms. ‘Good. Because you won’t be getting it.’
How was she supposed to react to that? ‘Yes...well... I’m glad to hear that.’
Cool as you like, he walked away, saying, ‘I’ll show you to your room. And then I’ll prepare dinner while you go for a swim.’
She chased after him. ‘I’ll help you.’
He didn’t respond and, picking up her suitcase in the hallway, he led her past a large study and then went into the next room along the corridor. He dropped her case by the double bed and turned to her. His expression was determined. ‘Go for a swim.’
* * *
He studied the closing stock prices in New York and banged out an email to his North America team, inhaling deeply in a bid to concentrate and not give in to the temptation of staring out once again at Toni’s black and silver bikini hanging from the branch of an olive tree. After her swim earlier she had entered the finca with a towel wrapped around her, her wet hair piled on top of her head. Stationed at the kitchen counter chopping peppers, he had almost taken off a finger, knowing that beneath the towel she was naked.
Paco, collapsed on the studio couch as usual, Lore tucked into a pillow beside him, lifted his head and made a throaty growl. And then he heard footsteps in the hallway.
‘Hi, there you are. I was wondering where you had got to.’
He stood.
She stayed in the doorway, her bare feet at odds with her above-the-knee turquoise pencil dress. She looked great. He hadn’t dated in months. Was that why he constantly found himself staring at her? Over dinner he had watched her tussle with a bread roll and they had both ended up laughing as she had frantically tried to clean the table of the confetti of breadcrumbs she had created by pulling the roll apart a little too eagerly. Their shared laughter had eased some of the tension between them and they had spent the dinner with him answering her questions on Monrosa’s history and geography. He had even ended up drawing her a rough map of the island, highlighting Monrosa’s hidden secrets she should some time visit.
‘Alice said to say hello.’
She had spent at least an hour on the phone...even though she had said she’d be five minutes when she had excused herself after dinner to call her mother and Alice.
‘Alice and Luis are going to a party in the city tomorrow night—she asked if we’d like to join them.’
He had learnt years ago that being direct and shutting down any expectations head on was the most effective way to deal with other people’s judgement. ‘I don’t like parties. But I can arrange for a car to take you.’
As though she thought he was joking she laughed and asked, ‘Is that just an excuse not to have to go with me? I know I chat too much and ask way too many questions, it’s my nervous tic—and habit from my former career as an associate producer—but I promise to try to stop.’
‘Are you nervous of me?’
Her eyes widened. ‘Kind of...’ but then, any hint of jumpiness disappearing, a playful smile grew on her lips. ‘You are pretty formidable...and I’m guessing that it’s an image you like to maintain...the untouchable Machine.’
Now it was his turn to laugh. Since he had left the world of rowing, where bluntness was part and parcel of a winning attitude, he had lived in a world where people constantly deferred to him. ‘I’ll admit that in some areas of my life I can be really formidable...’ He trailed off, grinning as Toni’s eyes widened even further and heat crept into her cheeks.
‘You still haven’t answered my question. Why won’t you come to the party?’
‘Small talk bores me.’
She gave him a curious look but then her gaze moved over to the table behind him, settling on his painting equipment.
‘You paint?’
All through his childhood it was only his mother who had encouraged his painting, his love for creating. Meanwhile his father had said that he should be outdoors, doing something worthwhile. And in school his rowing team had teased him over it, calling him Rembrandt. He had stopped painting then, hating the attention and how different he had felt from his teammates. Hating that no one seemed to understand the comfort it brought to him. No one knew he was painting again. ‘I was just about to take the dogs for a walk.’
She went and lifted the sheet of rice paper he had been working on last night, studying the monochrome painting of the chilli. ‘This is beautiful... Where did you learn to paint like this?’
‘A few years ago I saw an exhibition of Chinese ink painting in New York and I decided to try it.’
‘Can I have a go?’
Thrown by her enthusiasm, he hesitated. Painting was his escape, a fundamental and deeply personal part of his life that he didn’t want to share with anyone. After his mother had died he had found solace in painting toy soldiers, the precision and concentration required quietening his mind, until his father had sent him away to boarding school. When he had ret
urned home after his first term, all of his paints had been binned, his father telling him he was not allowed to spend time alone in his room any more.
‘The ink can’t be washed out.’ He nodded towards her dress. ‘It may damage your clothes.’
Smoothing her hand over the material of her dress, she rolled her eyes. ‘I guess I should explain why I’m so formally dressed—I packed thinking I was staying in the palace. I didn’t think to pack anything casual.’ Lowering his painting to the table, she added quietly, ‘I would really like to give painting a go... I’ll be careful with the ink.’
He searched her eyes, trying to understand why she was so keen, but all he could find was a gentle eagerness. ‘I’ll go and find something for you to wear over your clothes.’
When he returned to the studio, she studied the embroidered logo on the white T-shirt he passed to her. ‘You must be very proud to have represented your country in sport.’
He watched her slip on the T-shirt, smiled as it engulfed her, reaching almost as far as the hem of her skirt. ‘It meant a lot to the people of Monrosa—we had never won an international medal before.’
He pulled an extra chair to the table. They both sat and he lifted out the paint caddy, brush stand and two fresh sheets of paper.
‘Do you miss rowing?’
‘Not particularly. The training and travelling were gruelling. My life was a constant round of aeroplanes, training camps and hotel rooms.’
Her gaze moved out beyond the open terrace doors of the studio, the outline of the olive trees and the mountains visible thanks to a full moon. ‘It must have been strange shifting from that world to this.’
He patted the fine goat hair of a brush clean. ‘I slotted in straight away. This way of life suits me much better.’
‘Why didn’t you change careers sooner?’
He had thought about it endless times during his rowing career, particularly after their first failed international bid. Frustrated by injuries, exhausted by the constant change, he had questioned his commitment to the sport but ultimately he had loved the focus, the silent bond with his team, the hypnotic pull of the oar on the water as the sun slowly rose in the east. ‘I wanted to win gold.’
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