Same went for university. People were far more tolerant and they were less cliquey but for whatever reason, I still had problems finding the right “team.” My closest friend was Jocelyn, who I met during my first year, but she moved back to Saskatchewan (no idea why you’d willingly go back there) and so we only saw each other once a year if lucky. Our interactions were reduced to emails and Facebook messages, which is how most relationships operate these days anyway, but still. I missed the face-to-face interaction, the laughs over watching stupid skits on YouTube or getting drunk at local dive bars and betting on who would hook up with who.
Yet, the moment that I stepped off the bus in Acantilado yesterday, I felt like if I hadn’t found my place, I was at least halfway there.
Not everyone was immediately likeable or even friendly, but for the most part, people were pretty fucking cool. At least, all of the Spaniards were. Though they took the program very seriously, they also wanted to have fun—my kind of people.
It probably helped that I’d already made a friend or two. It was nice feeling as if Mateo and Claudia and I kind of all knew each other, even if only in the most superficial ways. I could see a few people had bonded with their seatmates during the bus ride, too, something that seemed stupid at first but now I could see the point. Even knowing Dave, Beatriz and Froggy Carlos seemed to go a long way with me.
Unfortunately, I missed out on crucial bonding time because I ended up sleeping all the way through dinner. I was so tired, I passed right out and woke up only briefly when my new roommate—a tiny, cute little thing named Sara—knocked on my door. I think I yelled at her to go away (which I later apologized for) and that was that.
It was six am when I woke up by my own natural clock. I groaned and sneered at the room that was flooding with natural light before I dragged myself off to the bathroom to shower. I felt like I’d been hit by a freight train but I certainly didn’t want to look it. There was Dave to impress and perhaps some other people I hadn’t met yet. After all there were forty of us there and I think I’d only gotten a good look at a handful.
Of course, if I was being really honest with myself, I wanted to impress Mateo, too. I knew it was really stupid and inappropriate how he kept on crowding my thoughts—I mean, why was my brain and body wasting impulses on someone that I could obviously never have and who wasn’t even my type? I didn’t understand it and yet the fact remained: I wanted to look pretty for him. I wanted him to look at me and think that I was “very beautiful and very sexy” like the way he had described Marilyn Monroe.
And that was oh so fucking wrong. He was married, with a kid. I shouldn’t want him to think I was attractive. I should want him to think I was ugly but just funny enough to want around as a friend.
Sometimes I thought I was a terrible person.
I looked at my phone. It was probably too early—or too late, I was never sure how the time difference worked—to call home and speak to Josh or see if I could get Jocelyn on Facebook messenger. Though I never made it a habit to talk about my love life with my brother, he was adept at making me feel like I was a good person. And Jocelyn, well, she heard about every exploit with every boy, enough that she called me her little slut. I’d call her a whore back and that’s just how things went.
My finger hovered above the screen to turn on the data roaming and cellular coverage—I was being so strict with the phone, I couldn’t even receive texts. I took in a deep breath and waited, then put it away. There was no wireless internet in this place so if I really wanted to contact someone I’d have to either use the payphones or the computers near the reception. They really, really wanted to make you feel isolated here.
I got ready, spending some extra time on my face. I knew I was a good-looking girl—I was blessed with smooth skin, slightly exotic-looking hazel eyes and a great pair of lips. Some people said I looked a bit like Nicole Kidman but I just joked that I was her scarier, fatter twin sister. I had an hourglass figure with a small waist but everything else had a bit of extra padding that was hard to shed, no matter how much I dieted. And the fact was, I liked food way too much to try and really slim down. Luckily, that never hurt my chances with men. They liked having something to hold on to and I liked it when they did.
I wasn’t sure what the weather was going to be like—I recalled someone saying it was dry and hot in the summer and cold and miserable in the winter—so I slipped on a pair of black skinny jeans, cool black buckled boots and a dark blue flowy top with tiny cherry prints on it. I stroked some styling crème into my hair, tousled it, and headed out the door. Sara was already up and ready to go, sitting on the balcony with a cup of instant coffee.
I apologized for being so rude in my half-asleep state and she just waved it off with a big smile. She seemed to be in her late thirties but didn’t speak English all that well. I understood she was married with no kids, from Madrid and worked for a magazine but that’s all I got. She had a bright, educated look about her though—maybe it was her shiny, greying blonde hair or her smart sweater and slacks—and I had a feeling that by the end of her time here, she was going to be absolutely fluent. I mean, how could you not be when you were forced to speak another language all day long for weeks?
We left the cottage together, which was nice, kind like an act of solidarity even though we were right across from the dining hall. I suppose she was as unsure and awkward about the program as I was. The air was nippy but the sun had just begun it’s ascent in the east, casting everything in the color you could never duplicate. It was special here, I could feel that, and just by being a part of it, you felt special too.
There was only one table occupied in the dining room, so I guess we were earlier than I had thought. It was made up of four men, all whispering to each other in hushed Spanish.
“Bad men,” Sara said jokingly as we took a table by the windows. “Big trouble.”
I nodded and smiled. It was funny how sneaky they thought they were being, how trying to speak their own language was going to get them in shit.
We’d only been sitting for a minute when Jerry came into the room, his shoes echoing on the tiles, and cried out, “Alto!” Sara and I watched in amused silence as he marched right over to the table and rested his hands on it. “That means stop, and you know it. No Spanish! What did I tell you?”
It was funny to see Jerry, with his frail frame and wonky face and George Costanza hairline, yelling at a bunch of macho Spanish businessmen, but he did and they responded like disobedient dogs, sulking with their tails between their legs.
They all offered apologies, in English, and Jerry waved his arms in an exaggerated motion, telling them to disperse and go sit elsewhere—only two Spaniards to a table. That was the rule from now until the end of time, or at least until the end of the program. Whichever came first.
One of the men—an opportunist if I ever saw one—came straight over to me and Sara with an eager smile on his face. He was portly, with a handlebar mustache and hair that was as dense and black as a lick of matte paint. His jowls and lined skin put him in his fifties, which made the bad hair dye job stand out even more.
“May I sit down?” he asked politely, smiling like he’d won the lottery.
Sara and I both nodded and told him it was okay, though in the pit of my stomach I felt a peppering of despair. With him sitting here, the chances of Mateo or Claudia joining us were blotted out.
Still, I nodded at the man, who pointed gleefully to his tag and announced himself as Antonio.
“Wow,” he said as he sat down, the tip of his belly hitting the edge of the table and jiggling the plates. “You have a lot of tattoos!”
Sometimes I took offence to this, usually because whoever was saying it was saying it in a really disparaging manner but Antonio looked impressed. I cocked my head and peered down at myself. “Thank you.”
He made the “OK” sign with his fingers, winked, and said, “Very cool.” He then turned to Sara and started asking her basic questions. I watched them for
a few moments, both of them thinking hard and trying not to slip into their native tongue. I admired them. I’d only been in Madrid for an hour yesterday with no one understanding a word I’d said and that was hell.
I decided I liked the both of them. I also decided I needed coffee.
I looked around, wondering if it was time to get up and serve ourselves. There was a waiter who was slowly going around and bringing carafes of coffee to each table but it seemed everything else was on a long table, served buffet style. People were coming in now, some already in groups and taking over the tables.
Claudia came in by herself, sporting a chic, cropped leather jacket, her cherubic face looking cute but wary as she scanned the room. The minute she saw me, she smiled and started my way only to stop herself when she noticed I was already with two Spaniards. I gave her a truly apologetic look but she just shrugged and asked to join the table she was closest to.
Dave, with his hair extra stiff and spiky, came in with Beatriz and managed to get the last empty table by the door. Seconds later a sleek-looking Mateo was joining them. Beatriz actually got out of her chair and I had a split-second to admire her tapered legs, yellow strapless dress and cardigan set before she wrapped her arms around Mateo and hugged him like she’d known him her whole life. The embrace was quickly followed by the traditional “beso beso”—quick pecks on each cheek—and he happily joined their table.
Ugh. Now I really felt disappointed. I started cursing at myself, feeling so stupid for sleeping through dinner. Who knew what had happened after Dave and Beatriz’s? Perhaps they went to dinner, made friends with everyone, Mateo included, and dragged everyone back to their place to party. I felt like I was in high school all over again, opting to spend many nights at home by myself yet always regretting it on Monday when I heard about all the awesome parties I missed and all the boys I could have kissed.
To make matters worse, the Anglo who sat down at our table was Lauren. There were a ton of other people left, Anglos I hadn’t even had a chance to meet, and yet Lauren was the one who pulled out her chair like she was the Queen of fucking England and sat down.
“I hope they didn’t forget my vegan breakfast,” she said, not even bothering to say hello to Antonio or Sara.
“Your name is Vegan?” Sara asked, peering at her name tag in confusion.
Lauren pulled off her glitter glasses and squeezed the bridge of her nose. “No,” she said, as if speaking was a huge effort. “My name is Lauren. I am a vegan. It’s a life choice.”
Antonio scrunched up his nose. “You are vegetarian?”
Before she could lecture him, I turned to her and said, “I don’t think they bring it to your table. I think it’s a help yourself type of thing.”
“We’ll see about that,” she said and stalked off toward Jerry.
I gave Antonio and Sara an apologetic look. “Most vegans are nice,” I explained feebly. I picked up my plate and headed toward the buffet. As soon as I got there, standing in line behind a really tall Spanish dude with the name Ricardo, I had to giggle to myself.
The entire buffet was just meat and cheese. That’s it. There was a bowl of fruit salad and some whole grain bread that you toasted yourself, but literally everything else was a vegan’s nightmare. Salami, pastrami, prosciutto and ham sliced thinner than paper, followed by a million different hard cheeses, soft cheeses, cottage cheese. Finally there was a large platter of churros and some cups of bread pudding, most definitely un-vegan as well.
If she didn’t get her own private menu, Lauren was going to flip her lid. It was probably really wrong of me to rejoice in that, but what can you do.
“How are you, Vera?” A silken voice interrupted my evil musings.
I turned to see Mateo standing right behind me. He looked great, fresh even. It was a novelty to see him for the second time, the second day. A new look, a new Mateo. Today, he was wearing a full on suit; dark blue pants and blazer, light blue shirt, no tie. It fit him perfectly and looked very smooth, very expensive, silk and wool. His hair was still skirting the line between groomed and messy and I still wanted nothing more than to tug at the ends of it to feel how soft and strong it was. His strong jaw and lean cheeks had a darker shade of stubble going on, a ten o’clock shadow.
I ignored the pulse of heat between my legs and managed to give him a smile. “Oh, hello. Good morning. I am fine, how are you?”
I know I sounded completely formal but I was trying to err on the side of the fact that we weren’t really friends per se and I did need to speak proper English. Or maybe I was trying to save face over the fact that the last time I’d seen him I had the words Marilyn Monroe stuck to my forehead.
“I am well. I missed you last night,” he said, his words causing my stomach to tumble momentarily. I needed to eat something. “Where were you?”
I tried to speak but he squeezed against me, the air filling with his bracing ocean scent, as he reached past to scoop up a mound of ham with the tongs. He plopped some of the ham on my empty plate before putting the rest on his.
I licked my lips, watching as he put a few slices of cheese on our plates as well. Either he was really chivalrous and wanted to feed me, or he wanted me to hurry my ass along so everyone else in line could eat.
“I didn’t mean to miss dinner,” I said, scooting over to give him room. “I don’t know what happened. I just fell asleep.”
“Oh yes,” he said. His eyes glittered like golden brown topaz. “I heard you had some grappa and then never woke up again.”
My mouth dropped and I angled my neck around him so I could see Dave and Beatriz at their table. “I had one shot and then I went back to unpack. I was tired to begin with.”
He shook two pieces of toast at me before he put them in the toaster. “If you knew how to take siestas, then you wouldn’t be so tired that you miss dinner,” he lectured teasingly.
“Hey,” I said in a faux-authoritative voice. “Siesta is Spanish for little sleep. No Spanish allowed. I just saw a bunch of guys get in trouble for speaking it.”
Mateo raised a brow. “Well, I am not a fool. I came here to learn, not to waste time or money. You, Vera, you need to have a little sleep today so that you can stay up tonight. Tonight there is a party.”
“Oh? There wasn’t a party last night?” I asked, hinting around for clues as to what happened when I was dreaming away. “Everyone seems really close this morning,” I added.
He studied me for a moment before he said. “No party. We all had dinner, lots of wine and then Dave and Beatriz brought everyone into their house for more drinks. I had one and then left, so I don’t know anything else. I had to call my wife. She speaks fluent English you know, so we didn’t speak Spanish, don’t worry.”
The W word. Wife. There it was. There, he said it. Proof that the ring wasn’t a stylistic choice, proof that he wasn’t separated. Wife. She existed. And I had to stop caring what he thought about me. I looked down at a pot of steaming scrambled eggs that a cook just placed down and entertained the thought of turning it over on my head. That would be a good start.
The toast popped out of the toaster and I nearly jumped out of my boots.
“It’s funny,” he mused, putting the slices of toast on our plates. He nudged my arm gently with his elbow, getting me to move along. “You say that everyone seemed really close. I have known Beatriz before.”
I resisted the urge to look at her sitting at the table. I remembered what she looked like: long sheet of black hair, poker straight, tanned, glowing skin, perfect white teeth and a model body clad in a buttercream shift.
“How so?” I asked, not really caring.
“She is a reporter, on television. She used to cover some of our games. She interviewed me, many times. When you’re on the national team, you get to know every…personality.”
I had no idea what that meant and I wasn’t about to ask. I was at the end of the line anyway and finished my plate with a churro that I picked up with my hands. I waved it at Mateo. �
�See you later,” I said, trying to sound cool and cheery and all that jazz, even though the churro was still hot and the sugared grease was burning a hole into my fingers.
He frowned at my sudden departure, but nodded.
I threw the churro down on my plate and hurried back to my table. It was empty now, with Sara, Antonio and Lauren all at the buffet, and there was a large carafe of hot coffee waiting. I poured myself some. While I took a deliciously rich sip, I told myself I’d never speak to anyone before I had my first cup. Mateo was just being nice, nice like a decent human being, and I got so weirded out by the idea of his wife and his relationship with Beatriz that I just said adios with a churro. I needed to get a grip. This wasn’t like me. Well, not when it came to guys, anyway.
Soon Antonio and Sara joined us and we started chatting away. I was suddenly eager to really prove myself, as if I just remembered why I was here. To meet new people and to help them with their English. Oh, and get a better understanding of the universe but I was pretty sure that Mateo was going to right about that one.
Lauren eventually came back, her cheeks blotchy red with anger from having apparently yelled at Jerry over the food. Turns out there was no specific menu, there was just a bowl of fruit. I would have felt bad for her but the way she was treating the rest of us—all the people who didn’t have anything to do with her lifestyle choice—I couldn’t.
When plates started being cleared and everyone was almost done, Jerry made an announcement that the schedule for the day was now at reception. Having wolfed down my meat and cheese and churro, much to the annoyance of my stomach, I bid farewell to my table and went straight to the schedule. I brought out my phone from my jean pocket and started writing my day down on a virtual notepad.
9:00 – 10:00 one-on-one with Jorge
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