by Jan Andersen
After that perhaps the bathroom was not quite so surprising with its sunken bath in brilliant blue Spanish tiles, its wall of mirrors and dressing table arranged with every conceivable kind of cosmetic.
After Maria had gone Jess stood and gazed about her. She felt she was standing in the middle of a film set. In the past few months she had never given very much thought to Rafael at home. Since she had met and fallen in love with him in London, Spain and his own background had been rather remote. She had known he was comfortably off because that was the nature of things in Spain, but she had never thought beyond the fact that if—when—she married Rafael she would never have any real money worries again.
She wandered over to the window, touching the brocade curtains. Far below the city lights sparkled. London seemed a million miles and another world away, and yet this was Rafael’s world which must one day be hers. Perhaps it was that thought that occasionally gave her a momentary flicker of doubt. Was love enough? If Rafael were suddenly to announce they were going to live in ... in the Congo, would she mind? That would surely be the test.
Resolutely she pushed the thought of the future from her mind. Today and tomorrow were hers and Rafael’s alone. On Sunday her real job started. She would have enough worries trying to think about that without working out what was to happen in the months ahead.
She lay in the bath, letting the tiredness soak from her. For she was tired, she realized that now, the tiredness of too long without a break, taking on extra work because the rates had to be paid, or the roof was beginning to leak again. Perhaps it would have been kinder to her mother—and herself—to have said from the beginning that they simply could not afford to go on living at Howard Hill.
While she was in the bath she found that her cases had been unpacked and her clothes put away. And yet Maria was nowhere to be seen.
She chose her short creamy silk dress because it had a coat to match and because it set off her honey-gold hair so well. Then she slipped her feet into her new chunky red shoes and set off to find the living room.
Rafael was waiting for her, tapping impatiently with his cigarette, a mannerism she was beginning to know well. He liked to tell her to take her time—but really to be ready in ten minutes.
‘Darling,’ he held out his arms to her, ‘now I can kiss you properly. Oh, Jess, it is good to see you. You know, when I am away from you for one month, two months, I think to myself that you cannot be quite as beautiful as you are in my imagination, but then when I see you, like today, I realize you are even more so. When,’ he demanded, ‘are we going to get married?’
She lifted her face from his shoulder. ‘Married?’ she said as lightly as she could. ‘We aren’t even engaged yet!’
‘And whose fault is that?’
She was silent.
‘Jess, darling Jess, I am in love with you; you know that. Tell me once again that you are in love with me. I am not a patient man, you have learned at least that about me. I cannot wait for ever.’
‘Of course I love you, Rafael, you must know that, but I have actually known you for three weeks. You can’t count the time in between because you don’t write letters. I’m going to make a decision that will affect my whole life,’ she went on helplessly, ‘I just want to be certain, that’s all. Marriage means leaving my mother, my work, my country. To you, perhaps it’s foolish even to stop and think, but I feel I must.’
‘You have a month to stop and think, Jess, a whole month in Spain. Won’t that be enough?’
She nodded. It had to be, or else the strength of her love would not pass the test.
‘As to your mother,’ he shrugged, ‘I told you before that you will never have to worry about her comfort. If you and she wish it she can come and live here?’
‘With your mother?’ Jess returned quietly.
He smiled. ‘No man can live with two mothers, even a Spaniard! No, we would free one of the lower, smaller flats.’
Jess had very strong doubts whether her mother would ever want to come and live in Spain, but she said curiously, ‘You could do that, then?’
‘Of course,’ he said in faint surprise. ‘I own the block. ‘And before she had time to catch her breath:
‘When my father and I decided that this was the only place in Barcelona we wanted to live and build our house—I think you would call it a penthouse—then we had no alternative but to buy the land and build all the apartments in order to get the position we wished. Alas, my father never saw it finished.’
Jess stared at Rafael. He was not boasting. He was merely stating a fact. She thought wildly of wanting to have a high flat overlooking Hyde Park in London and the only way of getting it to build a whole block. Her mind reeled at the thought. True, things were not quite the same in Barcelona, hut still...
‘Would you like to see the rest of my home?’ he went on. ‘It would be yours too if we married. It is very important to me that you like it. You see, I designed everything myself.’
Jess followed him round the house—she decided it could hardly be called a flat—in a daze, from the entrance hall to a little morning room and a dining room that would not have shamed an English lord. Everything was in perfect taste, the fabrics and the carpets were all of rich colours and of striking design. The furniture was a skilful blend of antique and modern, and the pictures—well, she decided she had not seen so many originals outside a museum. Rafael was obviously proud of his collection of paintings and porcelain, for he pointed each item out with a word of explanation where he had got it and how difficult the search had been.
The plainest room in the house was his bedroom, intensely masculine and utilitarian. What he was most proud of there was the console beside the bed. Without even sitting up he could, he explained, press the right button and the curtains, or the windows, would open for inspection of the weather. Another button and the television would turn from its cupboard and switch itself on. Both air and heat could be adjusted and he could speak to any room in the house.
As they left that room he explained, ‘I cannot show you my mother’s bedroom and sitting room. I feel it will be her pleasure to invite you there herself. But now,’ and he bounded ahead like a schoolboy, ‘I will show you my own private domain. No woman may come except by special invitation.’
‘How about your wife?’ Jess asked with a smile.
He paused at the foot of a narrow oak staircase leading upwards. ‘I don’t know, but I think I would still want to keep my privacy. Does that shock you?’
She shook her head. ‘No, I prefer you to be honest with me, Rafael. I am having a great many shocks this evening.’
The staircase led into a square study with a massive desk and leather chairs. There could be no question that this was a man’s room.
‘Do you like that picture over there?’ he asked, and she turned her attention to the large painting above a heavy chest.
‘I...’ but before she could answer he had pressed an unseen button and the picture was rising to reveal a screen behind.
‘You see,’ he said in triumph, ‘I had always wanted my own private cinema. Come this way, Jess.’ And through another door was a small but perfectly equipped gymnasium.
She still felt she was walking through a dream, even more so when he returned to the study, opened a sliding glass door and she found herself on a roof garden brilliant with flowers, built around a swimming pool.
When they came downstairs towards the sitting room she said, ‘You haven’t shown me the kitchen.’
‘But what should you want with a kitchen?’ he said in amazement, ‘That is for Maria, there is no need to trouble yourself about anything like that.’
Jess wanted to say something to that, but she bit back a retort. Make haste slowly, she told herself; you’re in Spain, Jess Stevenson. You obviously have a lot to learn.
‘Now, before you say anything, we must have a drink. We must salute your arrival in Spain at last, and our future.’
Jess took the glass and raised it to
her lips. The sherry was very dry and very heady.
‘To us, Jess,’ he said softly.
‘To us, Rafael,’ she returned, feeling weak and a little dizzy as she always did when he looked at her like that.
‘Now I must know if you like my home. Remember it will all be yours one day.’
She turned away and pretended to examine the cabinet filled with pieces of rare jade. ‘I think it’s beautiful, Rafael.’ She swung round to face him. ‘You didn’t tell me you were a rich man. You are rich, aren’t you?’
‘Ah, I forgot, the English are a little ashamed of wealth. It is not something to be proud of, but rather to be pushed under the carpet. I did not think you shared your country’s prudery. Yes, Jess, my darling, I am a rich man; some might even say a very rich man. Does it make any difference? Tell me, I want to know.’
CHAPTER II
Jess was silent for a moment. Whatever happened she and Rafael had to be honest with each other, otherwise there was no hope for them. She took a deep breath.
‘Yes ... yes, I suppose it does, Rafael. I’m not sure why. Perhaps it’s just a matter of getting used to the idea.’
‘You don’t love me any less for it?’ he demanded.
‘Oh, no, of course not.’ Her answer came back quickly. ‘It’s just that...’
He held out his arms to her again. ‘Come here, Jess. Let’s understand one thing. Money is a subject that is dreary and sordid if you have to worry about it. In Spain, if we have it we like to enjoy it, and we also want to share it with those we love. Is there anything so wicked in that?’
She shook her head.
‘Then,’ he held her away from him, ‘we have a month for me to show you what life is like in Spain I will take you to our house on the Costa Brava and introduce you to our friends. You can see our beautiful buildings and shops—and of course my own business. It is there you will choose your engagement ring in a month’s time.’
Jess knew she was being swept along on the tide of his enthusiasm and she neither wanted nor was able to stop herself. There was only one thing she had to make clear.
Rafael, stop, please ... all those things I want to do, but you must remember I’ve come out here to work. I have a job to do and I’m determined to do it.’
‘And if you don’t?’ There was a very bright light in his eyes.
‘Then I shall be fired. Sacked.’
‘So?’ he shrugged. ‘We refund the money for your fare, tell your editor you no longer wish to work for him and that will be the end of it all. Such a lot of fuss about nothing. Come, Jess, get your coat and we will go out to dinner.’
‘No, Rafael, you don’t understand,’ she went on inexorably, ‘there’s something even more important than a mere wish not to leave the job I like in disgrace. Perhaps even more important than the fact that my editor, Oliver Preston, gave me my first real chance. No, the main thing would be that I should let down my father.
He frowned. ‘But your father is dead. You told me he has been dead for two years—like mine.’
‘My father was a journalist too, quite well known in England, and very highly thought of. It was his greatest wish that I should follow in his footsteps. I would never forgive myself if I allowed myself to be pushed ignominiously out of my job for no real reason, except perhaps that I was in love.’
‘A very honourable reason,’ he said with a smile. ‘Still, I will try to understand your duty to your father. But why any man should actually want to see his daughter racing about the countryside, doing a man s job, is quite beyond me. I picture you quite differently.’
Jess did not know whether to be flattered or offended. She reached up and kissed him. ‘Well, I just think you’re old-fashioned, darling. Now, didn’t you say something about dinner? I’m starving!’
They drove back into the centre of the city to a simple but elegant restaurant that was built in the style of the old Catalan houses, all wood, on different levels with broad balconies overlooking the main floor. It was on one of these balconies that Rafael had booked a table, and while he ordered what promised to be a typical Catalan meal, Jess looked about her.
She felt relaxed and happy. For the moment all her worries about the job and her future were pushed aside.
The restaurant was full; obviously it was a popular place. From her advantageous position she could see almost everyone. At one large table there was a family celebration, a noisy happy group of people; several young couples, and many well-dressed Spanish women. There was an aura of informal good taste over everything.
Jess was about to turn back to Rafael and his discussion of the menu when her eye was caught by the couple in the corner. The younger man wore a black polo sweater—that was probably why she noticed him. No, that could not be the only reason. There was something faintly familiar about him. His companion was another man, older, rather grizzled-looking.
Rafael said, ‘What has caught your attention, Jess? Someone down there?’
‘I suppose so. It’s the man in the black polo sweater. I feel I’ve seen him before.’
Rafael glanced over the edge. ‘Well, I imagine it’s probably because he’s so obviously English. This is a restaurant, particularly Spanish, as yet undiscovered by the tourists. That must be the reason.’
‘I expect so.’ Perhaps he was right, but Jess was unconvinced. She had a fair memory for faces. Still, it was unimportant since the man was certainly no one she actually knew. She turned her attention back to the meal.
Rafael had chosen some of the best of the local dishes. To start with a plate of mixed vegetables in a most unusual and delicious sauce; then grilled prawns, the kind she remembered from her previous visit to Spain. As a main dish, more fish, again in a tempting sauce, and finally an earthenware bowl of what looked like cream caramel but was, Rafael explained, quite different—Catalan cream, with a topping of burnt sugar, a dessert she would find nowhere else in Spain.
Jess enjoyed it all and the light, dry local wine Rafael had chosen to go with it. The service was impeccable; it was quite obvious that he was well known here. She wondered who else he brought here and pushed down a sudden flash of jealousy. Rafael was twenty-eight and he had lived in Barcelona all his life. He must know a great many people.
It was while Rafael was paying the bill and she was once again looking about her that the man in the polo sweater looked up and caught her eye. For an instant their gaze locked and held. She was the first to look away, even more certain that she had seen him before. There was something about his face, an awful bleakness, deep-set haunted eyes, as though something in his life had driven him right to the edge. Jess did not know why, but she felt she would remember that face for a long time.
She woke the next morning when Maria brought her tea and knew there was something that had to be faced. For a moment she could not think what it was. On the tray there was a note from Rafael, full of apologies that he would have to leave her for a couple of hours this morning. Something very important had come up at the business, but he would deal with it as quickly as he could and return to take her out for the rest of the day. She was to do whatever she liked. His mother would undoubtedly be able to advise her.
His mother, that was what had to be faced, Jess remembered. For no particular reason she had been apprehensive about this meeting for a long time. It was not so much what Rafael said about his mother, but what was left unsaid. And why, Jess wondered, when he was so insistent on marrying her had he never mentioned to his mother that she was more than just an English friend? To Jess, the signs were ominous.
She rose, had her bath and dressed, then arranged her papers on her desk, ready to start some work after breakfast. The trip had been arranged in such haste that she had hardly had time to do more than glance through the files on Richard Kendall. It was important, before she met him, to have at least a picture of the man in her mind and to know such details of him that had been published thoroughly. She had been allowed to bring with her photostats of the enquiry and other
newspaper cuttings, and these she now brought out and within a few minutes was totally absorbed in her subject.
It seemed that long before Richard Kendall had become involved in the scandal that wrecked his career, he had a reputation as a brilliant doctor. He had won almost every honour going—and at a particularly early age, so that when he turned to surgery and qualified in that, he was the youngest surgeon in the country.
He became obsessed by transplant surgery almost from the beginning and had put in a great deal of groundwork before all the publicity in other countries broke. He said, Jess noted, that he loathed any kind of publicity and if that was going to be the result of his work then he would get out of it as soon as possible.
Nevertheless he could not avoid the publicity of a marriage to a famous model—an incredibly beautiful girl, by her photographs. There was only one photograph of Kendall himself, a blurred print taken at a student athletics meeting.
One night, when Kendall was the only surgeon on duty owing to a ‘flu epidemic, a dangerously ill man was rushed into hospital. Kendall performed an extremely delicate operation on him, but he died a few hours later. There was no one else in real authority to say whether the man would have lived without the operation, nevertheless he was severely reprimanded. And from the voices that spoke out against him, the stories grew.