‘That should be all right now. You can put it back on.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, setting it down with heel and toe pointing in the right direction, but for some reason, she couldn’t slide her foot into place. By the time she realised that the bag on her shoulder was upsetting her equilibrium and she should put it down, it was already too late.
Letting out a scream, she tumbled backwards and landed with a bump on her buttocks.
‘Ouch!’ she hollered, as bits of gravel sank into the palms of her hands and her bottom started to throb. ‘Que duele!’ That hurts!
‘Oh dear! Oh dear me!’ Simon was clearly horrified. Hurrying to her aid, he squatted down, tucked his hands beneath her armpits and without more ado, he literally heaved her up just as if she were a sack of coal – or potatoes, perhaps. It wasn’t exactly dignified.
He must have had strong muscles because she was no featherweight and soon she was standing again. Straight away, he stepped behind her and proceeded to give her an energetic brush down, rather as if she were a dusty rug hanging on a washing line. Back, hips, thighs and calves, they were all swept and patted clean of debris, but he was careful to avoid her bum.
‘There!’ he said at last, moving around to face her again. ‘You’re all back to normal. How are you feeling?’
‘OK – I think.’
The truth was that she was hurting a bit, and her pride had received a blow, too. It occurred to her that she hadn’t exactly stuck to her vow to keep well away from the village men, either. In fact she’d messed up quite spectacularly by practically falling on top of one of them. But then Simon did something unexpected, which took her mind right off the pain and shame.
Crouching down again, he reached for her hands and placed them on his upper back. She had no idea what was happening but she didn’t object. After that, he picked up her bare foot ever so gently and rested it on his knee. Her toes, with their pale pink painted nails, looked small, wiggly, and really rather vulnerable against the roughness of his dark twill shorts.
There were a few specks of dirt, which he dusted off lightly and methodically with his fingertips before slipping her foot into the espadrille.
Touched by his gentleness, she didn’t wish to offend and let him finish. Finally, he carefully tied her laces in a surprisingly neat bow before setting her foot back on the ground.
‘I feel like Cinderella,’ she said with a laugh, while he was still squatting at her ankles. ‘Thank you.’
This was his cue to spring up and take a few steps away so that he was no longer occupying her personal space.
‘My pleasure. I was on my way to the cliffs.’ He glanced at the sky, which had turned ominously grey in the short time they’d been there. ‘But I might not bother.’
‘How funny! I was going there too.’
It was only now that Chabela had the chance to look at him properly and take in what he was wearing: a dark grey T-shirt, stiff, practical-looking cargo shorts (brown, of course) with lots of pockets, and thick black socks tucked into big brown walking boots. There was a black backpack at his feet, which he picked up and pulled on, along with a slightly silly beige floppy hat.
The ensemble was comfy, no doubt, but not exactly elegant. Chabela couldn’t help remembering Alfonso’s summer wardrobe, which consisted of well-cut linen suits for work and slim-fitting chino shorts with fine cotton tailored shirts for weekends.
He always wore suede loafers in hot weather; he had several pairs in different colours. And she’d never, ever seen him in walking boots. He wasn’t remotely sporty and hiking definitely wasn’t his thing.
As far as she knew, he liked to spend his vacations reading and relaxing by a pool or the sea. When his children were younger, he’d told her that he paid for them to have lessons in surfing, tennis, horse riding or whatever was their particular passion at the time. That way, he barely had to move from his sun lounger, except for meals, which his wife or maid would cook.
Simon was fiddling with the cord of his hat beneath his chin, adjusting it for a secure fit, and she found herself thinking that she rather admired his lack of vanity. At least if a woman went out with him, she wouldn’t have to compete. Not that he was ever likely to have a girlfriend, of course. Sometimes, when she’d been on a date with Alfonso, she’d clocked him checking out the other women to make sure they’d noticed him. He loved the fact that she was admired wherever they went, but he wanted his own place in the sun, too.
‘Well, goodbye then.’ Simon had finished adjusting his hat and put out his hand as if to shake hers.
Chabela pictured the rain lashing down as she wandered alone on the cliffs, then she thought of her isolated room at Polgarry Manor, which was elegant and comfortable but seemed awfully big for just one person, especially on a Saturday night when the rest of the world was out partying.
‘I, um…’ She wasn’t usually reserved, quite the opposite, in fact, but the hostile response to her dancing earlier had made her unsure of herself. ‘Would you like…’
The exact same words slipped from his mouth simultaneously and they both laughed in surprise.
She paused, waiting for him to go first, but he shook his head, insisting on letting her.
‘I was going to say…’ she began again, licking her lips. ‘I wondered… if you’re not doing anything, that is… shall I cook us some dinner?’
Never in her life had she found it so difficult to be direct; perhaps some of his English awkwardness was rubbing off on her.
‘I don’t have any ingredients, obviously,’ she went on, ‘but if you’ve got eggs, I could make an omelette?’
‘Plenty of eggs – and potatoes. I imagine you need those, too?’ He gave a small, tight-lipped smile, which she’d come to realise was his way of showing considerable pleasure. ‘Thank you, that would be nice.’
In the face of such restraint, Chabela had an insane urge to throw her arms around him, just to see what he would do. She was learning the hard way, however, that exuberance didn’t seem to go down too well around here, and she managed to rein herself in.
‘Bueno,’ she said instead, rubbing her hands together. They were still smarting from her fall. ‘Is the local shop open? Shall I go and get us some wine?’
She was thinking that they’d both need alcohol to oil the wheels of conversation; he could be hard work, unless she could get him on one of his pet subjects, which seemed to be education, semantics – and Mexico.
He insisted that he had wine already and in any case, the stuff they stocked in the general store was mostly unpalatable.
Chabela wasn’t dressed for a hike over the cliffs to his cottage at this time of day. It would no doubt be quite late by the time she left, and she hadn’t brought a sweatshirt, cardigan or waterproof. She wasn’t about to point this out, however. The prospect of not having to spend the evening alone far outweighed any potential future discomfort, and if the worst came to the worst, she could probably borrow something of his.
‘Off we go,’ he said cheerily, bounding up the steep steps like a mountain goat, while Chabela trudged behind. He was exceedingly fit and she was only halfway up by the time he’d reached the top. He didn’t even look out of breath.
Thankfully the rain held off until they reached Karrek Row, when the sky, which had been getting progressively darker, suddenly turned almost black. A flash of lightning was followed almost immediately by a crack of thunder, then the heavens opened and water slashed down, quickly drenching them right through. It was as if they’d stepped into the shower.
‘Run!’ Chabela shouted, and she was aware of Simon by her side as they hurtled past the row of cottages – Gwel Teg, Seabank, Wild Rose, Crafty and Farthing. When they finally reached Kittiwake on the end, she didn’t think twice before opening the gate and rushing up the path first to his front door.
It was a tremendous relief to step inside the dry porch, which smelled of roses and rubber boots. Water streamed down the back of her neck, off her clothes and onto th
e stone floor, leaving a sizeable puddle at her feet.
‘Oh dear!’ Simon muttered as he hurried in behind her. He was soaking wet like her and panting heavily and she smiled, comparing his mild exclamation with the much stronger words that she’d just used under her breath.
It was quite a squeeze for them both to fit under the small porch roof and she could feel him scrabbling around in his pocket for the key. Then he leaned forwards to put it in the lock, opened the door and she was just about to rush in when he stopped her in her tracks.
‘Er, wait a minute,’ he said, in an abrupt, schoolmasterly sort of voice. ‘Please take off your shoes first.’
Duly reprimanded, she bent down obediently to untie her laces and he did the same, before removing his boots and shuffling around to get in before her.
‘I’ll fetch some towels. I suggest you undress in the cloakroom downstairs. I’ll dry your clothes while you have a bath.’ He sounded as if he were planning a military operation. ‘Wait there. I don’t want the floors getting soaked.’
And with that, he disappeared, leaving her standing and shivering inside the entrance like a wet dog.
She might have felt offended, but actually it wasn’t a bad scheme. She could understand why he didn’t want his wooden floor drenched and her spirits lifted when he returned soon after, clutching a big, soft beige towel and a white towelling bathrobe.
By the time she’d removed her soggy garments and slipped the bathrobe on, he was upstairs running her bath, into which he’d poured a few drops of delicious, lavender-scented oil.
It was strange to see him standing over the tub, whooshing his hand around in the water to test the temperature. The room was hot and steamy, and she felt tired suddenly and longed to immerse herself in the bubbles.
He had changed, too, into a rather strange, long tan kaftan, made of rough cotton and complete with ethnic stitching around the sleeves and neck. It looked like something he might have picked up on travels in North Africa, perhaps, or the Middle East.
For a moment, she felt slightly uncomfortable. What was she doing in a strange house and foreign country with a man in an odd, long tunic, who was possibly naked underneath, and whom she barely knew? But she needn’t have worried. He turned off the taps and straightened up.
‘There you go,’ he said in an efficient sort of way without so much as a whiff of suggestion. ‘I’ve put some clothes for you on the chair.’
She glanced at the wicker seat in the corner of the room and saw that there was, indeed, a pile of folded-up garments, which was very thoughtful of him.
‘They’ll be too big, but you can use the cord to keep them up,’ he went on. ‘Your stuff shouldn’t take long to dry.’
Then he turned and left the room, closing the door firmly behind him.
As Chabela sank into the soothing water, which was just the right temperature, she found herself thinking how silly she’d been to doubt him for one second. He was far too involved in work and his books to be interested in her as anything other than a friend or, more accurately, an acquaintance. After all, they’d only just met and besides, he wasn’t the sort of man to get close to anyone.
No, with him she was perfectly safe and she needn’t even fret about the villagers gossiping, because he didn’t seem to mix much with them. Self-contained, that’s what he was. For some reason, she found it really rather appealing.
The bath was a smooth, comfortable shape and as she lay back and rested her head on the rounded edge, she scanned her environment to see what, if any, light it shed on the owner.
The room itself was pleasingly square and cosy, with clean white walls, blue shutters on the little window, and blue and white patterned tiles in places that might get splashed with water.
There was a narrow shelf facing her, on which were set a number of green glass bottles in different shapes and sizes, each with a cork stopper and a handwritten label.
She could just about read the words from where she was: Apple Cider Vinegar Detox Bath; Seasalt Detox; Chamomile and Rosemary – Headache; Lavender – Calming; Peppermint – Fatigue.
She recognised the writing as being his, and guessed that he’d probably made the concoctions himself. It rather amused her to think of him grating and grinding herbs and plants and infusing them into delicious-smelling potions, like an old-fashioned apothecary. He was quite unlike any man she’d ever met.
The tub was positioned underneath the window, looking out over craggy cliffs, sea and sky. Through the open slats of the shutters, she watched the rain descending in perpendicular sheets, until gradually it began to ease off and the sky brightened again briefly before darkness began to fall.
She was so comfortable that she could have stayed there for ages, but then she noticed the water starting to cool and felt guilty for taking so long.
Simon might want the bathroom himself and furthermore, she’d offered to make supper and he was probably ravenous. The thought of food made her own stomach rumble; it was hours since she’d eaten.
Heaving herself up out of the water with a sigh, she noticed that her skin had turned wrinkled and pink like a baby’s. After reaching for the towel, she dried herself down quickly before climbing rather tentatively into the clothes that Simon had left for her.
They were, of course, mostly brown: brown corduroy trousers, which she had to roll up and tie at the waist with the piece of cord that he’d kindly put out for her; thick brown socks, which felt extremely cosy; a white T-shirt in a man’s size medium, and a very old, holey, heathery-coloured, round-necked woollen sweater, which was a nice touch, as it was probably the only vaguely colourful item in his wardrobe.
When she checked herself in the mirror above the washbasin, she thought that she resembled one of the scarecrows you see in the countryside outside Mexico City, with dark, glittery buttons for eyes, red cheeks and a knotty black wig on top. As she had no comb, there was nothing whatever that she could do about her hair, so she decided to go downstairs just as she was, first letting the water out of the bath and giving it a cursory wipe down.
Simon was laying the table in the kitchen. He’d obviously showered in her absence because his hair was wet and he’d changed into a new pair of trousers and a buff sweater.
His face was slightly pink, like hers, and when she apologised for looking a mess, he seemed surprised, as if her appearance was of absolutely no significance whatsoever.
‘Are you warm enough?’ he asked. ‘I can put the heating on if you like? Or get you an extra layer?’
Chabela said no, she was fine, and she walked over to the worktop, where he had put out a carton of eggs, milk, an onion, potatoes, some fresh parsley, butter, olive oil, salt and pepper and a big wedge of cheddar cheese.
Alongside were a frying pan, a wooden chopping board and a sharp knife, and there were some fresh green salad leaves soaking in the sink, along with baby tomatoes, a cucumber, radishes and a bright yellow pepper.
‘They’re from the garden,’ he said, noticing where she was looking. Then he smiled. ‘I’ve checked them for slugs. Don’t worry, they’re completely safe.’
There was everything here that she needed, and she proceeded to mix the eggs with milk, salt and pepper and chop the potatoes and onion into small chunks. Then she warmed some butter in the frying pan and watched the vegetables start to sizzle, giving off delicious smells.
Meanwhile, Simon opened a bottle of red wine and passed her a glass, before fixing one for himself.
‘Do you have any music?’ Chabela asked, stirring the onions and potatoes with a wooden spoon.
‘What would you like to listen to?’
‘You decide.’
Before long, she recognised the deep, soulful voice of Aretha Franklin wafting in from next door. She took a sip of wine, which trickled down her throat and seemed to warm her right through, then she and Simon stood side by side while he prepared the salad and she kept an eye on the omelette to make sure that it wasn’t burning underneath.
By n
ow, it was dark outside and the room was lit by under-cupboard lights, spaced apart at regular intervals above the worktops. Simon hadn’t bothered to pull down the blinds, and through the window you could see the knobbly outline of the gnarled old apple tree in the garden, while overhead shone a crescent-shaped moon, surrounded by bright stars twinkling like jewels in the clear night sky.
There was no external noise, only Aretha’s voice and the spitting pan. Chabela realised that she hadn’t felt safe and cosy like this for years, possibly ever. From where she was standing, she couldn’t see the neighbouring house or any other signs of life; she and Simon could have been on their own on a desert island, for all she knew, with everything they needed right here: food; wine; music; books – and each other for company.
‘It’s ready,’ she said, checking herself, for she could sense her thoughts starting to run away with her.
She sliced the omelette into two, put each half on a plate and then they sat down opposite each other with a basket of French bread, the open bottle of wine and a big bowl of salad in between.
The food tasted good and after wolfing down a few mouthfuls, she helped herself to a big portion of greenery, with a generous amount of Simon’s home-made vinaigrette on top, sprinkled with rock salt.
‘Muy rico!’ she said, picking up her wine glass and taking a big slurp. Delicious! There was only an inch left in the bottom, so she gave herself a refill before offering to do the same for her host.
‘Not yet, thank you,’ he said stiffly, placing a hand over his glass, which still had a few inches of wine in it. ‘I’d better pace myself.’
‘Really?’ Chabela was unaccustomed to such self-discipline and raised her eyebrows. ‘You don’t have to work tomorrow, do you?’
He shook his head.
‘Then have more, go on!’ Without waiting for an answer, she filled his glass to the brim. ‘If you don’t help me out, I’ll drink the whole lot!’
The Girl Who Came Home to Cornwall Page 19