by Karen Swan
Another silence.
‘So you really don’t see any sort of opportunity here for her? You don’t think that the financial security that comes with being a Mendoza could give her a better life? A more comfortable one?’
‘Of course you would say that. You are a – what is it again? A wealth counsellor. You are in the thrall of money, you worship riches and fame. It is your god.’
‘Believe me, señora, it most certainly is not. I know very well that money can be something from which to escape, as much as it is to embrace. Yes, many of my clients actively chased what they now possess, wealth was their dream. But I’m not there to show them how to spend it. It’s down to me to show them that they won’t find fulfilment in those things. I want to help Marina, to make sure she doesn’t get lost in the hype that is coming towards her – and it is coming. She can’t unknow what she knows. She is a Mendoza by blood, a member of one of the most prominent families in the country. Her life has changed already but she cannot merely step from one world into the next, not without help.’ Charlotte leaned forward slightly. ‘Just the technicalities of being recognized as a legitimate heir mean she’ll need to put a legal and financial team together. These are practicalities that can’t be ignored. But where I can help her is with coping strategies for how to manage her personal relationships, her daily routine, now that she doesn’t have to work – especially during this transition phase—’
‘There will be no transition. We are not taking any money, nor are we taking the Mendoza name. We are Quincys. The best thing I ever did for my family was to leave all this behind.’
‘The best thing? Forgive me, señora, but I have seen firsthand the cracks in the walls, the broken-down washing machine . . . I have seen how your granddaughter works double shifts and two jobs to pay the bills each month. Can you really say that’s better? Was it really worth it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Leaving your home? Your family?’ she pushed.
‘Yes.’
‘So if you’d known then what you know now, you would still do it all again?’
She hesitated. ‘. . . I will not deny mine has been the harder path. It has been a burden on my own family, living with less.’ Her gaze met Charlotte’s. ‘And many would say I am mad. You will. What did I give all this up for when the time I had with my husband was cruelly short? We had four days together and that was it. Four days in ninety-eight years . . .’
Her eyes swam with bitter tears and Charlotte felt her own heart stiffen at the sight of her still raw grief. ‘But though they were only four, they were the days that defined my entire life. They were the days that explained my life: I was born to have his child, and I was spared to raise his child. There’s never been anyone else for me.’ When she looked back at Charlotte, her grey-green eyes were as clear as onyx. ‘So when you ask me if I would do it again? Yes, in this life, and the next, and however many others might follow. I would always choose him.’
I would always choose him. What about when there wasn’t a choice? Charlotte wondered. What about when he was married to someone else? A father?
One of the carers knocked on the door. ‘Excuse me, señora, your granddaughter wishes you to rest now.’
Señora Quincy looked over at him and gave a nod. She did look weary. The medic wheeled a wheelchair into the room and carefully lifted her frail body off the bed. The old lady’s eyes never left hers and Charlotte marvelled that though the flesh was weak, the spirit was still so strong.
‘Please just consider this one thing, señora,’ she said, as the carer turned to wheel her away. ‘You’ve got full disclosure on this situation. You know why you abandoned this life and chose another, harder path. Marina doesn’t. She loves you but you also love her and maybe what was right for you all those years ago isn’t right for her now. For your granddaughter’s sake, at least tell her everything and allow her to decide for herself.’
There was no response.
‘I will take Señora Quincy back to her room now,’ the carer said, when his patient didn’t reply. ‘She must rest. Señor Mendoza is returning home tomorrow.’
Charlotte nodded. She already knew it was going to be a long day.
Marina was sitting in one of the red velvet carver chairs, nervously reading a magazine and looking like she was sitting in the dentist’s waiting room when Charlotte hobbled into the room. She had managed to shower and change into a draped mocha silk dress, the elegant look rather undermined when one of the staff caught sight of her coming down the stairs on her bottom, leg outstretched.
Mayra appeared at the door. ‘An aperitif, Señora Fairfax?’
She saw that Marina was drinking beer. ‘Thank you. A negroni, please.’ She needed something strong and swift. Nathan’s continued absence was making her edgy. Where was he? They had to at least talk about what had happened between them at the bullring, didn’t they? That kiss had been real, true. There had been no lies between them then. Was he just going to avoid her? Stay out all night? Stay somewhere else instead? She felt desperate to just see him. Even just seeing him would suffice. But she knew in her heart it wouldn’t stop there. Over and over she had replayed the look he had given her at Marina’s words, we don’t get to choose who we fall in love with.
Mayra nodded and left again.
‘How are you feeling?’ Marina asked, setting aside the magazine as Charlotte settled herself on the sofa; it was so low she wondered if she would ever be able to get up again.
‘I had a quick nap. I don’t know what it is about flying. I always need to sleep afterwards. How was your grandmother?’
‘She had gone out for some air when I got in. She’s resting now, though. She’s going to skip dinner tonight.’
‘Right,’ Charlotte said, feeling a stab of guilt that she had pushed the old woman so hard.
She gazed around the room. It was all shadows and dark corners, mahogany timbers along the ceilings, console tables draped with heavily fringed damasks, the furniture hard and lean. It wasn’t a room for slouching in; it demanded a straight back and shoes on, manners and a sharp wit – she had grown up in rooms such as this. On one wall, between the windows, flashed a set of matador’s knives and above the fireplace was draped an opulent cape, silver and gold thread woven through carnation-pink silk.
‘Incredible, isn’t it?’ Marina asked, looking around too. She was wearing tight black trousers, heeled ankle-boots and a strappy, shiny camisole with a trim of sequins along the top, kohl heavily inked around her eyes. She looked more like she was ready for a big night out than a quiet private dinner and Charlotte felt another stab of concern for how much she had coming her way in the future months. It wasn’t just the right bank balance that would make her a Mendoza, it was the right manners too, knowing the right people, drinking the right wine, telling the right jokes. ‘I can’t believe this is . . . me,’ she murmured, her eyes alighting on a portrait on the far wall. She frowned, getting up and walking over.
‘What is it?’ Charlotte asked, trying to twist in her seat.
‘Is it just me or . . .’ Marina lifted the painting off the wall – another no-no she didn’t yet know about – and carried it over. ‘. . . Is she me?’
‘Wow! She’s the image of you. Or you are of her, rather.’
‘Aren’t I?’ Marina said in amazement, her gaze travelling over the portrait. The woman was young, with a rope of thick dark hair twisted into an elegant looped braid, a hat angled on her head. She was sitting side-saddle and wearing a magnificent emerald velvet riding habit.
‘She’s so beautiful,’ Charlotte said, admiring the artistry. This was no lucky likeness, the artist had been accomplished, masterful even.
Was that footsteps she could hear?
‘Quick, put it back.’
‘But who is she?’ Marina asked, transfixed.
‘My grandmother.’
The deep voice made them both jump, Marina almost dropping the painting on Charlotte’s lap.
‘Mateo,’ Ch
arlotte faltered, trying to recover herself, mortified to have been caught looming over a painting that should have been hanging in a museum, not being picked off the wall like a Beyoncé poster.
Seemingly from nowhere, Mayra appeared and discreetly took the painting from Marina’s hands, returning it to its rightful position on the wall. Mateo walked into the room, looking imposing in a beige striped seersucker blazer and chinos. He was tanned, elegant, perfectly at home. Of course.
‘Marina,’ he said, holding out a hand and clasping the other around hers. ‘My cousin.’ He stared down at her, a benign smile on his face as he openly studied her, taking in the Mendoza features – heavy, planed bone structure, deep-set eyes. ‘I must say, the likeness is striking. Did my aunt ever mention her mother to you?’
Marina shook her head, dumbstruck and forgetting for a moment to use her voice too. ‘. . . No.’
‘No,’ he nodded, the smile still in place. ‘Well, she was a noted beauty. The most beautiful woman in Andalusia back then, they said.’
Marina looked like a rabbit in the headlights, her smile stuck on as Mateo overwhelmed her. As one of the wealthiest men in the country, his face was instantly recognizable but it was his smooth manners and utmost decorum that were the unexpected extra. Charlotte knew Marina would never have met someone of his calibre before and that to have been his waitress would have been somehow easier than sitting here as his new-found cousin.
‘We weren’t expecting you till the morning . . .’ Charlotte said, rescuing her and wishing she could stand up.
Mayra returned with their drinks, including a martini for Mateo. They each took them and Mateo gestured for Marina to please sit too.
‘. . . Is your father with you?’ Charlotte asked.
‘No, he is coming on with my wife in the morning. One more night’s observation and paperwork.’ He gave a light-hearted roll of his eyes as he crossed his legs, fussing slightly with the crease of his trousers. ‘But I felt I ought to get here as soon as I could. I’ve been very aware that you’ve been gathered here for several days. I hope you won’t think it remiss that we couldn’t get here before now.’
‘Not at all,’ Marina said, perching at the front of her chair as if she was in a job interview. ‘In fact, I think my grandmother has benefited from having a few days to recover first from the journey.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. And she is quite well?’
‘Very, thank you. She’s resting in her room, getting ready I think for tomorrow.’
Mateo smiled. ‘Is she nervous about the reunion?’
‘I’m not sure. I think so, but then she’s always been very self-possessed. It can be hard to tell.’
Mateo inhaled. ‘I think my father is . . . relieved. I’d say that’s the word. I think this is something he has wanted for a very long time.’
Charlotte saw how Marina’s smile had become even more fixed and a small, awkward silence bloomed.
‘I only wish we had known about each other sooner,’ Mateo said, smoothly filling the void. ‘We might have met under happier circumstances.’
‘Yes,’ Marina agreed meekly, looking intimidated.
Mateo looked around the room, as though noticing something wasn’t quite right. ‘Ah, but where is our professor?’
‘Still working,’ Charlotte said neutrally, even as her stomach clenched again at his prolonged absence.
‘At this time of the evening?’ Mateo frowned, checking his Patek Philippe watch.
She tried to look surprised too. It was growing late now, all the museums or institutions he would be visiting for work would be closed. He was deliberately avoiding her. Their kiss earlier had him running scared. Another mistake . . . In the heat of the moment it had been just that: heat. Hormones. Chemicals. Adrenaline was up. But in the growing coolness of these hours afterwards, the facts would be reasserting themselves to him with stark brutality: he had a family. It couldn’t be changed.
‘Well he took a few hours out this afternoon to join me on a tour of the bullring,’ Marina explained. ‘It was very kind of you to have arranged the private visit.’
‘The least I could do,’ Mateo said, spreading his hands wide in a generous gesture. ‘We have, of course, very close links with them. I expect you saw the sculpture of the bull outside?’
Marina nodded.
‘That was one of our bulls – Leviatan. Truly one of the most impressive beasts we ever bred: he weighed two tonnes and had shoulders wider than a car. He was the creature that inspired Ferruccio Lamborghini when he came to visit La Ventilla in the 1960s and decided to have an image of the bull as the marque for his cars.’
‘Wow, I never knew that,’ Charlotte smiled, seeing how Marina looked like she might burst with pride.
‘That’s very cool,’ Marina grinned.
Mateo looked over at her. ‘It is cool being a Mendoza,’ he agreed, seeming pleased. He took a long sip of his drink. ‘Well, it will be interesting to see what his research has uncovered. How has history remembered the Mendozas, I wonder?’
Charlotte and Marina glanced at each other, sensing he had no idea of the shadows behind the family’s glittering name.
‘Nathan told me once he sometimes feels like more of a detective than a historian,’ Charlotte said lightly instead.
‘That’s a good analogy. Is there much of a difference, I wonder?’
Charlotte thought for a moment. ‘I suppose the detective wants justice.’
‘And the historian?’
‘The truth.’
Mateo narrowed his eyes, regarding her interestedly. ‘The truth, yes, there’s no room for sentiment there. It’s about the facts. The cold, hard facts.’
Mayra came in, announcing dinner was ready, and Marina gratefully finished her beer with one long gulp – prompting a look of bemusement from Mateo.
‘By the way, Charlotte, I have something for you,’ he said, shooting her a conspiring look. ‘Come. It is out here.’
He put down his drink and walked out into the hall. Charlotte struggled to her feet and hobbled over, leaning against the doorway. There, a magnificent saddle gleamed astride the back of a chair. It was decorated with a Hermes-orange satin bow.
‘To get you back in the saddle, so to speak,’ Mateo said. ‘You remember our first conversation?
‘I do. And it’s beautiful,’ Charlotte gasped. ‘But . . . why?’
‘It’s a wedding gift of course!’
What? She looked up at him, just as Marina joined her in the doorway.
‘You’re getting married?’ Marina asked excitedly, placing a hand on her arm.
‘In just a few days,’ Mateo nodded.
‘Charlotte, why didn’t you say?’
But Charlotte couldn’t reply, because the reason why was standing frozen on the spot at the other end of the hall, a jacket in one hand and eyes that told her he had heard every single word.
Dinner was brief. Mateo was a charming and self-assured host but even he was struggling to keep a conversation going single-handedly for more than three courses: Marina, overawed by the unexpected social situation, could only dumbly agree to anything he said, and Charlotte could scarcely hear a word that passed, her brain going into overdrive as she tried to think of ways to explain things to Nathan. But he wouldn’t look at her; for the entire dinner he had kept his attention on either his plate or his host, smiling at Mateo’s anecdotes and doing an all-round fantastic job of acting (as he had tried to in the jeep) as though she wasn’t even there.
‘Will you excuse me?’ she said finally, as the dessert plates were being cleared and Mateo started making noises about finishing off the meal with some brandy. ‘I think I need to get to bed. My foot is throbbing and I need to elevate it.’ She didn’t know how much longer she could sit there, pretending to be fine when she was anything but.
‘Me too,’ Marina said quickly. ‘Not the foot. Just the bed bit.’ She smiled nervously. ‘Big day tomorrow.’
‘Quite,’ Mateo said, tipping
his head in agreement and smiling broadly as she slipped from the room. ‘You’re sure we can’t persuade you to stay for a nightcap, Charlotte?’
‘I’m afraid not. It’s Nurofen and an early night for me.’
‘Well that is a shame. I had been hoping we might mix a little business with our pleasure and regroup on things before the big day.’
‘First thing tomorrow?’ she asked hopefully, standing up with a wobble.
Mateo saw how her leg was still held awkwardly off the floor and immediately, gallantly, relented. ‘Of course.’
‘Thank you for a lovely evening. Goodnight,’ she said, her gaze coming to rest on Nathan, but he was busying himself with pouring the last of the red into his glass. He had drunk a lot over dinner, matching Mateo easily, who seemed to appreciate having an equally thirsty guest.
She began hobbling and hopping over the floor, aware she had an audience.
‘My dear,’ Mateo tutted to her back as she reached the door. ‘How on earth are you going to walk down the aisle in three days’ time like that?’
‘Oh, it’s . . .’ She couldn’t even finish the lie.
‘More to the point, how on earth are you going to get up the stairs tonight?’
‘I’m fine,’ she said quickly. ‘I have a system: bottom shuffling. Not elegant. Very effective.’
‘Nonsense. You’ll ruin that beautiful dress of yours. I’ll ask for some of the carers to carry you.’
‘Please don’t. I hate a fuss,’ she said quickly. ‘And I’ll be up in half the time it’d take them to get here anyway.’
‘But . . .’ Mateo looked floundered by her refusal. ‘Nathan, talk some sense into her, please. Dior silk was not designed for sweeping floors.’ He looked suddenly at his dining companion. ‘Or of course, you could do the honours—’
‘No, no,’ Charlotte said firmly. ‘He couldn’t possibly—’
‘Nonsense, he’s twice your size. He’ll barely know he’s lifting you; isn’t that so, professor? We can hardly leave a damsel in distress.’
There was an expectant pause.
‘Yes. Quite,’ Nathan muttered, setting down his napkin and scraping his chair back.