by Karen Swan
Charlotte stiffened at the reference to Nathan again. It had been difficult enough flying back into Madrid, just knowing he was here.
‘– and he said that through his work, he had come to see that life is not linear, but rather weaves and meanders in loops that sometimes touch to make a complete circle, connecting us back to a seminal point in our past. Many times it doesn’t, of course, snaking away again in different directions, a series of near-misses, if you like. But he said, occasionally, if we are lucky, the points can touch again and we get to close off a circle. And I believe that is what my father managed to do this summer. It was his last act of will, bringing his twin back into his life and coming full circle . . .’
Charlotte stepped back like she’d been pushed, knowing she hadn’t been so lucky. It had been a near miss for her, Nathan back in her life, in her bed, just fleetingly before he meandered away again, back to his family, his work, his life here . . .
‘Are you okay?’ Marina whispered, seeing how she pulled at the neck of her dress.
‘Yes, I . . .’ She felt eyes upon her. She felt hot. She cleared her throat. ‘I’m just going to freshen up. I’ll be right back.’
‘Okay, but be back for my speech,’ Marina said anxiously.
‘I will, I promise.’
She moved as discreetly as she could through the crowd, hurrying away from the congregated mass and down the marble corridors, following the signs for the Ladies. She needed to splash some water on her face and just take a moment. It was the surprise of hearing his name again, that was all. She should have known he would be mentioned tonight. After all, it was his work that had given the family answers and resolution.
Her shoes tapped rhythmically as she hurried past the priceless masterpieces, not seeing them. She turned the corner and rushed down the next hall, knowing her way around here so well; she and Mouse had been brought here so many times as children to see the various paintings the family had sold to ‘return them to the public gaze’ but which she had later come to realize was a cover for settling her father’s numerous drug-related debts. She didn’t need to turn her head to know that the copy of La Joconde was just down here on the left or that—
Suddenly she remembered again. With everything that had happened, she had completely forgotten, but she walked over now and stopped in front of the little Chardin, still sitting unobtrusively and discreetly amidst the splashier works. She stared at it in silence. It had been the painting he had most admired in her parents’ home, the only one that had seemingly touched him. She had barely ever noticed it, screaming past as a child on rollerskates with Mouse, blind to it as a sullen teen. But he had seen the world through a different gaze to her and he’d been drawn to how it showed ‘beauty in the small things’. She had sent it to him as a last-ditch attempt to reach out to him after she’d destroyed everything between them, after he had transferred to Oxford, ignored every message she left, returned every letter she wrote . . . and now it was here too, as tossed away as all her apologies. She realized she had forgotten to chase Katerina on it, both of them overtaken with other events.
‘It’s on loan.’
The voice made her jump and she whirled round. Nathan was standing a few feet away, watching her. Time stopped. What was he doing here? Or should she have been so surprised? Mateo must have invited him, or Marina?
Her body loosened treacherously just at the sight of him. It was a moment before she could speak. ‘. . . Because you didn’t want it.’
‘Yes.’
The flat rejection stung her – he was always so direct – and she turned away. No matter what physical effect he had on her, she wasn’t going to stand here and let him give her an emotional drubbing all over again.
‘. . . It was too painful having it hanging on the wall,’ he said to her back. ‘Every time I looked at it I was reminded of you – and I just wanted to move on and forget you.’
She almost gave a laugh. Was that supposed to make her feel better? She turned back to face him. ‘Right,’ she said sarcastically. ‘Thanks for clearing that up.’
She wanted to leave but her feet didn’t move and they stood staring at each other, like flies caught in a web, helplessly awaiting their fates.
His gaze fell to her hand. ‘No ring.’
She stirred, immediately on the defensive. Was he really going to bring all that up again? ‘. . . No.’
‘Being engraved?’
Was that supposed to be a joke? ‘. . . No.’
His eyes locked with hers, probing for answers without asking questions, but she remained silent. It was none of his business that Jules had signed the papers and Stephen had returned her call. It wasn’t his concern that she had chosen this single status. He may not be free but she was, and she would find her path, no matter what he or her mother or anyone else said to the contrary.
She shifted weight. ‘I didn’t know you were going to be here.’
‘Or else you wouldn’t have come?’
‘Probably not, no.’ He wasn’t the only one who could be blunt. ‘Why are you here?’
‘I helped Marina find some of the archive footage,’ he shrugged. ‘We’ve met for drinks a couple of times now.’
‘That’s nice.’ Another tinge of sarcasm coloured the words.
‘She said the wedding was cancelled – that Jules pulled off another of his cock-ups.’
She turned away angrily. ‘Oh, you really can’t help yourself, can you?’ she chided. ‘You just have to gloat.’ She tipped her head to the side, turned the tables onto him. ‘And how about you? Cheated on your wife lately?’
‘I don’t have a wife,’ he replied calmly.
‘. . . Fine, girlfriend. Fiancée. Whatever the hell she is.’
‘Ex-girlfriend. Currently staying at mine with her baby boy while she tries to get an apartment sorted. Her boyfriend’s left her.’
Charlotte stared at him, stunned, his words and their ramifications rebounding around her head. ‘. . . So then . . . why did you say—’
‘Actually I didn’t. You assumed. And it seemed better that way. I thought it would keep you away. I didn’t want to be back here again.’
She frowned. ‘Back where?’
He shrugged. ‘Loving you.’ The simplicity of the words stilled her as they stared at one another. She saw the vulnerability come into his eyes, the sangfroid dropping away. He glanced back down at her again. ‘Look Lotts, it’s true that for a long time, I wanted to hate you and hurt you; I didn’t think I could ever forgive you for what you’d done. You didn’t just break my heart, you tore it up.’ His month set into a grim line. ‘But when I got the call about the case . . . I had to see you again. I needed to prove to myself that I could walk away, show that it was finally over for me.’ He gave a dry smile and shook his head lightly. ‘Bad move. Really fucking bad move.’ He shrugged his eyebrows. ‘So when I saw that name come up on your phone . . . it was like it was happening all over again. I couldn’t believe I’d actually put myself through it.’ He looked straight at her, the hurt shining like a lamp in his eyes. ‘I wanted you to know what it felt like to be betrayed like that too.’
‘Nathan . . .’ she faltered. How many times had she hurt him?
‘But I’m tired of pretending I don’t love you or that I don’t miss you. I lost you once, only to find you and then immediately think I’d lost you again.’ His voice broke and he glanced at his feet, her earnest academic again, unsure and hesitant. ‘The short story is, I can’t keep doing this. I need to know once and for all – do you want to be with me or not?’
‘Yes.’
There was no hesitation, no ambiguity in her voice and he gave a surprised smile. ‘You can take a moment to think about it, you know. I’m not holding a gun.’
‘I’ve had five years to think about it.’ She sank onto one hip and tipped her head to the side, letting her hair slide a little over one eye. ‘. . . And, frankly, it’s getting a little boring.’
He arched an eyebrow, hea
ring that old provocative tone in her voice, the past reaching into the present with fresh green shoots. ‘I’m boring you?’
She gave her most bored shrug.
He strode over and scooped her up in one fluid movement, making her shriek with delight. ‘Well then I guess we’ll have to see what we can do about that.’
‘Where are you taking me?’ she smiled, clasping her arms tightly around his neck as he began marching down the corridor with her.
‘Somewhere you’ve never been before.’
‘Fiji?’ she quipped, her eyes teasing. ‘The pope’s private apartments? The men’s loos?’
He looked down at her with glimmering eyes that sent her world spinning off its axis. ‘Let’s start with my apartment,’ he grinned. ‘And take the rest from there.’
Epilogue
Madrid, 12 March 1937
They were using rams now, the ancient iron bolt groaning in its casing as the doors bowed and heaved. The two men looked at each other. There wasn’t much time. A few more runs and the soldiers would break through. And what would they see?
His own gun by a pillar, too far to reach. The bodies on the floor – the American stretched out and staring unseeingly at the vaulted ceiling where angels were dancing above his head. A woman. Marina. His breath tore at the sight of her. She was here. She was alive. It was still too much to comprehend.
She was beginning to come round, her hand beginning to close up protectively, soft groans coming from her splayed form. He could see the cut on her scalp where the door had hit her, dark almost-black blood matting her short hair. But it was a graze, possible concussion. If they could get her out of here, she would be fine. He had to get her out of here.
He looked back at Santi. ‘Give yourself up,’ he implored him. ‘I will speak to them. We can come to some arrangement. They want information from you – tell them what you know.’
Santi shook his head, the gun trembling in his hand. ‘I can’t.’
‘Yes, you have to. It is the only way. She needs you to survive. You’re her husband now.’
‘And if I do survive – what does that mean for her? She’s a red, like me. You know what they would do to her. We both do.’
A white-hot spear of fury trammelled through him at the thought. ‘No! I would tell them.’
‘You are a lieutenant,’ Santi said scornfully. ‘Who will listen to you? You think they’ll believe she is your sister?’
‘I will make them!’
‘How? How can you explain that she is your sister when she is here with me? That she is my wife?’
He had no reply. There was no way to explain it. She was as guilty as Santi and they would treat her as such, his friends, his brothers in arms.
There was another ram, the doors bowing again, wood beginning to splinter and creak. He could hear their shouts, the bloodlust high. Many times he had been on the other side of that door with them.
Santi stepped forward and held out his gun, his eyes blazing. ‘Do it.’
‘What?’ He stared at it in horror. ‘No!’
‘Yes, it is the only way.’ Santi walked up to him and thrust the gun into his hand, forcing his fingers to close around it, pointing it back out towards him. He took three paces back and jabbed his chest, above the heart. ‘Right there.’
‘Santi, no!’ He stared down at the gun in his hand, which was shaking violently now, just as it had the first time he had ever held one, Vale coaxing him, urging him to take the shot.
Santi stared at him with calm, cold eyes. ‘You came here to kill me, Arlo. Kill me.’
‘But that was before I knew—’
‘It is because you know that you must do it. For her sake. You know what they’ll do.’
The doors were rammed again and, this time, it was as though the whole church shook, the doors splitting and tearing, the men roaring like warriors. One more and they’d be through.
‘She’ll never forgive me,’ he protested.
‘If you love her, you’ll do it anyway.’
On the ground, Marina was stirring, trying to lift her head. He already knew what would happen if she had a choice, which side she would choose and what that would mean for her . . .
He raised his arm, staring down the length of his arm at his old friend. Santi gave a tiny nod as their eyes met. ‘Thank you.’
Arlo nodded back. And fired.
Acknowledgements
It’s true what they say – it takes a village. It may be my name on the cover but there’s a behemoth of a team behind me providing guidance and support all the way – be it editorial, grammatical, logistical or moral – so thank you to all the gang at Pan Mac Towers; to my super agent and RNA Agent of the Year no less, Amanda Preston; and to my beloved family, including the gingery, whiskered, four-legged members on whose daily walks the creative magic usually strikes.