Then. Now. Always.

by Isabelle Broom

  ‘Oh. Right. Of course. I will in a minute, after …’ I give up speaking and shut my mouth, but Theo is smiling. He’s pushed his sunglasses up into his hair, which is plastered flat from sweat.

  ‘You can have a shower, if you prefer,’ he offers, peeling off his vest only for it to get caught in his headphones.

  ‘Here,’ I say, desire propelling me forwards through the shyness. ‘Let me help you out.’

  It’s impossible to rescue him from the tangle of damp material and twisted wire without touching his bare torso, and my hands immediately turn clammy with longing. His stomach is firm and taut, his chest hair wet, and his face when it finally emerges is lit up with a genuine smile. Sometimes he looks so gorgeous that I can’t even comprehend how he can be real.

  ‘Thank you,’ he says, balling up the vest with both his hands. ‘Now I must shower, but help yourself to a towel or a drink – whatever you like.’

  What I’d like most is to help myself to you, I think, but instead I thank him and cross to the pile of fresh towels that are stacked on a chair by the bathroom door. I wait until Theo has disappeared into what I assume is his bedroom before yanking off my dress, which has, rather embarrassingly, got a large wet patch across the bottom as well as on the front. Sliding open the patio doors and crossing the smooth wood of the decking, I toss the part-soaked garment over the balcony railings. Bikinis really should be better designed, I think, wrapping one of Theo’s dark-blue towels around my body and knotting it across my chest – I appear to have brought back half the Mediterranean in mine.

  I hear the shower start to run and allow myself to imagine Theo standing under the water, his eyes closed as the soapy residue from his shampoo runs down across his face and chest, then lower down, into the dark cleft of his buttocks and along the length of his— Bugger, my phone’s ringing.

  ‘Mum, this really isn’t a good time.’

  There’s a tut at the other end of the line.

  ‘Why? What are you doing? You told me you had a day off.’

  Since when did my mother turn into Miss Marple?

  ‘I do,’ I hiss, cupping my hand around the phone so Theo won’t hear me and tiptoeing away from where I’d been lurking next to the bathroom door. ‘But I bumped into my boss and we’re having a, erm, very important meeting.’

  ‘Do you mean Theo?’ my mum asks loudly. She’s never really picked up on the fact that you don’t need to shout when you’re having a telephone conversation. ‘He’s so dishy.’

  I should never, ever have shown my mum those photos I’d covertly taken of Theo at last year’s Christmas party.

  ‘Like I said, Mum, it’s not the best time to chat,’ I repeat, wondering why I even answered in the first place.

  ‘I was just calling to ask you about Nancy.’

  ‘What about her?’ I reply, my tone instantly cold.

  ‘You didn’t tell me she was there with you,’ says Mum, trying and failing to sound disinterested. I didn’t tell her, it’s true, but only because I don’t like discussing Nancy with her. Talk of my half-sister inevitably leads to a conversation about my dad, and I hate having one of those with Mum.

  ‘I didn’t think she would be for long,’ I tell her honestly. ‘I certainly didn’t invite her out here.’

  ‘I thought that you probably hadn’t,’ Mum muses. ‘That’s what I told your dad when he called.’

  Oh God, here we go.

  ‘What does he care?’ I mutter, unable to prevent the bitterness creeping into my voice.

  ‘He’s relieved that she’s with you,’ Mum says. ‘The thing is, she didn’t tell him she was going over to Spain, either. I don’t think she told anyone.’

  ‘Well, she always has been selfish,’ I retort, and am rewarded with another tut.

  ‘She is okay, isn’t she?’ Mum says, and I picture her soft, pretty face etched with concern. How does Nancy do this? How does she manage to make herself the centre of attention all the bloody time?

  ‘Oh, you know Nancy,’ I drawl, opening Theo’s fridge door and closing it again. ‘She always gets whatever she wants and to hell with anyone else.’

  ‘Sounds like her mother,’ puts in my mum, then immediately begins to chastise herself. ‘I shouldn’t have said that. Sorry, darling – that was unfair of me. Susie’s a very nice woman. You know I like her very much.’

  I know full well that she does not.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mum – it’s not like I’m going to tell on you, is it?’

  The shower has stopped now and I can hear Theo cleaning his teeth.

  ‘I really do have to go now,’ I tell her, catching sight of my reflection in the mirror on the wall behind the sofa and grimacing. The salt water from my swim has helpfully turned my hair into Shredded Wheat. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow, I promise.’

  ‘Okay, darling. Love you. Bye!’

  I hang up and stare at my phone. While I was talking to Mum, a message has come through from Tom.

  Can we talk? it says, very simple, no kiss.

  For a few seconds my fingers hover, ready to type back a reply, but then I realise that I don’t know what to write. For the first time since I met Tom nine years ago, I have nothing to say to him – and it’s all Nancy’s fault.

  By the time I’ve nipped into Theo’s shower and washed away the remnants of my swim, the man himself has chopped up fresh tomatoes, red onions and green peppers and is whisking eggs in a glass bowl. He’s dressed in navy shorts and a crisp white T-shirt, and I watch the muscles in his back moving beneath the material. It’s so hot outside now that my dress is almost dry, so I pluck it off the railings and duck back into the bathroom to put it on. My bikini, on the other hand, is still far too wet to wear, so I have no choice but to go commando. Usually this wouldn’t freak me out all that much, but then usually I wouldn’t be standing beside Theo as he made the two of us a breakfast omelette. I don’t think I have ever felt more naked.

  ‘Can you grate?’ he asks, reaching into the fridge and handing me a healthy chunk of Manchego.

  ‘Of course,’ I babble, happy to be given a task. ‘You could say I’m great at it.’

  He nods.

  ‘You know – I mean I’m great. At grating,’ I add.

  Theo gives me a sideways look. ‘Yes. I got it.’

  Oh. Right.

  ‘Can I taste?’ he adds, opening his mouth.

  ‘Um …’ Does he genuinely want me to feed him cheese?

  ‘My hands are busy,’ he says, even though it’s not completely true. He could easily put down either the bowl or the whisk, but he’s choosing not to. He must actually want me to do it for him.

  I use a knife to cut a generous corner off the Manchego and bring it up to his lips, laying it across his pink tongue with tentative fingers.

  ‘Perfect!’ he announces, grinning at me. ‘Or, as the Spanish would say: perfecto!’

  ‘That’s an easy one to remember,’ I trill, smiling right back at him.

  ‘Do you know what goes very well with this type of cheese?’ he asks now, dashing oil into two frying pans and turning down the heat underneath each one.

  ‘Omelettes?’ I guess, and he shakes his head.

  ‘Of course omelettes, yes – but also almonds.’

  ‘As in the nuts?’

  Of course he means the nuts – why am I such a cretin?

  ‘Yes, but they must be salted.’

  ‘Sounds, er, perfecto,’ I joke weakly, stepping backwards out of the way as Theo starts cooking the onion and peppers. He’s very flamboyant in the kitchen, just as he is at the dinner table, adding dashes of seasoning here and there and picking up bits of grated cheese from the huge pile I’ve created.

  ‘Do you cook, Hannah?’ he asks without turning around, which is a blessing because it means he can’t see my face turn red. I sense that this is an important question, because it’s clear to me now that Theo definitely does enjoy cooking. He’s a mature, independent, modern man who is good in the kitchen and understa
nds enough about flavours to know that salted almonds go perfectly with Manchego. If I tell him that my culinary expertise is limited to jacket potatoes with tuna and mayonnaise or, if I’m feeling really daring, the odd plate of Welsh rarebit, then I fear he will not be very impressed.

  ‘I’m very keen to learn more,’ I say eventually, diplomatic as ever, and he seems to like this answer, as he ushers me forwards to join him by the stove.

  ‘The trick to a good omelette is not to overcook your eggs,’ he begins, lifting one of the pans to show me just how far he’s turned the heat down. ‘And you want your onion and pepper to retain some bite, but not be raw. These two things can make you have some gas in your stomach, you know, if you do not prepare them correctly.’

  Gas is something I definitely do not want today.

  ‘And when we add the cheese,’ he continues, picking up two large heaps of it and sprinkling them on top of the omelettes, ‘we must put the pans under the grill, so that it bubbles.’

  ‘Yum,’ I say, for want of anything more articulate to contribute.

  Theo catches my eye. ‘Yum indeed.’

  We eat out on the wide balcony, my wet bikini dripping droplets of water on to the wooden decking beside us and the wind doing its best to flash my bare bottom to the chef. In the end, I have no choice but to clamp the cotton skirt between my thighs and then firmly cross my legs, kicking Theo under the table as I do so.

  ‘Sorry!’ I cry, reaching down to rub his leg and then veering back up in horror when I realise what I’m doing.

  ‘Do I make you nervous, Hannah?’ he asks, regarding me with bemusement.

  ‘No!’ I fib, picking up my cutlery with shaking hands.

  The omelette is so delicious that I eat the entire thing, plus the two slices of bread that Theo passes me. Thankfully he hasn’t gone full Spanish and smeared garlic mayonnaise all over them, but he is very generous with the butter. Everything tastes rich and fresh, the saltiness of the cheese balancing the sweetness of the red onion, and the oil adding an earthy depth to the plump chunks of tomato.

  ‘Perfecto!’ I tell Theo when I’ve finished, making full use of the newest Spanish word in my vocabulary.

  He refuses my offer to wash up and takes the empty plates back inside the villa himself, only to re-emerge five minutes later with a huge cafetière of black coffee and a little pot of vanilla yoghurt for each of us.

  ‘This is a real treat,’ I tell him, peeling back the foil lid and sticking my teaspoon through the set surface. ‘Thank you for inviting me.’

  ‘I told you before,’ says Theo, licking his own lid. ‘I like spending time with you, Hannah. You are very easy company.’

  I blush with joy.

  ‘But I don’t want to keep you here if you have plans,’ he adds, propping his tanned bare feet up on the seat of a spare chair and wriggling his toes. ‘It is your day off, and I’m sure you do not want to spend it with your boss.’

  ‘Oh, I do!’ I tell him, probably with a touch too much enthusiasm. ‘What I mean is, I didn’t have any other plans. I don’t have a plan.’

  ‘What about your sister?’ Theo asks, and my smile closes up like a clam.

  ‘She’s with Tom.’

  ‘Oh?’ It’s clear what he’s asking, but I pretend not to understand. I don’t want to say the words – not even to him. But he’s not letting me off the hook.

  ‘And they are together?’ he queries, raising an eyebrow when I nod in reply. ‘Wow. I am surprised to hear that.’

  I don’t want to talk about Nancy and Tom. I wish he wouldn’t. I want to forget that either of them exist for a few hours.

  ‘Do you have any more old-Mojácar stories to tell me?’ I say instead, driving us down a new path of conversation – one that I know Theo will like. ‘I really loved the one about Mariquita and the wizard.’

  He hesitates for a moment before replying, perhaps wondering whether to allow me to change the subject, and then he puts his feet down on the floor and pours the coffee.

  ‘As a matter of fact, I have many.’

  20

  In all the many fantasies I’ve had about Theo in the years since I met him, none of them have ever featured what the two of us have been doing today. When I daydream about him, it always involves him kissing me ravenously, tearing my knickers off with his teeth and having his wicked way with me, while some sort of cheesy love-scene soundtrack plays in the background. Don’t get me wrong, all those vivid concoctions are pretty amazing, but none of them come close to the simple pleasure of just hanging out with Theo for the day.

  Since we finished the delectable omelettes he prepared for us this morning, Theo and I have swapped stories about our childhoods – I told him all about Chewy and he actually bellowed with laughter when I admitted some of the scrapes we used to get ourselves into – played thirteen games of Rummy, seven of which I actually managed to win, and eaten all the rest of the Manchego plus a good portion of the bread.

  It’s been so nice to be here by the sea all day, watching the waves scurry up the shore gobbling sandcastles and displacing shells. From up here on Theo’s wide balcony, the wet pebbles down below us look like scattered gems, the light from the sun making the polished surfaces gleam and sparkle. There’s been a steady stream of human traffic passing by, with families, couples, dog walkers, joggers and noisy groups of teenagers all taking their turn on the sand. The mischievous wind provides a comedy element, too, and Theo and I have shared many chuckles as we watch people hurtling along after a rogue beach umbrella or errant napkin. At one point during an extremely intense round of cards, somebody’s straw hat blew right up on to the balcony and landed in the plunge pool.

  As well as enjoying the view of the world going by coupled with Theo’s undivided attention, it’s been a relief to get away from Tom and Nancy. For the past few hours, I’ve allowed myself to pack that particular problem away into a far corner in my head to be dealt with another day. Distraction was all I needed, and I can’t think of a better person than Theo to provide it. After touching on the subject of my best mate and my half-sister in the morning, he has been astute enough not to mention it since, and with every hour that passes and I’m still here in the villa, I’m starting to feel more relaxed. I even managed not to collapse into a quivering heap on the floor when Theo took it upon himself to rub sun cream on to my back and shoulders, but I was still tingling all over at least half an hour after it happened.

  My bikini dried hours ago, but I still haven’t bothered to put it back on, and now that I’m feeling more at ease in Theo’s company, I’m even enjoying the fact that I’m going commando. While he hasn’t yet said or done anything to make me think he’s aware of my almost-naked state, a part of me knows that he is. And it’s that same part which is making me feel increasingly hot with desire. When he showed me the editing suite he’s set up inside the second bedroom an hour or so ago, the two of us were so close together in front of the screen that I swear he must have been able to hear my heart hammering away lustfully in my chest.

  ‘Can I read you something?’ Theo asks now, picking up his notebook from the table in front of us. We’ve been moving our chairs to match the progress of the sun all day, and his is now only a few inches away from mine. Whenever he brings up his arm, the dark hairs brush against my bare skin, and I feel a tugging sensation from somewhere deep inside.

  ‘Of course,’ I tell him, arranging myself into a comfortable position and giving him my full attention.

  ‘It is the introduction for the film,’ he explains, resting his ankle on the opposite knee and laying the book across his lap. As he clears his throat in preparation, I get the sense that he’s even a little bit nervous – and that’s something I’ve never known him to be before.

  ‘On the south-east coast of Spain, in the foothills of Sierra Cabrera, there is a place both hidden and proud. A village that seems to shimmer as you look upon it, the cluster of white buildings a honeycomb shot through with moonbeams of colour. There is a
neat harmony of simplicity here, an exquisite union of nature and creation, and as you take the steep pathway leading into the heart of this architectural utopia, you will feel your very spirit begin to sing. This is a place where time seems not to stand still, but to circulate in the air like the ever-present dust. It is timeless yet magical, flawed yet faultless, but most of all it is unforgettable. It is Mojácar.’

  I hadn’t even realised that I’d closed my eyes until Theo stops talking, lost as I was in the cobbled streets of the place that he has just described so beautifully.

  ‘Wow,’ I breathe, turning to face him and pushing my sunglasses up on to my head. ‘That was. Wow.’

  ‘Do you really like it?’ Theo asks, his handsome face deadly serious. I love seeing him like this, more vulnerable and human than he usually is. It makes me feel special, as if he is now relaxed enough to let his guard down in my company, that he trusts my opinion and even craves my approval.

  ‘I really, really like it,’ I assure him, braving a light touch of his arm. ‘You’ve captured that unique Mojácar essence perfectly. You’re so clever.’

  ‘Careful now.’ Theo finally smiles. ‘You will give me a big head.’

  I cough as my dirty mind conjures up the inevitable image, and reach for my water to mask my smirk.

  ‘You deserve to have a big head,’ I tell him, longing making my voice sound all gravelly. ‘It honestly gave me goosebumps – and it must be thirty degrees out here.’

  ‘I’m glad you like it,’ he says, rubbing his thigh absent-mindedly. ‘I have found it quite hard to put into words how it feels to look at Mojácar. I want to demonstrate how wonderful it is, but I do not want to sound corny or over the top, you understand?’

  ‘I do – I know exactly what you mean.’

  There’s a pause while we just look at each other, bonded in the moment by our mutual enthusiasm for the subject, then Theo gets to his feet.

  ‘It’s past five now,’ he says, looking at his watch and then at me. ‘Shall I open a bottle of wine?’

  We toast Theo’s amazing intro as the gradually dipping sun streaks through the railings and throws patterns of gold across our bare feet. I’ve never had chilled red wine before, but it’s very pleasant, and Theo has added a slice of lemon to each of our glasses.