Hi Lara, it’s Jack again. I’ve changed my plans and I’m going to be staying in Nice for the rest of the weekend. I don’t suppose you’d have time for that coffee this afternoon? I hope so. Jx.
About the Author
KATIE AGNEW was born in Edinburgh in 1972 and brought up in Lasswade. She studied at Aberdeen University and City University, London, before going into a career in journalism. Katie wrote for several national magazines and newspapers before becoming Features Editor on Marie Claire magazine at the age of 26. In 2001, she left the world of fashion magazines to write her first novel, DROP DEAD GORGEOUS, which won a WH Smith Fresh Talent Award. She is currently working on her sixth novel. Katie lives in Bath with her two children, Olivia and Charlie. TOO HOT TO HANDLE (published by Orion), which is set in St Barts, is out now.
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Pandora and the Music Box
***
Valerie-Anne Baglietto
DESTINATION: Gran Canaria
I’ve never really believed in curses. Even with a name like mine, a past like mine. The luck of the draw, but not an actual curse. My sister Iris thinks otherwise, but then she’s much older than me; her memory of childhood isn’t quite like the version I remember myself.
I didn’t understand why she’d picked out this island in the Atlantic when there were so many other destinations jostling for attention in the plump, glossy travel brochure. She’d always liked Greece and the Aegean. The reason we were hurtling along an autopista of one of the Islas Canarias in a musty rental car was still a mystery to me, because Iris was a mystery, too.
At that point, I had yet to understand she was motivated by an obsession. I’d thought this was a simple summer getaway. I should have sensed there was more to it, but I’d been inward-looking for too long. I didn’t believe in serendipity or superstition, or kismet or magic. I was seventeen. I believed in me. Myself. There were no fairy tales left in the world to dazzle me.
‘It smells in here,’ I muttered, jabbing back my fringe, which I hadn’t bothered to trim because Iris had tried to nag me to do it. Our life together was a perpetual tug of war.
‘There’s an air freshener.’ Iris pointed to the manky bit of cardboard dangling from the rear view mirror.
‘Well, it stinks of air freshener then. And sweat. But I don’t reckon it’s ours.’ I wrinkled my nose. ‘Why couldn’t we have got a taxi from the airport? We always have before.’
She gave me a pointed look. ‘Have we had a baby seat to worry about before? No. No, we haven’t. You know the way those cabbies drive, too. And I went for practicality when I chose this car, not luxury. You should have sat in the back with her, anyway, made sure she was OK.’
I glanced over my shoulder, trying to peer into the rear-facing carrier. ‘You worry too much. She’s obviously sleeping. The flight exhausted her.’ It had drained all of us. ‘And you should slow down. You’re not used to driving on the right, especially in the dark.’ I eyed the speedometer warily. My sister was a hypocrite for slagging off taxi drivers.
‘I just want to get to the hotel, but I’m not going over the limit. I don’t fancy a run-in with the Guardia Civil.’ Iris tapped the map spread across my lap. ‘Are we far?’
I consulted a road sign. ‘Um, maybe another five minutes before we turn off.’ I had no idea if this was an accurate estimate or not.
Iris must have sensed I was talking rubbish – her shoulders slumped. Perhaps the burden she always claimed to be carrying was finally weighing her down too much.
In the back, the baby started to grizzle. Hungry. Still tired. Uncomfortable in the rattling, malodorous car. I wanted to join in and whine, too. But I’d made myself plain to my sister already; while planning this trip, while packing, while queuing for a mile at the airport. I was with her under duress.
Pretty much how I lived every day of my life.
*
It wasn’t until the following morning that I woke up to my surroundings with any trace of awe. The floral-patterned curtains and the heavy lining blocked out virtually all daylight. It felt earlier than it was. We’d missed breakfast, but that was our own fault for not setting an alarm. I blinked as I stepped out on to the hotel balcony, blinded and disoriented for a few seconds. I poked my hand back through the patio door and scrabbled around on the edge of the dressing table until I located my bag. Swearing under my breath, I dug out my sunglasses, old and scratched. Iris had wanted to buy me a new pair, which was basically why I still had these; forever biting off my nose to spite my face.
The sun’s rays beat a path through the lush flora trailing over the edge of the balcony above us, and through the tall, sylphlike palms clustered around the free-form swimming pool directly below. Beyond the hotel gardens, more verdant and expansive than I’d imagined from the reviews on Trip Advisor, I could make out the cyan shimmer of the ocean. Exotic compared to the perspective from my own bedroom window in North Wales, although others might argue I was fortunate to have that, too.
We had a view of the Irish Sea from our house. It was the type of home that insinuated we should have been able to afford a better rental car than the jalopy Iris had reserved, and the kind that meant we could stay in five star ‘palaces’ like this.
Iris’s husband was a director at a fairly high-up level, in some IT firm, in a soulless glass office near Manchester. At weekends, he liked the backdrop of Welsh mountains and the salt tang of the sea. Monday to Friday, he was home too late to enjoy it. But the house I had to share with them was large enough that I didn’t feel I was tripping over anyone. I suppose there weren’t many men like Drew, with the patience to put up with a teenage sister-in-law as unstable as me.
Iris’s voice drifted out from the cool, shadowy hotel room. ‘I just read in the info, there’s a bar on the other side of the pool that serves snacks from ten. We can go there, have brunch.’
I padded back inside. My sister was changing the baby’s nappy. She’d already picked out swimwear for her; one of those sun-protection suits, in pink, with a teddy bear motif on the front. I frowned. I liked her in the yellow one, with polka dots.
‘Drew texted me,’ Iris went on matter-of-factly. ‘Apparently it’s bucketing down in Manchester.’
‘Tell me something new,’ I muttered under my breath, heading grumpily for the bathroom.
*
Iris pulled a face at me across the glass table top. ‘You’re so embarrassing! Why did you have to do that?’
I sank back into the wicker chair, fingering the mandatory band around my wrist. Not five star, by any stretch of the imagination. The resort should bling them up a bit, considering how much my brother-in-law had to fork out for us to be here.
‘I hate the way people think “all inclusive” means pigging out and pushing in.’ I narrowed my eyes towards the buffet table in the open air bar.
‘That lady isn’t going to behave any better because you publicly pointed out she ought to join the back of the queue. You just embarrassed her. She went bright red.’
‘She was pushing in! Someone had to say something.’
‘Well, it doesn’t always have to be you,’ stated Iris, shovelling a mushed fruit concoction into the baby’s mouth.
We ate for a while in a tense, oppressive silence, until I couldn’t take it anymore.
‘I’m not that hungry.’ I frowned, thankful that I hadn’t loaded my plate. There were a couple of birds hopping around nearby. Surreptitiously, I crumbled some bread on to the tiles before pushing back my chair. ‘Right. I’m going for a walk, see where the mini-market is. I want to get one of those big bottles of water for our room.’
Iris looked up at me, her expression resigned.
‘I’ll take the baby to the beach later, if you like,’ I added. ‘You can do some exploring yourself.’
> ‘I was hoping we might explore together. I could come to the beach with you…’
I hesitated, then shrugged. ‘OK. Whatever.’ I slipped on my sunglasses again and emerged from under the thatched canopy of the bar into the glare of the sun. It was creeping up to midday, the light and heat unyielding. A tiny trickle of sweat ran between my shoulder blades, as if someone was standing behind me, running a finger lightly down my back.
I shivered.
No. No thoughts of men, I counselled myself as I followed the path made out of planks of wood, like a rope-bridge embedded in the ground. Avert your eyes from any tanned, toned male bodies stretched out on sunbeds. Resist your hormones.
Men abdicate. They walk out on their wives and kids. They pretend to be with you when their minds and hearts are miles away. Aside from my brother-in-law Drew, I had no real experience of a decent male, and in theory it was still early days where he was concerned.
My dad, my ex-boyfriends, all scumbags. Men and boys were sleazy and sick and selfish.
But this, being a story, something interesting was about to happen. True? Otherwise, why would I be bothering to recount it? I may as well just be writing that the sky was so empty of clouds I could sense the universe that lay beyond it, or that the pool was such a clear and sparkling blue I wanted to rip off the sundress covering my swimsuit and jump right in. I could write that I reacted angrily to the brightly coloured beach ball that whacked me on the side of the head, or turned with indignation to the little boy who had thrown it. But he couldn’t have been older than four probably, with white-blond hair and a wobbling bottom lip. A short, cherubic thing, who instantly apologised.
I’d forgiven him the moment I laid eyes on him.
‘I’m sorry!’ The man who leapt up from the nearest sunbed wasn’t quite as good-looking as the boy. He was young, though, maybe in his early twenties, with the same fair colouring, but lacking similar impact. ‘Zach’s aim isn’t great. He was throwing the ball back in the pool, it isn’t ours.’
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘It’s all right. It didn’t hurt.’
‘Daddy, I didn’t mean to.’ Zach’s bottom lip was still wobbling. He was wearing a sun vest that seemed to match his eyes, with a sailing boat print on the front.
The man bundled him into his arms and gave him a reassuring squeeze. ‘It’s OK, Zach. The nice girl says it didn’t hurt.’
The nice girl. I hadn’t been called that before, not that I could recall. ‘Nice’ wasn’t a word I ever attached to myself. I could be cruel when provoked, or fiercely gallant when required. But ‘nice’ was a sort of wishy-washy, in-between thing I never strove to be, in the same way I never tried too hard to be pretty. I looked how I looked; some days better than others. Generally unpolished, though. Blackish hair too long and poorly tended; clothes that might have been fashionable once; legs and armpits shaven, just about. I didn’t wax, buff or tweak the way Iris did. But for her, it was second nature to be beautiful; she’d been born with all the promise of a brunette Barbie doll.
‘I’m Archie,’ said the young man, and stuck out his hand towards me. ‘Zach and I arrived yesterday. You haven’t been here long yourself, have you?’
I blinked irritably at the outstretched hand. Why bother introducing ourselves? In a few seconds, after I walked off, we would revert to being strangers again. I wasn’t in Maspalomas to make friends.
‘Because I’m still a pasty white, like you?’ I said, no intention of giving him my name. ‘See, I can be Sherlock, too.’
He laughed. It was this sound that got my notice. Not his eyes, or the fact he seemed young to be the boy’s dad, or the warmth of his accent, far more Welsh than mine. His laugh. It seemed to slice through all my outer layers until I realised I’d been standing there too long, staring up at him. I shook my brain back to reality.
‘So,’ I mumbled, ‘I’ll see you around, I guess.’ And thankful for the dark, oversized sunglasses covering a third of my face, I scuttled off along the path.
*
It wasn’t until Iris and I were getting ready for dinner that I spotted the music box, half-hidden by one of Iris’s crinkly silk ‘chemises’, as she referred to them. At first, I thought I was seeing things. I’d been opening drawers, searching for the underwear I couldn’t remember unpacking. Iris must have done it; organising me, as usual. My suitcase was now empty and neatly tucked in a slot in the vast wardrobe.
I wasn’t unfamiliar with the dark wood box, but what was it doing here? Why bring an ornament like this on holiday? I sank on to the bed, the intricately carved antique, inlaid with gold leaf, resting in my lap.
I was still sitting, staring at it, when Iris came out of the bathroom. She was carrying the baby wrapped in a hooded towel and scented with lavender; so sweet and fresh, a lump lodged in my throat.
Iris’s gaze dropped to the box. Slowly, carefully she laid the baby down on the changing mat. ‘You were looking through my things,’ she said at last.
Immediately I bridled. ‘No! No, I wasn’t, actually. I was looking for my things. You unpacked and I don’t know where all my stuff is. Iris, why the hell have you brought this with you? And shouldn’t it be in the safe, not stuffed in a drawer?’
‘I haven’t paid for the safe yet,’ mumbled Iris. ‘I still need to. I’ll go to reception after dinner, sort it out. I should have done it last night really, when we were checking in, but we were all so tired…’
‘OK. Very considerate of you. But you haven’t answered me about this.’ As music boxes went, it wasn’t all that large or heavy, but I wouldn’t have called it a portable trinket, either. It served no purpose beyond the decorative. There was no space for storing jewellery inside, and it didn’t even work. A wedding present from Drew’s crackpot aunt – a broken music box. Practical, not. But a point of contention? Definitely.
‘Because,’ said Iris pathetically, and flopped on to her bed, ‘Drew’s aunt lives here. On Gran Canaria.’
‘His aunt? But… I thought she lived in mainland Spain, near Madrid?’
‘She moved here a couple of years ago. Married another Spaniard. They live somewhere up in the mountains, near Tejeda. I have an address.’
I let this information soak in. ‘You’re planning to visit her?’ I said eventually. ‘This week? Or after Drew gets here?’
My brother-in-law was due to fly out on Saturday to spend the second week with us. Work commitments had meant he couldn’t come for the full fortnight, but I suspected it was more to do with giving Iris and me some ‘girl’ time together. As if minutes and hours could mend what was broken.
She sighed. ‘I thought I might go tomorrow. Get it over and done with.’
‘On your own? Is this why you hired a car?’
Iris nodded. ‘I’ve been thinking of excuses. Ways I could leave you and the baby alone and slip away for the morning or afternoon… I suppose it doesn’t matter now.’
It only took me a moment to reach a decision. ‘I’m coming, too.’
‘No,’ said my sister quickly, ‘there’s no need—’
‘There’s every need. This is all because of me. Because I opened a stupid box that “apparently” wasn’t supposed to be opened. Kept out on display, but never opened. Or terrible things would happen. Those were the instructions, weren’t they? And you believed all that crap Drew’s aunt wrote.’
‘You should never have done what you did,’ snapped Iris, and erupted into a sudden flurry of activity, fishing in the Orla Kiely changing bag for a nappy and peeling back the folds of towel surrounding the baby to reveal the soft, caramel flesh underneath.
‘What do you know,’ I drawled theatrically, ‘my name’s Pandora and I opened a box I shouldn’t have. And now we’re all doomed.’ I made sinister jazz hands.
‘Everything’s gone wrong since then,’ said Iris.
I reached out to gently stroke the baby’s dark curls. ‘Everything?’
My sister relented, but only marginally. ‘I wouldn’t wish her away now, of course
, but… Things haven’t been easy. You know that. We were on course, finally getting somewhere, and then suddenly…’
‘I cursed us all.’ My voice leaked sarcasm as I flipped back the tiny hook that held the box closed. It was as stiff as I remembered. I yanked back the lid. Like last time, nothing happened. No music, either the mechanical or the ethereal sort. It was still just a faulty box.
Iris had gone pale. ‘You shouldn’t have. Not again…’
‘Why? Whatever was in there is already out, isn’t it? Better get your facts right before we go see this mad aunt. In – or out?’ I paused for dramatic effect. ‘And what exactly are you hoping she’ll say? You expect her to lift a curse that isn’t even real?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Iris, hoarse now. ‘I have no idea what to expect. I just feel like I need to do something. I can’t go on like this, Dor.’
Dor. What most people ended up calling me. It wasn’t particularly imaginative, but I’d been called worse.
There was a long silence.
‘Is she expecting you?’ I asked, when the stillness chafed my nerves and I couldn’t bear it any longer.
‘No.’ Iris shook her head. ‘I don’t have a phone number, just an address.’
‘Right. Let’s hope she’s in then, and not at some knitting club for the seriously deranged.’
Iris and I had never met her. As far as I knew, Drew hadn’t seen her in years. She never came back to the UK anymore.
‘Just promise you’ll behave,’ said my sister. ‘I know you’re a sceptic about all this, but please don’t say anything critical in front of her.’
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