Then she ended the call and I resolutely switched off the phone again.
When we got back to the apartment I gave in to the absolute exhaustion that had come over me and (rather shamefacedly, because it wasn’t even eleven) said that I had to go to bed. Ana made sure I had everything I needed and then I got between the sheets and, without switching on my phone again, immediately conked out.
I switched it on the following morning but still couldn’t bring myself to listen to the message. I would wait until I got back to Beniflor, I decided. It would be easier to deal with it then. Although I would’ve liked to spend more time in Valencia, I was anxious about leaving Banquo. And so, after an early breakfast with Ana and Alonso, I set off. The sky was a crystal-clear blue, the air conditioning kept me cool, and I turned on the radio, which was preset to a cheery pop channel.
My heart was light when I finally turned into the rutted road that led to the Villa Naranja.
But even when I was sitting down having a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, I still didn’t listen to my voicemail. I was in my very own Schrödinger’s Cat experiment, I thought. And I wasn’t ready to choose the outcome.
The theoretical experiment is very simple. You put a cat and a vial of poisonous gas in a sealed box. At some point the vial containing the gas will break and the cat will be poisoned. But until you open the box and see the dead cat, you don’t know if the event has happened. The cat is, according to Schrödinger, in the state of being both dead and alive. It’s only when you look at its body and fix it in time and space that you seal its fate. Obviously Schrödinger never had a cat, because none that I knew, especially Banquo, would allow itself to be put in a box containing a vial of poisonous gas. The so-called scientist trying it would have been scratched to ribbons in seconds. But I understood the basis of the theory. Right now, the message on my phone was both trivial and important. But when I listened to it, it would be one or the other forever. And I didn’t want to listen.
Not yet.
Nevertheless, I was ready when the phone rang that evening and Unknown Caller flashed up on the screen. I took a deep breath and answered it as confidently as I could.
‘Hello. Who’s there?’
There was a silence at the other end.
‘Hello,’ I said again. ‘Who is this? Why are you calling me? What do you want?’
‘Who are you?’ he asked in return.
‘Um . . . you rang me, not the other way around. So I think you should answer the question first.’
‘You’re listed as a contact on a phone I used recently,’ said the man. ‘Am I speaking to Ms Paycock?’
I caught my breath. Paycock had been Brad’s nickname for me. Which, to anyone who doesn’t know much about Irish theatre, might sound odd. But the explanation is simple. Like my brother and sister, who were named after an Irish poet and his muse, my name has artistic links. Mum had called me after the title character in a famous Irish playwright’s most noted work Juno and the Paycock. Juno is a strong female figure and her husband, Jack, is the Paycock of the play. (The name is a very Dublin pronunciation of peacock, and he’s so called because he struts around making a lot of noise but doing very little.) When Brad first gave me the nickname I’d protested loudly, but he’d laughed and said he’d studied the Seán O’Casey play at school and the two names were completely linked in his mind.
‘Juno and Paycock,’ he said. ‘It’s like fish and chips.’
I’d thought it was funny at the time.
‘How did you get that phone?’ I didn’t answer the caller’s question. ‘It wasn’t yours. So how did you access it and its contacts? And who the hell are you?’
There was a brief silence before he replied.
‘My name is Max Hollander.’
I frowned. It sounded vaguely familiar but I couldn’t remember where on earth I’d heard it before.
‘Why did you call?’ I asked. ‘Why do you keep calling?’
‘I wanted to know who you were. Who Paycock was. What it means.’
When the phone had rung with Brad’s ID, I’d felt as though I was in the middle of a ghost story. Now it seemed more like a spy thriller with some sinister, shady organisation. Paycock. Headed up by a woman who hadn’t got a clue.
‘Paycock isn’t my name,’ I said, even as I realised that Brad had used the nickname to avoid ever using my real one.
‘The texts say that they come from Paycock.’
‘You shouldn’t have been looking at them,’ I said. ‘You’re breaching someone else’s privacy.’
‘The phone belonged to my brother,’ he said, and I immediately remembered where I’d seen and heard him before. On the TV when he’d thanked people for their concern. And at the funeral. The tall, slightly gaunt man who’d spoken so movingly about Brad and Alessandra. Who’d taken time to comfort me too. The brother I hadn’t known existed. But if he was Brad’s brother, why wasn’t he a McIntyre?
‘I need to talk to you.’ He didn’t answer my unspoken question. ‘We have to meet.’
‘I don’t want to meet you,’ I said. ‘I don’t need to.’
‘Please,’ said Max Hollander. ‘It’s important.’
At the funeral, when he’d spoken so briefly to me, I’d have given anything to have talked to him for longer. But things had changed. I didn’t need to meet any of Brad’s family now. I didn’t want to.
‘I’m away,’ I told him. ‘I can’t meet anyone.’
‘I knew that from the ringtone. How long are you away for? Where are you?’
I thought about not answering him, but in the end I told him I was in Spain for the summer.
‘The Costa Blanca,’ I added. ‘So, really and truly, there’s no chance of us meeting up. And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t call me again. In fact,’ I said, ‘I’m going to block this number, so there’s no point in you calling me any more.’
‘I’ll get the next flight I can and meet you.’ He was ignoring me completely. ‘I’ll call again when I get there, so please don’t block me. Just one meeting. It won’t take long. Which airport should I fly into?’
‘Alicante. But I really don’t think—’
‘I’ll see you soon, Ms Paycock.’
I didn’t have time to correct him again. He’d ended the call.
His arrogance infuriated me. I realised that he’d probably gone through a hard time since Brad and Alessandra’s deaths, but what made him think he could talk to me like that? It would have served him right if I’d blocked the number there and then. He would have wasted his money coming to Spain without any hope of finding me. But he’d said that it was important to talk – and even though I knew there was nothing he could say that would matter in my life any more, I couldn’t help wanting to know what he intended.
I went as far as scrolling down to the ‘block contact’ option before realising I was utterly unable to do it.
Then I waited for him to phone back.
It was three days later before he rang again.
In that time I’d stayed as busy as I could. I’d begun pruning the bougainvillea on the patio. It was hard work, and hot work too, so that I ended each day in a lather of sweat, utterly exhausted and unable to concentrate on anything.
The mystery of the phone had been solved – despite Brad’s certainty over his PIN number, his brother had obviously been able to guess what it was. As always, the answers to the questions I had were based in fact, not some weird kind of spiritual fantasy. So I tried to keep my mind focused entirely on the facts, and not think of what Max Hollander might have to say to me. I deliberately pushed the idea of him reading my private texts to Brad to the very back of my mind. Instead, I exchanged flirty messages with Pep, who was still in Mallorca, and went each day to the Café Flor, where Rosa was in high spirits and cheerier than ever.
The call came in the early afternoon, and because the ringing of the phone startled me – despite knowing that eventually it would come – I managed to cut my arm on a particul
arly vicious thorn. A snaking line of blood made its way towards my wrist as I answered the call.
‘I’m in Alicante,’ Max said. ‘Where are you?’
‘I told you there was no point in coming to see me,’ I told him.
‘Where are you?’ Once again he was completely ignoring anything I said. ‘We can meet somewhere public, if you’re worried.’
Strangely enough, I hadn’t been worried – at least, not in the way that Max was implying. I wasn’t frightened of meeting him in private. How could I be? After all, I’d already met him briefly at the funeral, where I’d got the impression of a quiet, thoughtful person. Certainly not someone to fear. Although, I thought, my ability to judge people was so crap it was entirely possible Max was an axe murderer. However, I would meet him and see what he had to say, and close the chapter of my life that had anything to do with him or with Brad. Maybe it would be a good thing. Maybe it would bring complete and utter closure to a time I now wanted nothing more than to forget.
‘I’m in a town called Beniflor,’ I said. ‘North of the airport.’
‘Is there somewhere to stay?’ he asked.
‘A hotel called La Higuera,’ I replied. ‘But it’s small and usually booked up. There are hotels in the nearest seaside town called Beniflor Costa, and we’re not that far from Benidorm itself, which has tons of them.’
For someone who didn’t want him to come, I thought, I sounded like a bloody tour guide.
‘I’ll call you again when I get there,’ said Max.
He hung up before me.
He was good at that.
I went to put some salve on my injured arm.
He called again a couple of hours later.
‘I’m here,’ he said. ‘In that Higuera hotel.’
Clearly, it wasn’t as exclusive as everyone said if Max had managed to get a room just like that.
‘Will you meet me here in an hour?’ His tone was pleasant but his voice was firm.
It occurred to me that I’d always done what Brad had asked, met him when he’d wanted, where he’d wanted. And now I was falling in with his brother’s demands too. But I agreed.
‘I’ll be waiting for you at reception,’ he said. ‘I’m wearing a blue shirt.’
He didn’t know that we’d already met. He didn’t know I’d recognise him, no matter what he was wearing.
‘An hour,’ I said.
I put away my gardening equipment and had a shower. Afterwards, I spent ages trying to decide what to wear. I wanted to look serious and thoughtful, as unlike a seductive mistress as possible. Not that mistresses have to look seductive. Not that I’d realised I was one. Not that, until that very moment, I’d even thought of the word to describe myself.
But I hadn’t brought any serious and thoughtful clothes. My wardrobe still consisted of T-shirts, shorts, sundresses and jeans. I hadn’t worn the jeans since the day I’d arrived; it was far too hot to even think about it. Shorts seemed too carefree. And my dresses were light and flighty. I tried on every single stitch of clothing I had before eventually selecting a white blouse, which I tied loosely over the lavender sundress. The blouse made me appear a little more formal, and the dress itself was the most elegant of them all. I added earrings to my ears, a couple of pretty necklaces around my neck and a selection of bangles to my wrist.
By the time I’d finally got myself ready, forty-five minutes had passed and I hurried to the car in a panic about being late.
Despite Rosa having said how pretty it was, I’d never visited La Higuera before. Past the town, the hotel was set high up in the mountains, with a spectacular view over the valley and towards the sea. When I got out of the car I gasped out loud with the beauty of it all. The hotel building was like a small country mansion, painted in the creamy yellow that seemed to be a favoured colour of the region, and with the same dark-wood shutters on the windows that I’d spent so much time restoring at the Villa Naranja. The gravel path from the car park wound its way through a garden filled with colourful scented flowers before opening on to a tiled square at the entrance to the building. The fig tree, ancient and all-knowing, was in the centre of the square. The setting was peaceful and relaxing, and if I hadn’t been anxious about meeting Max Hollander I would have sat down on one of the cane chairs artfully placed around the garden and simply gazed out over the sea.
But I didn’t have time for taking in views. I walked up the three steps that led to the entrance. The glass doors opened automatically.
I stepped inside.
The reception area of La Higuera was cool and elegant, with a small fountain in the centre of the marbled tiles. Beyond that, further glass doors led to a terrace with tables and chairs. I wondered where Max Hollander had meant us to meet. The only other people in the reception area were a blonde woman sitting opposite the reception desk – which was actually a large modern table – and the receptionist, who were chatting animatedly to each other.
There were two other chairs set back from the fountain. I chose one of them and sat down to wait.
I’d barely settled myself when Max Hollander walked into reception. The last time I’d seen him he’d been wearing a suitably funereal black suit and tie. Today his blue shirt was casual over a pair of pale linen trousers, but I recognised him instantly. He saw me too, and looked at me with a slightly puzzled expression.
‘Ms Paycock,’ he said.
I didn’t bother to correct him about my name again.
‘I’ve reserved a table for us outside,’ he said. ‘We can’t talk privately here.’
I nodded and followed him through to the terrace, where we were shown to a table at one corner, overlooking more gardens, the swimming pool and the distant sea. It was very beautiful and also very hot. The waiter raised a red parasol over the table and then asked what we’d like to drink.
‘Water,’ I said, and then, to Max, ‘I wasn’t planning on eating anything.’
‘Me neither,’ said Max. ‘I just reserved the table so we could talk. But,’ he added to the waiter after he’d ordered a beer, ‘you could bring some nuts, perhaps. Or olives.’
The waiter nodded and disappeared back inside.
I exhaled slowly.
‘So.’ Max looked at me speculatively from solemn grey eyes. ‘What was the relationship between you and my brother, Ms Paycock?’
‘First of all, as I told you on the phone, my name isn’t Paycock. So please stop calling me that. It’s Juno. Juno Ryan. And before we talk about anything else, how is Dylan?’
He looked startled at my question.
‘The news reports said he was seriously injured but not critical,’ I said.
‘He’s improving,’ replied Max. ‘Not that it’s really any of your concern.’
‘If you didn’t want me to ask questions then you shouldn’t have come here.’ I kept my voice as steady as I could.
He looked startled again, then frowned.
‘Why are you called Paycock on Brad’s mobile?’ he asked.
‘How did you get hold of it?’ I asked in return.
‘There was an accident,’ said Max.
I stared at him.
‘I know about the accident, for heaven’s sake,’ I said. ‘That’s why I asked about Dylan. And I was at the funeral.’
‘Of course!’ Max exhaled slowly. ‘I knew I’d seen you before. I just couldn’t place you. You look different now.’
‘Did you come all the way here because you were afraid I didn’t know?’ I asked. ‘Is that what was so bloody important?’
‘Partly,’ he said. ‘I guessed, of course, because there hadn’t been any more messages from you, but I couldn’t be certain.’
I relaxed a little too.
‘But I also came because of the messages,’ said Max. ‘They were disturbing.’
‘Disturbing?’
He took the phone out of his pocket and looked at it.
‘I dream about you naked,’ he read. ‘I dream about being beside you. About moving my han
d—’
‘OK. OK,’ I interrupted. ‘I know what I wrote. And there’s nothing disturbing about it. Not for two people in a relationship.’
‘What kind of relationship did you have with him?’ he asked. ‘Was he paying you?’
‘You think I’m a prostitute!’ My words came out louder than I’d intended, and I glanced around, afraid some of the other guests might have heard me. But they were all engrossed in their own conversations. ‘You think I’m a prostitute,’ I repeated. ‘How bloody dare you!’
‘I don’t know what to think,’ he said.
I tried to keep my voice steady. ‘Like I said, Brad and I were in a relationship.’
‘My brother was already in a relationship,’ said Max. ‘He was married.’
‘I know.’ I took a sip of the water. ‘I know now. I didn’t know then.’
He stared at me.
‘You think I’m lying?’ I asked. ‘Why would I lie?’
‘Why does anyone lie?’ he asked.
‘Why did Brad?’
‘What exactly did he lie about?’
‘What didn’t he lie about?’ I retorted.
And then, fool that I was, I started to cry.
Max Hollander said nothing as he offered me one of the paper napkins on the table to dry my eyes. I pressed it against my face, hiding myself from him. I hadn’t wanted to cry. I hadn’t wanted to let myself down.
‘Please stop,’ he said after a couple of minutes. ‘Can I get you something else to drink? A brandy perhaps?’
I shook my head, mopped my eyes again, sniffed and finally scrunched up the napkin.
Max poured me some more water.
‘I’d like to know,’ he said. ‘About you and my brother.’
‘He can’t actually be your brother,’ I said. ‘Different surnames.’
‘We’re stepbrothers,’ he told me. ‘Brad’s father married my mother. His parents were divorced when he was about four. My dad died shortly after I was born.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ I said.
‘No need.’ He shrugged. ‘Obviously, it would have been nice to know him. But I don’t remember him, so it doesn’t hurt me. As far as I’m concerned, the man who raised me, Brad’s dad, was my own dad too. And Brad and I were as close as any brothers could be.’
The Hideaway Page 22