‘She was alright - sat there correcting our grammar,’ Liz said. ‘But Yolly, I’m afraid it’s rather different in the new class. Núria is no Juana. Excellent teacher but it’s all a bit more… directed. And… I better warn you, rumour has it that—’
‘I know. Javi took her out a few times, some while ago.’
‘Well yes, maybe that’s all it was. People exaggerate.’
I’d suddenly had enough to eat. ‘Why, what did you hear?’
Ian mumbled his excuses and took his paper indoors.
‘Oh, you know, they were an item for a while, not long before you came along.’
People might exaggerate, but there was no obvious reason for them to be wrong about the timing.
‘Anyway, she’s very professional, she’s not going to say anything. It’ll be fine.’
It wasn’t. Right from the first piercing look over her designer glasses and the ‘you must be Yoli - sorry, Yolan-der’.
Good-looking in an absence-of-bad-features kind of way. Agreeable - well, with everybody else, but her smiles seemed to stop halfway, as if she needed to go somewhere very warm for a while and be thawed. Perhaps Javi had managed this, I thought, because in her present state I couldn’t imagine him even shaking hands with her, let alone anything else.
She kept saying I wasn’t listening and that she was surprised I wasn’t getting more practice.
The bell. Liz and I were going to go have lunch by the Darro and discuss the best way of handling her, but Carlota was waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs.
‘Ah, Yoli. Can I have a chat with you? Please, go to my office and I will join you in a minute with coffee for us.’
A formidable dancer in her time, and now a formidable businesswoman - but fair and kind with it, according to Javi. I opened the door marked Directora and sat down, gazing at the flamenco posters all over the walls. I spotted one with Javi hunched over his guitar in the background and got up to have a better look.
‘A talented tocaor,’ said Carlota behind me. Raised eyebrows and a quick nod told me to sit down opposite her. ‘And a wonderful teacher, very simpático.’
‘Yes.’
‘If you make him happy, I am pleased. But you must understand, we are many people in a small space, and students pay much to be here. It is easy for them to be… offended.’
‘Offended?’
‘Perhaps it is not the correct word. But Yoli, I am trying to tell you that you must be discreet. It is important.’
‘Of course.’
‘Teachers should not have relations with students. They know this. But it happens, so all I can ask is, I prefer that the other students do not know. You understand?’
‘Yes. Alright.’
‘It is easier this way, we have had troubles before.’
I sipped my coffee. There’d been the German girl who, at the end of her visit, had admitted to being married. He hadn’t told me of any others. Perhaps she meant that love-himself star dancer guy.
‘I have given him the same warning. I’m sure it will be okay now we have spoken.’
‘Perhaps you could talk to Núria. She’s not being discreet. I can’t imagine anybody in my Spanish class being in any doubt that she was… offended by me before I even walked in.’
‘Núria.’ She shook her head. ‘Javi tried to mend her… I will talk to her. I’m sorry. Tell me if there are more problems. Now go and have lunch before your next class.’
Liz was waiting for me in the courtyard. ‘I’ve got Pepe to save us a table - don’t worry, locals get served more quickly.’ I followed her into the alley. ‘Something you might find out, of course.’
‘Don’t. And in fact careful what you say, because I’ve basically been gagged about Javi and me. Annoying really, I mean what about that Belgian girl and the Cultural Programmes guy…?’
‘They’re married, Yolly. And until you two are, she’ll just see you as another blonde guiri with a romantic flamenco fixation, dubious morals and a stack of euros.’
‘Bloody cheek. But at least I told her about Núria and she promised to have a word.’
We’d reached the terrace; a guitarist was coming round with his hat while the next performers for the spot by the fountain - a ponytailed bubble-blower with his cropped-haired girl assistant - were setting up. Pepe led us to a table in front of it and took our orders.
Becoming a local. On the next table, two young Spanish women were laughing over their lunches while the babies gurgled in their prams. I wondered if Liz and I might sit here with a pram one day. That would be only one pram, of course, because when our Spanish conversation practice had covered the mothering issue, Liz had confessed to being vehemently against the idea. She hadn’t said why. But then maybe, like my cousin and Emma’s sister, there wasn’t a reason. It seemed that if you didn’t want children, you just didn’t want them and that was it. Enviably simple and certain.
‘Are you okay, Yolly?’
‘Yeah, just starving. So you haven’t told me how the business is going.’
‘Much the same. But then there was never going to be much of a call for English website design out here. God, you were right about Helen, by the way. At least she was happy with the website in the end. I gather it’s almost doubled the bookings - but that’s probably not what you want anymore.’
‘Oh bloody hell,’ I said, dodging a massive bubble wobbling past the table. I watched it burst over an irritating group of Japanese girls practising castanets and exchanged a grin with one of the Spanish women.
‘Doesn’t make it easy to come out here, no. And Javi’s in two groups now, so heaven knows when he’ll next be able to come over to me again. Says he can’t leave his old group until he’s found another guitarist for them.’
‘Too nice a guy, eh? So he gets back from Córdoba later, but how many evenings will you have together this week?’
‘Er… alone, just tonight and Thursday. But I’ll go to the gigs, of course. Have you decided which evenings you want to join me?’
‘Just Friday, I’m afraid. Sorry, but you know I can only handle so much flamenco. Think you have to grow up with it. It’s different for you, learning it and being a musician.’
‘I’m enthralled, yes, but it’s still a mystery.’
We watched another bubble sail past, this time with ludicrous quivering purpose towards the restaurant across the road. And that’s where I saw her. The unmistakable thick black ponytail, and possibly the same earrings.
‘Oh God, I think that’s Isabel over there - Javi’s ex sister-in-law. Red jacket.’ I moved my chair round a bit so as to have my back to the road.
Liz looked over. ‘Well what’s she going to do? And she did say sorry last time. I’ll let you know when she’s gone round the corner.’
Our tortillas arrived. I asked her where she thought Javi should take me in the car on Saturday. She started to tell me about a romantic place from where we could look down on the city… But along came another huge bubble, this time apparently created for one of the Spanish babies, now sitting up with rapt admiration. Until she put out a finger and it burst right over her.
There was a gasp from the Japanese. The mother pulled out a pack of tissues. Then the high-pitched screaming started, followed by a rapid burst of complaint from the other Spanish woman and guttural, toothless support from a withered old man at the next table.
All eyes on the terrace were on the bubble-blower, who’d decided to launch his apology and reassurance about the contents of his mixture from beside our table. All eyes except Isabel’s.
‘Shit, she’s spotted me.’
It was suddenly quiet again, the baby having presumably cried out all the soap, and everyone else back minding their own business. Except for Isabel, moving swiftly towards us.
‘Okay. Finished? We can go and pay and get out of here…’ Liz was saying.
But Isabel was already there, looking down at me, hand on hip. ‘How-are-you?’
‘Bien, gracias.’
‘Good? H
ow is? You come here but Javier eat tortilla today in Córdoba with his wife,’ she said, indicating my plate with a quick tilt of her prominent chin.
‘He’s working.’
A short laugh. ‘Es verdad. Violeta is work. But not explica why you here.’
‘She doesn’t have to explain anything to you,’ Liz said.
Isabel nodded her head, earrings jangling. ‘No.’ She jabbed a finger at me. ‘But he need explain her.’ She walked off, her boots clicking on the pavement.
The Spanish women were staring, now seeing me as a nasty husband-stealing guiri.
‘D’you know, I’m beginning to feel somewhat unwelcome round here.’
‘Come on, she’s probably just making it all up. Javi’ll sort her out.’
I struggled with the flamenco class until I was seeing a glittery zigzag line and had to make my excuses and walk home. To Javi’s, where the previous night I’d lain alone but happily snuggled up to a jumper he’d left behind on the bed. Now I just lay there, hoping the migraine tablet would block everything out until he got back. Which would only be a couple of hours, he’d texted from the van, adding in Spanish that he couldn’t wait to be round me, on me, in me.
My phone buzzed again. Jeremy.
'Thinking of my flamenco dancer - time you showed me what you can do. Perhaps next time your tocaor comes over? Meanwhile guess who I’m watching tonight? G and N have booked for us to see M+M! Might say hello to Nando. LU XX'
One day I was going to have to tell him what happened, if only to stop him mentioning that bloody name.
I started to float; the medicine was having fun rewiring my brain but hadn’t yet reached the pain. A rhythmical throbbing - I could see it written down in musical notation; a hairpin sign to show the crescendo increases in intensity, an italicised accel to show the speeding up to the climax of… I sat up and grabbed the just-in-case washing up bowl.
Great, I thought. Now Javi will be coming home to a sick-smelling flat. I staggered through to the bathroom to deal with the bowl. Decided to wash my teeth. Looked for toothpaste in the tiny cupboard on the wall.
Shaving cream. That glue stuff he had to use on his long right-hand fingernails. A clatter of nail files. The packet of migraine tablets. Round it, a red hair elastic. I picked it up for a closer look and watched it disappear into the scintillating diamond into which the zigzag had morphed. Held it further away and fixed my eyes slightly to one side of it. Good, at least she hadn’t left any black hair in it, her tempestuous DNA burning my fingers. I stomped back to bed and closed my eyes.
I was watching Jim’ll Fix It with Papa. Two girls had got to meet ABBA, and now they were singing ‘Thank You For The Music’ with them in a recording studio. Benny had his arm round the smaller girl, just like Papa had round me. I’d been in a recording studio once, but it had been much smaller and a lot less shiny.
Mummy came in to say something but looked at us and went out again. She was in one of her pink-eyed whiny moods with Papa, but I couldn’t see why. Charlotte was also in a paddy, going on about her ballet bun not being neat enough for Miss Hermione and demanding that Mummy did it again. Papa and I exchanged a look; he patted my itchy net ballet skirt and told me that Charlie needed to understand that it was more important to focus on her performance than her hairgrips.
But Charlotte had come downstairs and stamped into the room. ‘I heard that. What do you care anyway? You can’t even be bothered to come and watch us.’
‘You’re wrong, he’s got a ticket,’ I said, picturing the two pink paper squares by the hall phone.
‘Of course he has. But something better has come up. Someone better.’
What did she mean? Someone putting on a better ballet show? How could that be - we’d had extra afternoons in the hall to get it right, and Miss Hermione had said it was going to be her best show ever. And Papa still had his big arm round me, stroking my hair as I leant back against his warm shirt; he wasn’t saying that he wasn’t coming. But then, he wasn’t saying he was, either…
I pushed back against him, waking and confused for a moment. Javi. His arm around me, his warm breath on my neck.
‘Ah… hello,’ he said, feeling me stir. ‘Qué pasa Yoli, migraña?’
‘Yes. Uh… need the loo. Momento.’
I swung my legs onto the floor and swayed off to the bathroom. Shielding my eyes from the low sun coming through the window but relieved to be able to see properly again.
I sat on the loo and stared at the red hair band - now on the glass shelf and wrapped round the migraine pills packet again. The red band that I’d worn that first evening I’d come here, holding back some of my hair. The one I used to keep it out of the way when I had a shower. How on earth could I have thought it wasn’t mine?
Javi was making drinks in the kitchen.
‘Come here.’ He wrapped his arms round me. ‘At last. I’ve missed you so much.’ We stood there for a while. It felt good, but not as good as it should have done.
‘Toast and honey?’
‘No. Oh… well yes, I’ll try.’
‘I will bring it.’
I went back to bed - but sitting up, stuffing pillows behind me and trying to rally my brain. I could have done with the usual post-migraine hyperactivity, but that hadn’t arrived and I had a feeling it wasn’t going to. As if the pill was only keeping the migraine in a holding pattern; sooner or later I was going to have to land this mother myself. Perhaps more sleep would do it. More water. And of course - or maybe only this - talking to Javi about… But no, he would talk to me. I just had to be patient.
He came in with a tray and sat on the bed next to me. Asked about the school.
‘I’ve got Núria for Spanish. She doesn’t seem too keen on me,’ I said, looking over for a reaction.
‘Oh no. I have to talk with her. What did she say?’
I gave him some examples and he shook his head.
‘Er… can you tell me again about you and her?’
‘We are friends. I help her move things when she left her husband last year. She was… very sad, tired… I took her to restaurants some times, we talked. But soon she was going out with friend of her sister.’
‘And then?’
A slight hesitation, perhaps wondering whether he could get away with leaving it at that. ‘At Christmas she was alone, and I had trouble with Violeta’s family, I was very… deprimido, no? I think she wanted help me, but…’ He breathed out heavily. ‘One evening she started to… well, you know, we had too much wine…’
I looked away, trying not to imagine it.
‘I’m sorry, Yoli, I don’t want to remember and you don’t want hear. She was cross but I thought now she accepts we are only friends. I will talk with her—’
‘You probably don’t have to. Carlota grabbed me for a lecture about how we have to keep our relationship a secret, and I told her about it.’
‘Oh Yoli, no - now you put her in trouble.’
‘Well maybe she should be,’ I said, folding my arms. He stared at me. ‘No I’m sorry, I don’t mean that. It’s just that…’ It’s just that it’s been quite a day, and it would be nice if at least one of these Spanish women could be taken to task for it.
‘What?’
‘I don’t know… I’ll try and be really nice to her tomorrow.’
‘That’s my Yoli.’
He put the tray on the floor and cuddled up next to me.
‘Better after that?’
‘Yes. And the medicine’s starting to work.’
‘Those pills are mágicos - and of course we have to thank them for putting us together,’ he said.
I usually loved to talk about how we became a couple, the funny speculations about whether it would have happened if I hadn’t had trouble with the key, if he hadn’t got drunk. But I wasn’t in the mood for it. Nor was I happy when the hand that may have held Violeta’s across the table strayed down between my legs.
‘No.’ I said, gently pushing him away. ‘Not better
enough for that.’
A little puzzled, but smiling and pulling me closer. ‘Anything more, mi cariño? Your camomile tea? We need to make you better as fast as possible, please! What would help?’
You telling me about Violeta, I wanted to say. I shrugged, looking into his eyes and willing him to talk.
But he leapt off the bed muttering something about deshidratación and a drink he wanted me to try.
I looked at my phone: a message from Jeremy that I’d missed.
'Everything okay? J xxxx'
As if he knew it wasn’t. I’d answer him when it was; surely that couldn’t be long. A fluttering in my stomach. Maybe Javi was sparing me, just as I had kept my encounter with David to myself. Trouble was, I hadn’t been spared.
‘Aquí está,’ he said, bringing in a brownish milky drink. ‘Horchata. You have tried?’
‘No.’
‘Is from Valencia. Chufas - ah, no sé como se dice - and sugar. Very good for health and energy. I make it hot for you, is more relajante.’
I took a sip: a sort of marzipan Horlicks.
He sat back down next to me on the bed, with my timetable. ‘Belén for Compás - but you have missed this today?’
‘Yes.’
‘You will like her. And ah, this is good - we have hour and quarter for lunch at same time, can eat together. Maybe more…’ He grinned.
The fluttering in my tummy was turning to an ache. I put the drink on the bedside table. I could say, today my lunch was interrupted by your witch of a sister-in-law. Possibly adding while you were having lunch and maybe more with Violeta.
‘Don’t you like it?’
‘I love it,’ I said, picking up the mug again and feeling the sugar course through me. ‘So… what did you do today then - celebrate with the group?’
‘We met with two dancers who may join.’
My heart thumped. ‘No.’
He laughed. ‘What you mean, 'no'?’
‘Well, won’t two more dancers be too many?’
‘They are couple. Emilio is thinking about it.’
‘Oh.’ But did that mean other dancers auditioned? Was there anything I could ask that would make him tell me? I finished the drink, for something to do, and started to feel sick again. I lay down on the bed, facing away from him. He cuddled me, pressing himself against my back. As before. How much longer would I have to wait? Would he tell me over dinner? After dinner? Tomorrow? Or perhaps he felt it was nothing to do with me; they were married still, after all. Married. He’s married. There was a faint but unmistakable return of the hammering in my head, my tummy wondering what to do with the comfort drink I’d been given instead of the truth…
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