by Joanna Glen
A business meeting on honeymoon?
‘Just one,’ said Bridget, blushing.
The guests left, and I poured myself a glass of wine and sat in the mess and the silence, waiting for Barnaby to join me.
Chapter 112
Barnaby never joined me.
He left the next morning with Azahara without saying goodbye.
I felt sick and stupid.
I filled in the paperwork to change my name to Benalcazar.
Gerónimo and Bridget returned from honeymoon.
‘Was Barnaby the man you fell in love with?’ said Bridget. ‘The one who was engaged?’
I blushed.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ she said.
‘I couldn’t,’ I said.
‘I saw you two dancing,’ said Bridget. ‘And the penny dropped. Are you having an affair?’
‘Certainly not,’ I said.
Bridget raised one eyebrow.
I laughed.
I stuttered.
‘He won’t leave her,’ said Bridget.
‘He may,’ I said. ‘There are things you don’t know.’
‘We can all see the marriage is a mess,’ said Bridget. ‘But he’s totally in awe of her.’
‘I’ve always hated it when you disagree with me,’ I said.
‘And she’s the mother of his children.’
‘Children?’
‘She’s pregnant again.’
Naomi is pregnant.
‘There are plenty more fish in the sea,’ said Bridget.
‘I hate that expression,’ I said. ‘And there are no fish like Barnaby.’
‘I compromised,’ said Bridget. ‘I’ve had to give up the idea of children. Sometimes we have to compromise, Eva. You’re too fussy.’
‘It’s good to be fussy,’ I said.
‘How were the honeymoon whooshes?’ I said.
‘Pretty good!’ she said.
Chapter 113
Mr Blue phoned to ask if he could come over to La Convivencia at Hanukkah, around 10 December.
Jean phoned to say, hurray, Cherie had finally softened, and they would both love to visit for Christmas, and they thought they would fly before the school holidays and all the hullabaloo, say, around 10 December.
I felt shocked: it was eight years since I’d seen her.
It also came to me that I’d introduced Jhazmin as my mother to everyone I knew in Córdoba, yet I assumed that Cherie still saw herself as my mother too. I’d never thought she’d come.
‘Well, it all worked out OK in Mamma Mia, you know, with the three dads,’ said Carrie.
‘Please don’t mention the new surname,’ I said to everyone.
The plane from Gatwick was delayed, and Mr Blue arrived first, in the rain.
It was evening by the time I drove up to the station, shaking with nerves. Nigel had the Sooty puppet sticking out of his cagoule pocket and was leaning a long rectangular parcel against himself. Cherie was wearing a floral raincoat which I imagined she’d bought from the Boden catalogue.
‘I brought your painting,’ said Nigel. ‘I knew you’d want it.’
‘It’s been an absolute nuisance,’ said Cherie as we brushed cheeks, nervously.
‘Welcome to La Convivencia!’ I said as we went through the oak door, where everyone was waiting awkwardly in the courtyard, and I introduced Jhazmin (getting that over with first, feeling trembly), and swiftly on to Mr Blue, and Bridget and Gerónimo, and Gerónimo’s sister, who lives in Arcos de la Frontera, and Carrie and Gabriel and little Ignacio.
Mr Blue said, ‘You know the meaning of convivencia? It means happy coexistence, which is probably what we should aim for! Despite the potential complications all round!’
Cherie pulled down her hood and started to un-pop the poppers of her raincoat.
‘I feel as if I recognise you,’ she said.
‘Bridget’s father,’ he said.
I swept Cherie and Jean upstairs, and Nigel followed with Sooty.
‘I gave the two of you a twin room,’ I said. ‘But do say if you’d rather have singles. And Nigel, you’ve got your own room.’
They didn’t answer.
‘That little Jhazmin woman?’ said Cherie, unpeeling her floral raincoat and handing it to me. ‘Is she who I think she is?’
‘I think she is,’ I said, hanging up her raincoat.
‘The one who gave you to the nuns?’ she said, collapsing onto one of the beds. ‘The desperate little Muslim girl from Tooting?’
‘When her father died,’ I started, trying to get the right tone, ‘he left her nothing. Not a penny. So she had to come here. Her marriage had gone wrong.’
‘She won’t be celebrating Christmas,’ said Cherie. ‘They don’t believe in it.’
‘And nor does Mr Blue,’ I said. ‘Though everyone likes presents and eating.’
‘I’ve always thought it was very odd the way they changed their name,’ said Cherie. ‘But each to his own.’
Now this was a new Cherie – each to his own.
‘What does she do here anyway?’ she said. ‘Jhazmin?’
‘She’s the cook!’
Genius master stroke – it spoke not of love but of employment.
It kept Cherie in the top spot.
‘Ah, I see!’ she said.
‘Ideal!’ said Jean, smiling.
‘I’m sure you’re going to love her food,’ I said.
‘Well!’ said Jean, letting out a deep breath.
‘Well what?’ said Cherie.
‘Aren’t these mattresses comfortable?’ said Jean, lying back on the second bed.
‘Your father should never have told you about her!’ said Cherie. ‘To think where you grew up. The education you’ve had. The best of everything.’
‘We both know he’s a law unto himself,’ I said, trying, again, to win her over. ‘I’m so sorry that he treated you badly. I see that clearly as an adult.’
Another genius stroke, I thought, and also true.
‘You’ve done these rooms beautifully,’ said Jean.
‘They have quite different ideas about taste in Tooting,’ said Cherie. ‘Have you found that?’
She closed her eyes, and then she opened them.
‘This place is magical,’ she said.
Wow! Was that a compliment? From Cherie?
Jean was really rubbing off on her.
I felt flushed.
‘Bridget’s father has become rather distinguished-looking,’ said Cherie.
It was going to be all right.
I hung Blue Mother’s painting on the wall of my bedroom with a gold spotlight on it. Every night, before going to sleep, I turned all the lights off and stared at it from my bed. It gave me strength.
It still does.
I need strength now.
More than ever.
Chapter 114
Nigel popped open bottles and entertained Ignacio with Sooty shows.
Happy Christmas!
Happy Hanukah!
¡Feliz Navidad!
¡Feliz Año!
On 6 January, I arranged plates of tapas on tables around San Rafael.
In the kitchen, Jean was helping Jhazmin prepare lunch. She caught my eye and nodded out of the window towards Cherie, resplendent in a long silk dress, throwing back her head to laugh at something Mr Blue had said. I smiled.
Gerónimo was staring at Nigel.
In fact, Gerónimo was always staring at Nigel.
Gerónimo didn’t look jolly when he stared at Nigel.
I didn’t like it when people didn’t like Nigel.
Jean started to serve the soup.
‘You look sad,’ whispered Carrie.
‘I’ve had enough of being on my own,’ I said, thinking that I couldn’t keep this in any longer, even if I liked to appear fine. ‘I couldn’t have better friends, but I guess we all want our own romance. If that doesn’t sound too pathetic.’
Carrie took my hand.
‘Als
o,’ I said. ‘Is Gerónimo a bastard? I’ve been wondering.’
‘No,’ said Carrie. ‘Bridget married him knowing he didn’t want children.’
‘Yes, but he looks at Nigel weirdly,’ I said.
We sat down at the long table to have Christmas lunch: baked dorada fish with lemon and herbs, followed by flan and apple tart.
Cherie tapped her glass with her teaspoon.
‘To the chef!’ she said, raising her glass to Jhazmin.
Jean whispered in my ear, ‘You thought it would never happen.’
I whispered back, ‘Is she drunk?’
Dishes of Christmas nougat and almond cookies called polvorones; Orujo liqueurs and Baileys and Limoncello; coffee with lemon olive oil cake.
Nigel was asleep in the corner with the ginger cat on his lap.
Sooty had fallen off his hand and was lying limply over the geraniums as if he’d been shot.
Chapter 115
The day before my twenty-ninth birthday, Naomi gave birth to a little girl called Esther.
She’d wanted another daughter, Bridget said.
Barnaby had hoped for a son.
Bridget was staring at me.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘This must be so hard for you.’
‘I’m sorry too,’ I said. ‘Everyone’s having babies, and I know you’d like one.’
‘You’d like one too,’ she said.
‘I’m not sure life ever works out exactly as we hope,’ I said. ‘And even if I was Mrs Fertile, there’s rather an absence of sperm in my life.’
‘I know you’d do anything to have a husband,’ she said.
‘Well, not anything,’ I said. ‘And not any husband.’
‘Please give up on Barnaby,’ said Bridget. ‘I feel so bad about it all. Like he’s got it so wrong. Even if he is my brother.’
‘I know, I know,’ I said. ‘I’ve got to move on.’
‘I can’t move on, Eva,’ said Bridget, and her face looked very pale. ‘I can’t seem to give up the idea of babies. And Gerónimo will never change his mind. About anything!’
‘Oh, Bridge!’ I said. ‘Why is life so complicated?’
I hugged her, and I could feel her heart against mine.
We let each other go.
‘It’s like my maternal urges are going crazy,’ she said. ‘And I know I shouldn’t be saying this to you. Because of your thing, you know, I can never remember what it’s called …’
‘Endometriosis,’ I said.
‘Yes, and at least I’ve got a husband.’
‘Having a husband doesn’t mean everything’s perfect.’
Bridget reached up her hand and squeezed mine.
‘That’s true,’ she said. ‘It isn’t perfect, Eva. Did you realise?’
I squeezed her hand and said I was sorry, and that no marriage was perfect, as far as I knew.
‘Except Carrie and Gabriel’s,’ she said.
‘Maybe.’
I went to the card shop.
I stared at pale pink cards.
I wrote nothingy words to Barnaby and Naomi, scribbled their address on the envelope and propped it against the mirror in my bedroom.
That night, I couldn’t sleep.
I tried closing my eyes and counting, but when I got to a hundred, they sprung open.
I crept down the steps, grabbed some bread rolls from the kitchen and I unlocked the big oak door. This is what Sister Ana used to do – prowl around the city at night feeding the poor. I knew I needed a desire that was bigger than my own happiness. Like Sister María Soledad said to Jhazmin.
I took the bread rolls into the orange-tree courtyard to see if that would make me feel good about myself, but all the homeless people were asleep. I awkwardly put a bread roll next to each of them, on a tissue, wondering if Sister Ana would have woken them up. I didn’t like to. As I walked away, I wondered if the rolls would attract rats, but I couldn’t exactly take them away – it would look like I was stealing from the homeless. If anyone was watching. Which they probably weren’t. I scuttled out through the gate, thinking that I wasn’t a total natural at bigger desires.
I walked to the postbox and dropped in the card to Barnaby and Naomi. Then I stopped off at the Puerta del Puente and stared at San Rafael, teetering at the top of the pillar. Was he really the angel who stirred the water at the healing pool of Bethesda which I’d read about in Sister Ana’s bible?
I wondered what the healing pool of Bethesda had looked like, if it existed.
Bethesda, that was a lovely word.
The rain got heavier, so I walked home, still feeling wide awake. I changed out of my wet clothes and sat down at Adriana’s computer, and I looked up Pool of Bethesda.
The Pool of Bethesda is in the Muslim Quarter of Jerusalem, on the path of the Beth Zeta valley, it said. In the Christian bible, in the fifth chapter of John, such a pool is described, surrounded by five covered porticoes. Until the late nineteenth century, there was no evidence outside John’s Gospel for its existence at Bethesda, and most scholars dismissed the hypothesis of a pool with five sides. But when the site was excavated, it revealed a rectangular pool with two basins separated by a wall – a five-sided pool, each side with a portico. Exactly as it had been described.
How wonderful!
Time for more research.
In the absence of romance and the failure of altruism, there was nothing I liked better than some research.
Chapter 116
In March 2004, the Cercanías train system in Madrid was bombed and nearly two hundred people were killed – the deadliest terrorist attack ever carried out in Spain.
First José María Aznar’s government said that it was ETA, then that it was al-Qaeda, and then Aznar lost the election because everyone thought he’d caused the tragedy by taking the country into the Iraq War.
A vigil was held in the courtyard of the Mezquita to remember the Convivencia, when the three religions of the Book had lived happily together for 250 years.
We lit candles and prayed for peace.
April came, and the flowered crosses were raised around the city.
Carrie gave birth to a little girl who she called Lily, after her grandmother – a sister for Ignacio. She lay pale and exhausted, with flat hair and boobs dribbling milk.
‘Look how beautiful you are,’ Gabriel said to Carrie.
I thought how nice it would be to have someone to say that to me – especially if I was looking as awful as she was. There is an awful-beautiful, though, the way people look in the morning when they wake up, sometimes better than beautiful-beautiful, which can be lipsticky and unreal.
Bridget sat by Carrie’s bed holding Baby Lily in her arms.
‘She’s making my boobs ache!’ she said, laughing.
‘That’s not funny,’ said Carrie. ‘Are your boobs actually aching, Bridget?’
‘Everything’s aching,’ she said.
It wasn’t long after that Bridget called to say she needed to talk to me, alone, about something important.
‘We’ll go walking,’ I said.
Jhazmin said she’d make us a picnic.
We drove out beyond the city, and we parked in my normal place beside the gate.
‘When are you going to tell me the something important?’ I said as we walked in the sunshine.
‘Not yet,’ she said. ‘You tell me things.’
I told her about my research into the healing pool at Bethesda in the Book of John, where the sick used to sit, where the angel – probably our angel Rafael – used to stir the waters. I told her that everyone thought the pool wasn’t real. But architects had uncovered it, and it was exactly as the bible described it.
‘I love that,’ I said. ‘The thought that angels and healing pools might be true.’
‘It’s a beautiful word, Bethesda,’ said Bridget, as we climbed.
‘Does this remind you of anything?’ said Bridget.
‘That day,’ I said. ‘The picnic on the hill.’
<
br /> She smiled.
‘Happy memories,’ she said. ‘Life seemed so simple then.’
‘Not to me,’ I said.
‘She was such a special lady,’ I said.
‘You never stop needing a mother,’ said Bridget. ‘And I could do with her today.’
‘Are you going to tell me yet?’ I said.
‘I will when we find the picnic spot,’ said Bridget.
‘Look at that butterfly! It’s a Lorquin’s Blue sunbathing on a rock!’
‘Quite the expert!’ said Bridget.
‘Inspired by your gorgeous father,’ I said.
I laid out a rug, and we both sat down.
‘Let’s get started,’ said Bridget. ‘I love your mother’s food.’
I still wasn’t used to having a real mother.
I pulled out the first box, and in it were, I hesitated, and tasted one – liver pâté sandwiches. Jhazmin never ever made liver pâté sandwiches.
‘Did you tell her to make these?’ said Bridget.
I shook my head.
The next box was full of home-made meringues, sticky in the centre like Blue Mother’s.
I rushed to open the next.
I couldn’t believe it.
Flapjacks.
The next.
Brownies.
‘Have as many as you like!’ I said to Bridget.
‘My gorgeous mother!’ she said.
And I thought: my gorgeous mother! My own actual one! How lovely of her.
‘It feels such a long time ago, that picnic,’ said Bridget. ‘Like another lifetime. But this is just what I need today. Comfort.’
I held her hand.
‘Gerónimo’s left me,’ she said.
‘I wondered …’ I said.
‘But that’s not all,’ she said. ‘I stopped taking the pill but I didn’t tell him.’
I waited.
‘I’m five months pregnant,’ she said.
‘Five months?’
‘It’s harder to tell when you’re fat,’ said Bridget. ‘I thought when it actually happened, he’d change his mind.’
‘He didn’t?’
She shook her head.
I put my arm around her.
I don’t want to say any more.
They loved each other in the beginning, even if it didn’t end well.