Virginity Despoiled

by Charles Brett

"Have you found a suitable base?"

  "That was easy, much easier than learning the breeding cycle. In Spain, after the financial crisis, there are no end of empty large buildings. I was able to secure deals on a couple of semi-decrepit ones. Both are towards the south east. Access is good if further from airports convenient to here. By the way, I hate low-cost airlines. Their seats are too narrow for me."

  "Too bad. Think of the rewards to come. Wasting money on comfortable flying between here and Frankfurt or St Petersburg or Moscow could make us conspicuous when we wish others to stay blind."

  "I know." He rowed on for seconds. "What about your part?"

  "Moving along. I have the connections and the first stages of insurance in place, ready to build upon for the big season. Our business now enjoys a reputation for buying insurance. I have our Estonian local on board, even if he doesn't know it. I've also identified several potential targets and I'm working on refining these. Our work of the past years comes together."

  "Any idea when we'll stop spending and start receiving? It's costing me more than you indicated. I can't continue for ever."

  "Relax, Andrei. Most of the major costs are over. Anyhow, I think we should meet in Spain next time, even though we won't be as invisible as here. Have you any scheme about how to hide ourselves?"

  "The option I prefer involves maximum indiscretion. Behave outrageously and you create the space to be ignored."

  "Yes?"

  "My favourite variant, which I suspect you'll reject out of hand, is to mimic a couple of raging queens out to have a good time."

  Andrei eyed Oleg. Although this would be an excellent cover for when they needed to behave normally, he did not think it would go down well. For one, Oleg hated gays. For another, and possibly as important, their physiques would mean Andrei would inevitably be seen as the 'dominant' one with Oleg the 'submissive' one. That was the sort of irrelevant humiliation Oleg could never accept.

  "You don't like it? No, I guessed as much. Pity. Then I suggest we go to the opposite extreme and act like good Germans, considering we both speak the language, and go out bimbo-hunting. It'll be more expensive but could be fun if we score."

  Out of the corner of his eye he witnessed Oleg's expression perk up. He'd thought as much. For a clever man Oleg rarely pulled his women using charm. Andrei suspected he was sex-starved. The opening he'd just described offered good cover and a way to get him laid. With a little luck it might discourage him from the micro-management style that Andrei had found to be a distinct downside when working with Oleg.

  "That's a good idea. And repeatable. Shall we pay a first visit together in a couple of weeks or so? Whenever you tell me the bugs are ready?"

  The same day: on the road to Úbeda

  Almost home, Lili passed Baeza, a pretty town close to Úbeda. For the past fifteen minutes she'd been reviewing what the last decade had cost. From one viewpoint she was far ahead. There had been lots of fun but, from a financial perspective, it was a disaster. She'd invested far too much of her savings, as well as sacrificed her banking career, which had promised millions.

  Enrique knew about the loss of her career. He couldn't do otherwise. She had discussed the implications with him after first six, and later twelve, months. On the second occasion he had objected on her behalf, but not excessively. She had insisted and he hadn't resisted further. She couldn't blame him.

  Her bosses in London had not been happy, except the one she had seen in California. He didn't seem surprised or to mind, as if he expected her back once she'd recovered her senses.

  The big problem lay on the financial side and it was her own fault. She had never told Enrique how much she had spent, all in the hope that one day they would match the Italians and be able to sell the very best Spanish Extra Virgin Olive Oil for the same premium prices the Italians charged. Somehow it had not yet worked out. There were constant obstacles along with a never-ending need to buy mills, the bottling plant, designs, brand development, travel and much else besides.

  As she acknowledged to herself, once Enrique's debts were under control, he had devoted himself to the cultivation of olives and the production of olive oil. In so doing he'd lost what little interest he possessed in the money side. While this made the best use of his talents, it was strange on several levels.

  For example, they had never established a formal relationship, or even an informal one – just quiet, mutual acceptance. To start they had slept in the same house but on different floors, though they cooked, ate, drank and socialised together. After many months they shared the same bed.

  But, apart from occasional flashes of action, she had not found any great sexual satisfaction from Enrique. She suspected he felt the same about her. For her part she didn't mind, though she loved to dress well and be decorative beside him, for he was a more than a good-looking Spaniard. Bedroom activities had always mildly repelled her – they were somehow squalid. They had never talked about this, just accepted it was the way it was meant to be, and carried on with mutual affection. Telling him she was leaving would be hard.

  The other area that puzzled her was he had never questioned her taking over his financial affairs. With a decade of experience in Andalucía this was not normal Spanish male behaviour. The result was he did not know she had invested most of her hard-earned savings in his business. She had earned these savings via her banking bonuses, which only arrived after the tax man's gouging. Yes, she did still have the Richmond apartment, which produced a handsome rental income. But it was the one remaining personal asset she possessed outright. Almost everything else was part of Enrique's estate over which she possessed no legal ownership.

  She accepted that a competent financial adviser, or a lawyer, would have told her she'd been foolish. Yet she couldn't begrudge what she had spent, even if she hadn't told Enrique. The fun had been good, albeit with life's insistent ups and downs.

  Now, however, black clouds were building. The decent profits she had assumed would arrive had not and they never seemed like doing so. Costs climbed without fail. Selling olive oil in bulk to the Italians, however good the quality, could never replenish their accumulated losses. Despite her constant travels, the North American market refused to pay Italian prices for the Olivos Ramos y Tremblay Special Extra Virgin Olive Oil.

  Northern Europe had grown into a better market than she'd ever expected, but without the superlative prices that Californians or New Yorkers and their copycats paid. The British, the Germans and the Scandinavians were too canny, even once accustomed to the delights of their EVOO, as she had nicknamed Extra Virgin Olive Oil to Enrique's horror.

  Her phone rang. Lili expected it to be Enrique asking where she was. It wasn't. It was her old boss from California calling in his morning, as was his habit, to enquire if she'd reached home safely. She said she was five minutes away. He congratulated her, adding that the position he wanted her for was authorised but hiring could not proceed for another six to eight months, rather than in the next month he'd indicated the previous day. He apologised. They finished with equal protestations of 'that's fine'.

  Lili's immediate reaction was acute disappointment. Something promised had been removed from her.

  A deeper insight occurred. She was being offered, if unintentionally, a window to rescue Olivos Ramos y Tremblay. How she would manage this she didn't know, but she wasn't going to give up until obliged to.

  Parking her car, a sense of relief overwhelmed her. With difficulty she extricated her luggage and headed for the house.

  The same day: Úbeda

  Enrique heard the front door close via the repeater Lili had insisted on installing. When he had resisted Lili had pointed out the front and back doors were four levels below the salon and terrace, which meant one could hear nothing at the top if someone entered or left at the bottom. Next he heard the lift.

  This was another of her shocking, sensible improvements. A small lift capable of holding two ran from the hall to each landing, including the kitchen and salon.
Whether for elderly guests or bringing in the shopping to the kitchen and dining room on the floor below it was a godsend. He valued it even more in winter; carrying firewood up so many floors did not appeal.

  The doors opened. Lili stumbled out, exhausted. Enrique swept her up in his arms, a show of physical concern that pushed their limits.

  "Lili, what's wrong?"

  "Nothing. Nothing some decent food, a glass of wine and sitting in front of the fire won't cure. Too much flying then driving accompanied by an excess of thinking. You know how I am when arriving back from long trips."

  "Too true. Sit. The fire awaits you."

  She slumped into her usual comfortable sofa. He fussed around. By the time he had hung her coat she was dead to the world. Just a gentle snuffle issued from her well-travelled body.

  Enrique dropped the blinds down the glass walls separating the salon from the terrace and checked again. She twisted as she slept. In her week's absence he'd forgotten just how slender she was. She possessed hardly a gram of spare anything, her bust almost non-existent and with hips no wider than her shoulders. Her tummy was as flat as the planks she conscientiously practised.

  Enrique tip-toed away to prepare what Lili had requested, certain she would wake within an hour at most. At that point, if he wasn't ready, he would be the one consumed. He descended to the kitchen and reflected on his evening's apprehensions. They hadn't disappeared but her manner on arrival supplied him with some obscure indicator of hope. Perhaps it was because she was behaving as usual on arriving back from a transatlantic trip. He hoped there was more to it.

  In the kitchen he cut up fresh tomatoes, added basilico, sliced some Manchego Viejo and fresh-baked bread. He peeled and segmented an orange before opening a bottle of a decent but not too heavy red wine. He took a glass for himself as he worked. From their 'dark cupboard' he extracted a bottle from this year's EVOO harvest – how he hated that name but, as always with anything Lili suggested, it had stuck – and loaded a tray. Finally he added a bottle, on ice, of San Pellegrino water. He expected her to consume this first. He raised his wrist. About five minutes, he reckoned.

  He switched on the radio, keeping it low. Not much was worth listening to, unless it was the Catalans complaining. This never-ending whingeing was a tedious certainty, albeit representative of people's lives far, far away from this idyll of a house near his beloved olive groves.

  "Enrique? Enrique?"

  The second time was louder. Time to go. He picked up the tray. As predicted the San Pellegrino disappeared first, followed by the bread and tomatoes drenched in their very own olive oil. Slowing, Lili started on the Manchego Viejo using it to mop up some of the excess olive oil on her plate. A sip of wine before the orange segments disappeared in a flash. At last she recognised him.

  "I'm restored. Thank you. Some sleep and then your ministrations. What more could I want?"

  "Profitable EVOO?"

  Lili pulled a face. Enrique regretted his quip. It was too near the bone for this evening.

  "You're so right. But that's something we need to talk about in detail. Not now."

  Enrique's apprehensions rushed back. What did she mean?

  "Don't look so worried, cariño. It's not urgent. Well, it is. But not tonight. I want to relax and enjoy being with you." She pointed to the empty space beside her. "Come and sit with me. I see you already have some wine. Tell me what you have been up to while I was away."

  Enrique had no choice. He thrust his fears aside and started to list what had been done and what needed to be. Lili listened. She moved along the sofa to be closer, to have his arm settle round her. She was home. Why would she want to change this?

  She knew. Challenge and money, money and challenge. She was her father's daughter, always trying to prove she was better and could make the most. The horrid irony was that her father had done well for himself but couldn't stop. In striving for more he lost all. Her childhood had been a mix of excessive extravagances followed by deprivation and misery.

  Was she doomed to repeat his performance? By temperament it would seem so. Could she break away from his example? That was what the next months would tell.

  Enrique watched her. She offered nothing about herself – yet. It was her way. Always he had to wait for her to open up. She would, eventually, he knew. But sometimes, having to be the patient one, talking and responding to her – rather than the reverse – drove him mad. She was so perceptive and considerate most of the time, but unresponsive when it didn't suit. He'd learnt the patience game the hard way. It hurt. That was Lili through and through: crass, elegant, charming, thoughtful, pig-headed, brash, self-centred, unthinking ... his adjective list knew no bounds.

  Chapter Three

  Winter

  Tuesday: Madrid

  Ana sat back. She'd worked hard the past couple of days. In fact she'd done so for almost a year, apart from her long August holiday when she had chosen to stay with some of her siblings in Gran Canaria.

  At work she'd been pushed harder than ever, impelled by her improbable cousin who had with equal improbability offered Ana an opportunity she couldn't decline. This paid her three times the miserable salary of her previous job and dangled the prospects of a further doubling, as well as a partnership in the business. In fewer than twelve months she had progressed from years of being comfortable, if poor, to spending freely while also saving. It was a new way of life.

  The best of all was her involvement in the business. The more effort she put in, the more fun it became. Her suspicion was this couldn't last. Nothing could be this good forever. While it continued she gave it her all.

  Her mobile phone sounded. Who would call just before eight on a Tuesday evening? It wasn't any suitor or boyfriend. The one person she wished would contact her had not done so for months. He wasn't even in Spain. His absence, after living with him for a week, still hurt.

  She checked the phone's screen. Inma. Who else? Her boss, mentor, cousin and odd lady.

  "Inma?"

  "Still in the office? You work hard. Thank you."

  Ana blushed at such praise. To her it was an indication of how far she had yet to adjust to Inma's work ethic. It wasn't like anything she'd encountered before, the opposite to her previous job where she had defined her own working day.

  "Yes, I slave on your behalf. Not that I've any alternatives, or even an alternative."

  All this brought was a dry laugh from Inma, accompanied by the one question only Inma would raise.

  "Not still mooning over Davide?"

  "No comment."

  "Fair enough. That means you were. Quit the self-indulgence. What are you doing now?"

  "Slaving for you."

  "I didn't mean that. I meant this evening."

  "Not a lot. Why?"

  "Fancy a drink? Meet you at El Minotauro in forty-five minutes?"

  "Fine by me. We could make it sooner if you want. I'm just about finished here for today."

  "Okay. I'm up by the Plaza de Castilla. If I can get there any sooner I will."

  Inma finished the call. Ana tidied up and managed to clear her desk. This was rare. More often than not she had too much going on for such a luxury. She left the building, in which Inma also had her own apartment, to stroll through the Madrid evening towards El Minotauro.

  Spotted from afar, one of the owners, Toni, greeted her with a kiss. Did she want a table or to be at the bar? Inspecting the clock on her phone Ana decided on the table. Inma might be some time yet. It would be more comfortable to sit than stand.

  Toni led her to a recently vacated table and wiped it down. It was the hour when Madrileños, having consumed their aperitivos, headed home for dinner. She ordered a bottle of Rías Baixas, the white wine Inma preferred. Glass in hand, she checked her messages and emails. It was her usual forlorn hope. But hope she did, every day, for one particular communication.

  "Nothing from Davide?" startled a voice from behind.

  Ana flushed. Caught in the act. Damn Inma! Yet Ana
's innate self-honesty accepted Inma's raw accuracy.

  "Sorry. I shouldn't have said that."

  Inma changed the subject.

  "You've ordered the Rías Baixas. Well done. Do you want something to eat while we drink?"

  Recovering herself, even if annoyed with her cousin and doubly with herself, Ana agreed. Inma waved Toni over.

  "Your Jamón Serrano, some tomato with garlic and oil and a dozen gambas."

  She raised an eyebrow to Ana, who nodded.

  As Toni went off, Inma turned her attention back to Ana. "What do you know about olive oil?"

  "That you have it on salad. That you buy it in supermarkets. That it comes from olives off olive trees. Is that enough?"

  Inma ignored the sarcastic answers.

  "You and I must learn more by Friday, a lot more."

  "Why? And why, if I may ask, by Friday."

  "On Friday we go to a place I've just about heard of: Úbeda. We've a new business opportunity, one where we might be able to test out one of my ideas for broadening our re-insurance business."

  "To do with olive oil?"

  "Yes. But we must do our homework to understand the industry so as to apply informed intelligence to what we offer or avoid. By the way, have you ever been to Úbeda? Do you know how to get there?"

  "Not Úbeda, but Baeza, which is close. From memory it isn't an easy place to reach. When I went it was by car on the way back from the Alpujarras. I think it's three or four hours from there to here."

  "That's even further than I thought. Oh well, we're committed now. Shall we stay somewhere nearby for the weekend? The business can pay. We're doing well enough and both of us deserve a treat."

  "Are you trying to distract me, Cousin Inma? If so, I confess to being grateful. I've nothing planned for this weekend" (or the past two or next three, she admitted to herself). "Shall I find out about getting there and where to stay for Friday and Saturday nights?"

  "Yes. Include Sunday night if you find a place with a gym and/or a spa – both would be best – though whether we can expect such luxuries so far from a major city may be being optimistic. If we leave early on Monday morning we'll be back in the office before lunch.