by Matt Dunn
‘Okay,’ said the man, holding her phone up at arm’s length and squinting at the screen. ‘You go back a little . . .’
‘Here?’ asked Rachel, taking a step closer to the cathedral.
‘More,’ said the man, moving a yard backwards himself, so she did as she was told.
‘Here?’
‘More,’ he said, checking the traffic, then stepping backwards off the kerb.
Rachel frowned. ‘I just want me and the building, not me and the whole city,’ she said, wondering why the man seemed to be edging further away from her.
And slipping her phone into the pocket of his tracksuit top.
Before turning round and making a run for it . . .
‘Stop!’ she shouted at his rapidly disappearing back, already fearing she was too late. ‘Thief!’
A nearby group of Japanese tourists began babbling excitedly (a few of them even taking photos of her) as she scrabbled for the Lonely Planet guidebook in her bag, flicking quickly through to the phrasebook section at the back to try and locate the Spanish word for ‘thief’, hoping that shouting that might provoke more of a response from the assembled crowds. Then she cursed her stupidity. They were tourists – they probably didn’t speak Spanish.
Desperately, Rachel began to give chase, though she gave up after little more than a yard or two. She’d never catch him, especially wearing the powder-blue Menorcan sandals she’d treated herself to from a shop earlier, which were starting to chafe quite painfully.
She stood helplessly on the kerb as – from the other side of the road – the thief glanced back over his shoulder to check whether she was chasing him, then he gave her a disdainful sneer, tapped the pocket where her phone was and slowed down to an arrogant strut.
Rachel couldn’t believe it. How could she have just given a complete stranger her phone like that? She’d always been too trusting. Too naive. Though perhaps this was karma for sending that photo to Rich. She wasn’t a nasty person. And the one time she’d done something like that, something so out of character . . . clearly it had come back to bite her on the backside.
Then, suddenly, someone flashed past her, a blur of pumping arms and heavily muscled legs, and within moments the man – she’d caught a whiff of his Lynx body spray as he’d passed, the same one Rich wore but smelling a lot sexier right now – had caught the thief up, grabbing him by his tracksuit collar just as he climbed onto the back of a waiting moped.
Rachel hurried across the road, narrowly avoiding a funny-looking, bright yellow three-wheeler, but by the time she reached the opposite pavement the moped had sped off and the thief was nowhere to be seen. ‘My phone!’ she wailed, and the man turned to acknowledge her, his face a little flushed from the chase. He was good-looking, a foot taller than she was, athletically built and with the bluest eyes Rachel had ever seen. And (she realised, once she’d finally stopped checking him out) he appeared to be holding the thief’s tracksuit top.
‘Ta-da!’ he said, slightly out of breath, then to her amazement he reached into the tracksuit’s pocket and retrieved her phone. ‘Is anything else missing?’
‘No, I . . . I mean, he . . .’ Rachel stopped talking and pretended to check her bag, not wanting to admit she’d handed her phone over willingly, or that answering yes to the thief’s ‘I take?’ had virtually been giving him permission to steal it. ‘That was amazing. And brave!’
‘Hey – I’m hardly Sherlock Holmes. I was . . . I was watching you.’ He grinned sheepishly. ‘Anyway, then I heard you shout, saw him running, and put two and two together.’ He handed the phone back to her and threw the tracksuit top into a nearby bin. ‘And it was hardly brave. Unless you count running across the street without looking. Which, given how the Spanish don’t often stop at zebra crossings, was probably more reckless.’
‘Even so. How can I ever thank you?’
‘No need.’
‘I feel so . . .’ Rachel hesitated. When she thought about it, she was feeling a number of things right now.
‘Stupid?’
‘Well, yes. And thank you for pointing that out.’
‘Don’t. These people are professionals. They know tourists get distracted by the beauty of the buildings, so they . . . Are you okay?’
Rachel realised she’d grabbed the man’s arm – her knees had suddenly gone weak as the adrenaline wore off. Either that or it was the effect of standing so close to him. ‘Yes. I’m just a little . . . I think I need to sit down.’
‘Come on.’ He steered her to a nearby bench and nodded at the café across the pavement. ‘Can I get you some water? A coffee?’
‘I don’t like coffee. I’m more of a tea girl.’ Rachel shook her head, though more because she didn’t know why she’d blurted that out. ‘I’ve got some. Water. Not tea. In my bag.’
‘Right. Good to know. My name’s Jay, by the way.’
‘Rachel.’
‘It’s definitely Jay. I’ve seen my birth certificate.’
‘No, I’m Rachel . . .’
She realised he was joking, then felt her lower lip begin to tremble – and to her surprise, Rachel burst into tears.
‘Hey,’ Jay said. ‘My joke wasn’t that bad, surely?’
‘No,’ she sobbed. ‘Sorry. I’m being silly.’
‘I understand.’ He smiled sympathetically. ‘You’ve just been robbed. It must have been quite a shock.’
Rachel nodded, though in actual fact she wasn’t crying about being robbed. She was crying about how she wouldn’t have been robbed if her original plan had worked out and she’d been here with her boyfriend (or rather, ex-boyfriend), because then he’d have been the one taking the photo so she wouldn’t have had to hand her phone to someone dressed (now she thought about it) for running away rather than just running. And while up until about two minutes ago she’d surprised herself by having a good time, had even thought she might like to do more of this solo-travelling lark, yet again her inability to pick men had even brought that to an end.
‘Hold on . . .’ Jay hauled himself up from the bench and walked across to the café, helping himself to a handful of serviettes from the dispenser on a vacant table. ‘Here,’ he said, handing them to her as he sat back down.
Rachel blew her nose loudly, then took a few breaths to calm herself. ‘Thanks.’
‘You sure you’re okay?’
‘I think so. Yes. Now, at least.’
‘Great.’
They sat, staring at the cathedral for a moment or two, and then, as if reading her mind, Jay said, ‘Stunning, isn’t it?’
‘It is,’ said Rachel, though she was torn between gawping at the intricate carvings on the towering spires, the ornate stonework above the doorway, the religious sculptures – each a work of art in its own right . . . and the well-put-together figure next to her. ‘And the statues . . .’ She pointed to the space in front of the cathedral where a crowd was gathered, admiring an incredibly lifelike carving of a man dressed in robes. ‘They almost seem alive.’
‘Um, that one is.’
‘Huh?’
‘It’s a guy with his face painted stone grey. He’s a street performer.’
‘Ah.’ Rachel narrowed her eyes and realised – to her embarrassment – Jay was right, so she turned her attention back to the magnificent building. ‘Gaudy,’ she said, reaching for her guidebook. ‘Isn’t it?’
‘Well, it’s perhaps a little OTT for some people,’ said Jay, then he laughed and facepalmed exaggeratedly. ‘Oh, you mean the architect. His name’s Gaudí. Rhymes with “rowdy”.’
‘Oh. Sorry about my accent. I can’t pronounce any of these words. My Spanish is . . . well, non-existent, really.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Jay. ‘Though we’re actually in Catalonia. So technically we should be speaking Catalan.’
‘Do you? Speak Catalan, I mean?’
‘No. But I speak a little Spanish and there are some similarities, so I understand a bit.’ He nodded towards the cathedral. ‘Though when
something’s as breathtaking as that masterpiece, words can’t really do it justice, whatever language you use.’
‘Shame about all the cranes, though,’ said Rachel. ‘Are they repairing something?’
Jay smiled. ‘Still building it, would you believe? Started in 1882, or thereabouts, and it’s due to be completed in 2026. Or 2028. They’re not sure. Even after a hundred and thirty years, they’re reluctant to give a finish date.’
Rachel frowned. ‘Sounds like they’re using the same builders who did my bathroom,’ she said, and Jay laughed.
‘They’re just taking their time. When something’s worth doing and all that, I suppose . . .’ He sat back on the bench, stretched out his legs, and laced his fingers behind his head. ‘You know, I walk past this thing pretty much every day, and I’ve never actually just sat and looked at it?’
Rachel hoped Jay couldn’t see her doing the same where he was concerned out of the corner of her eye. ‘That’s usually the way. Sometimes you just don’t appreciate what’s right in front of . . .’ She stopped talking. That had been the line Rich had used when he’d finished with her, possibly to try to make her feel better, but it had had the opposite effect, and now, just as she had then, she swallowed so hard it made a sound.
‘Are you sure you’re okay?’
‘Sorry. I’m just feeling a little weak. I . . .’ Then, to her horror, and for the second time since arriving in Barcelona, her stomach started rumbling, so loudly that for a moment she hoped the noise was coming from the Metro line which passed underneath. ‘I haven’t eaten any lunch,’ Rachel said quickly, though the truth was she hadn’t had much breakfast either – all the cafés at Gatwick had been full of couples, and when she’d realised she’d be the only single (in both senses of the word) diner, she’d decided to skip what every diet she’d ever been on had insisted was the most important meal of the day. Then at the hotel, despite Livia’s insistence, all she’d managed was a cup of coffee and half a croissant, and since then she’d been too busy taking in the Catalan capital’s beautiful old streets to think about stopping for food.
She caught sight of a clock on the front of a nearby pharmacy, and realised it was well past one o’clock. ‘So, I’m guessing you live here?’
‘Yeah. Coming up to two years now.’
‘You lucky thing,’ said Rachel, genuinely. She’d only been here a matter of hours and she already loved the city.
‘Aren’t I? I mean, it was a bit of a wrench leaving England, but this job came up by chance, and sometimes in life you find yourself standing in front of a door, and unless you go through it, you’ll never know where it leads.’
‘That’s good advice,’ said Rachel, though the only door she’d seen recently was the one Rich had shown her. ‘What do you do, if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘I’m a teacher. At the international school just round the corner.’
‘What do you teach?’
‘Kids.’
‘No, I mean what sub— All right. You got me again.’
‘D’you need me to fetch you more tissues?’
‘Ha ha!’
‘Maths.’
‘Wow! That’s . . .’ Her voice trailed off, and Jay grinned.
‘I know. Numbers aren’t exactly exciting.’
Rachel had to bite her lip. She suspected getting Jay’s number might be. ‘Actually, I’ve got a degree in maths, so . . . No, you’re right. They’re not.’ She blew her nose again. ‘What brought you here in the first place? And please don’t say EasyJet.’
Jay made a wistful face. ‘Amor.’
‘A what?’
‘Amor,’ he said, enunciating carefully, elongating the o, then rolling the r like an ecstatic cat. ‘Love.’
‘Love?’ Rachel felt a sensation she was surprised to recognise as disappointment.
‘But as of . . .’ He looked at his watch. ‘A month ago, me and her are no more.’
He’d pronounced those last two words in the same way as his earlier ‘amor’, and Rachel laughed. ‘Very good. As is your accent.’
Jay shrugged. ‘I sound better than I am – especially to someone who doesn’t speak it.’
‘Are you fluent?’
‘Restaurant-fluent, maybe. But get me onto something that’s unfamiliar territory . . .’
‘Like?’
He smiled. ‘Anything apart from restaurants, really.’
At the thought of food, Rachel felt her stomach rumble again, and hoped Jay hadn’t heard it this time. ‘Well, seeing as you’re the restaurant expert, can you recommend somewhere good where I can try some tapas?’
‘Not around here,’ Jay said, with a quick gesture at the many bars that lined the streets around the cathedral. ‘These are more for tourists who don’t know any better.’
‘Like me, you mean?’
‘Touché,’ said Jay. ‘But for good tapas, you really need to go where the locals . . . Ah. You don’t speak any Spanish.’
‘Er . . . what’s the opposite of sí?’ asked Rachel.
‘No,’ said Jay.
‘In that case, no.’
‘Shame, because there’s this place I know in my ’hood – it’s my favourite, actually, but unless you know what you’re ordering, it can be a bit daunting.’ He thought for a moment. ‘There are a couple of others that I can point you towards . . . They’ve got pictures of the dishes on the menu, so . . .’
Rachel pulled the free tourist map she’d collected from the hotel earlier out of her handbag and unfolded it. ‘Where’s that first place? Your favourite?’
‘It’s on Plaça Sant Agusti Vell.’
‘Okay. So, that was Plaça . . .’ Rachel stared blankly at the map, unable to decipher the maze of exotically named streets, then realised she’d been holding it upside down. What she also realised was that she was standing in front of one of those ‘doors’ that Jay had mentioned earlier, and to her surprise – though it was possibly the most impulsive whim she’d ever had – she decided to follow his advice. ‘Listen, I’d love to try somewhere good, but I don’t speak Spanish. You do – and I’d like to say thank you . . .’
‘Gracias.’
‘Grassy, um, arse – for you being so brave and rescuing my phone, so perhaps I could, you know, buy you lunch? That’s if you haven’t eaten yet. I mean, if you have plans, I’ll understand, and you might not want to have lunch with some silly tourist who . . .’ Rachel’s voice began to trail off. What was she doing? The ink was hardly dry on her dumping, and here she was, asking a complete stranger out for lunch – and a gorgeous one, at that. ‘No, what am I thinking? I’ve already taken up too much of your time . . .’ She stood up, embarrassed, and began to fold her map up, cursing under her breath when it didn’t seem to want to follow what she was sure were the right creases, then she noticed Jay was grinning up at her.
‘I’d love to have lunch with you,’ he said. ‘Though we’ll go Dutch.’
‘I’d prefer something . . . local?’
Jay laughed. ‘I see what you did there,’ he said, with a smile that melted her inside.
Chapter 5
Jay had flagged down a taxi, and soon Rachel found herself whizzing down wide, tree-lined boulevards, past grand fountains, then through narrower, almost medieval streets, eventually arriving in a small, sun-drenched plaza.
‘You live on this square?’ she said, marvelling at the gothic architecture, and Jay grinned.
‘Well, not actually on this square. Though there are a couple of drunks who do . . .’
He passed the driver a five-euro note, waved away Rachel’s attempt to pay, then led her into a tiny, almost nondescript restaurant on one corner, the kind of place she’d have walked right past if she’d been on her own, and suddenly she felt she’d stepped back a hundred years in time. The interior was quite dark, but once her eyes became accustomed to the gloom, she made out the old, brick-vaulted ceilings, the curled-edged, brightly coloured posters advertising old bullfights, a framed, autographed old-
style Barcelona football shirt above the door (which she made a mental note to photograph for Rich’s benefit) and a row of antique wooden barrels lining the far wall. As Jay shook hands with an old man behind the bar (and said something to him that could have been in Chinese, for all she knew), she clambered up onto the nearest stool.
‘So, what’s good here?’
‘Everything.’ Jay grinned as he took the seat next to her. ‘Is there anything you don’t like?’
Not so far, Rachel thought, looking him up and down surreptitiously. ‘Nope. I’m completely in your hands,’ she said, colouring slightly. ‘I mean, whatever you recommend.’
‘Right.’ Jay cracked his knuckles theatrically. ‘Para empezar, una botella de cava de la casa,’ he said to the old man – the owner, Rachel guessed, by the way he was directing the waiters – before rattling off their order. Rachel watched him, impressed.
He turned to her and smiled that smile again, and for a moment that lasted an embarrassingly long time, she couldn’t tear her gaze away from Jay’s eyes, but fortunately the owner chose that instant to deposit a bottle of something ice cold down on the bar in front of them, along with a pair of what looked suspiciously like champagne flutes.
‘What’s this?’ said Rachel, hoping she had enough euros left in her purse.
‘Don’t worry, it’s not champagne,’ Jay said, as if reading her mind. ‘It’s cava. They produce it near here.’ He extracted the cork expertly with a muted pop, filled up their glasses and handed her one. ‘Try it.’
Rachel clinked her glass against his. ‘Here’s to Good Samaritans. Or knights in shining armour,’ she said, taking a sip.
‘And to not being alone in Catalonia – for one afternoon, at least,’ said Jay, holding her gaze again, as if daring her to look away. He downed a third of his glass, then raised both eyebrows. ‘Well?’
‘It’s lovely.’ Rachel took another sip, just to make sure – and because sitting so close to Jay, their knees nearly touching, she’d suddenly felt like she needed a drink. ‘And the difference between this and champagne is?’