‘I told you,’ he said. ‘I work with the publishing company.’
‘I was thinking of your personal life,’ she said. ‘Virginie and the others on your list.’
He laughed. ‘Civilised every one.’
‘I wouldn’t have expected anything less.’
‘How about you?’
‘A bit messier,’ she said.
He glanced at her, but she’d turned her head so that she was looking at the scenery. They were on the downslope of the mountain now, and the town of San Sebastian was spread out in front of them, a cluster of red roofs in the distance.
‘Tell me more about your author.’ Imogen turned to him and changed the subject. ‘Is he really difficult?’
‘I don’t think he means to be difficult,’ said Oliver. ‘He’s very passionate about his work and he’s reluctant to let anyone interfere with it. But the truth is, Genie, everything can be improved.’
‘Do you think you can make the book better than it already is?’ she asked.
‘It’s my job to make it better,’ said Oliver. ‘Does that make me sound pompous?’
‘No,’ answered Imogen. ‘Just confident. But I guess all of the Delissandes are confident.’
‘Why would you say that?’
She shrugged. ‘You’re a successful family. You’re used to having money. You’re comfortable with your lives and that makes you confident.’
Oliver was taken aback. ‘You see us as a family of fat cats, do you? Treading all over the little people in a condescending way?’
‘Of course not,’ she said. ‘All I’m saying is that you’ve never had to struggle.’
‘And you have?’
‘Not like some people,’ said Imogen. ‘We’ve never starved. Things haven’t always been easy, that’s all.’
‘And they have for us?’
She could hear the defensive tone in Oliver’s voice and she turned to him.
‘Nobody has it easy all the time,’ she said. ‘I suppose … Oh, don’t mind me, Oliver. I’m tying myself up in knots here. And you’ve never been condescending towards me even though I’m the hired help.’
‘OK, now you’re making me feel worse,’ said Oliver. ‘You already know I’m not a hundred per cent comfortable with the fact that you’re cleaning our house.’
‘You were comfortable enough with my mum doing it,’ Imogen pointed out.
‘That was then,’ said Oliver. ‘Times change.’
‘Not really,’ she said. ‘There are always people who need someone else to look after them. It’s life. And there are people who are good at doing the looking after. I need the job with René Bastarache and I’m perfectly prepared to clean up after anyone he wants me to. I didn’t realise before that I was good at it, but I am.’
‘Why didn’t you go to college after school?’ asked Oliver. ‘You’re obviously smart; why have you settled for looking after other people’s messes?’
‘First of all, there’s nothing wrong with looking after other people, and you really are being condescending if that’s what you think,’ said Imogen. ‘It makes no difference whether it’s taking care of them or their houses, there’s still a skill to doing it properly. And secondly, I did go to college, but the opportunities for people with a degree in European history are limited.’
‘You have a history degree?’ He glanced at her in astonishment.
‘For all the good it’s done me.’
He was silent as he approached the outskirts of the city and took the exit from the motorway. His gaze flicked between the tree-lined road, which followed the line of the river, and his sat nav, which was warning him that he would have to turn soon towards the centre of the town.
‘Oh my goodness!’ exclaimed Imogen when he made the turn and stopped, not in the middle of a busy city centre as she’d expected, but close to a picturesque bay. ‘How amazing.’
‘It’s the Playa de la Concha,’ said Oliver. ‘Concha means shell. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’
Imogen nodded. It was the perfect name for the bay. Its golden sand was surrounded by low hills, the silver-blue water forming the shape of a clamshell.
‘Paul’s place is close by and he said there was a private car park just after … Oh, there it is!’ Oliver put the Range Rover into drive again and made for the underground car park, which was guarded by a steel door. He leaned out of the window and punched a code into the keypad on the wall. The door opened slowly upwards, and as soon as his eyes had adjusted to the gloom, he drove to the allocated space. Once he had parked and locked the car, he and Imogen walked up the stairs of the stiflingly hot garage to street level again.
‘Where does he live exactly?’ Imogen blinked in the sunlight and looked around her. A wide promenade separated the bay from the apartment buildings that overlooked it. Some were modern, but others, with elegant facades and wrought-iron balconies, had clearly been built closer to the turn of the last century.
‘He’s renting an apartment in that one there.’ Oliver pointed to an old building with turrets at the sides and intricate carvings above the doors and windows. It looked directly over the bay, and Imogen couldn’t think of a more beautiful place to live. Oliver pressed the brass button beside the door, and after a moment a gruff voice asked in English who was there.
‘It’s Oliver Delissandes, Paul.’ Oliver winked at Imogen, who made a face in return. The voice she’d heard through the speaker sounded as though it belonged to a much older man, and she immediately imagined the author as a Hemingway character, bearded and weather-beaten, a pipe hanging out of the side of his mouth.
‘Come up.’ The command sounded equally gruff and reaffirmed Imogen’s imagined picture of him, so that when the apartment door was opened by a clean-shaven man in his thirties, with jet-black hair and vivid blue eyes and wearing a navy T-shirt, she was sure he was the author’s assistant. But Oliver held out his hand and greeted him before introducing them to each other as ‘the soon-to-be-famous novelist Paul Urdien’, and ‘Imogen Weir, a noted Irish historian’.
She shot him a startled look at that, but he winked again as they followed Paul into an airy living room decorated, once more contrary to Imogen’s expectations, with bright colours and modern furniture. Glancing upwards, she saw a mezzanine level with a neat and tidy glass desk. Then a door opened and a red-headed girl of around Imogen’s age walked in.
‘I’m Blanaid,’ she said. ‘It’s good to finally meet you, Oliver. And you are …?’ She looked enquiringly at Imogen.
‘Imogen. I’m an old friend of Oliver’s. He asked me along because he thought that it would be cute to double-date.’ Imogen spoke quickly so that Oliver couldn’t introduce her as a historian again. ‘But if you and Paul want to talk to him and lunch with him on your own, that’s perfectly fine by me. I’ve never been to San Sebastian before, so I’m sure I can find plenty to occupy me.’
‘You’re Irish.’ Blanaid smiled.
‘Currently spending some time in France,’ replied Imogen.
‘Whereabouts are you from?’ It was the question that all Irish people asked when they met another Irish person abroad.
‘I lived in Cabra when I was younger, but more recently Glasnevin.’
‘Really? I’m from Mobhi Road myself.’
‘I had a house in the new estate they built around the corner,’ said Imogen. ‘Bellwood.’
‘I know it well. We’re practically neighbours, for God’s sake! How long have you been in France?’
‘I lived there for a while when I was younger,’ said Imogen. ‘But I only returned recently. What about you?’
‘I’ve lived in San Sebastian since I met Paul, a couple of years ago. Listen, d’you want to go and get a coffee or a juice or something at the beach and leave these two to talk shop? We planned to have something at one of the cafés at lunchtime, so they can join us there when they’re finished.’
‘Well, sure, if that suits you and everyone else.’
The men nodded. Blan
aid swung an embroidered bag over her shoulder and the two women left the apartment, crossing the main road to reach the promenade. Blanaid led her to one of the shaded tables at a beachfront café, where both of them ordered orange juice.
Blanaid settled back in her chair. ‘So did you come back to France to work with Oliver in Paris?’ she asked Imogen.
‘Oh no.’ Imogen shook her head and explained about working in Hendaye for the summer.
‘Pretty place,’ said Blanaid. ‘We went there once. I get confused when they start talking to me in a different language as soon as we cross the border. I realise it’s commonplace in mainland Europe for that to happen, but it seems bizarre to me.’
‘Me too,’ said Imogen. ‘Still, it’s great that Paul’s book is going to be published in French, even if you’d have expected it to be in Spanish first.’
‘Paul doesn’t care what language it’s in. All he wants is for it to be published.’
‘Oliver’s very excited about publishing it,’ said Imogen.
‘He’s nice,’ said Blanaid. ‘Paul was really worried about who his editor was going to be. Then Oliver rang him and was totally supportive and friendly and said he’d come to meet him here, which Paul really appreciated.’
‘Hopefully it’ll be a massive seller. What do you do when you’re not writing your blog? It’s great, by the way. Really funny and insightful.’
‘Thank you,’ replied Blanaid. ‘Obviously I’m not in Paul’s league as a writer, but I enjoy it. The rest of the time I work for a tour company. It’s OK; this is a nice part of the country and there are lots of things to promote. Is that what you’re doing in Hendaye? Cultural stuff? I heard Oliver say you were a historian. Is that why you got involved with him and the publishing house?’
‘I’m not involved with it at all,’ said Imogen. ‘Like I said, we’re old friends and we met up recently, that’s all.’
‘Because the way he looked at you, I thought there was something more to it than that.’ Blanaid gave her a knowing smile. ‘I was thinking office romance at first.’
Imogen was taken aback. ‘There’s nothing there,’ she assured Blanaid. ‘Nothing at all.’
‘You say that very fervently.’
‘I’ve just come out of a rocky relationship,’ Imogen said. ‘I’m not getting into another one. Least of all with Oliver Delissandes. That would be too unsettling for words.’
‘I’d disentangled myself from something rocky shortly before meeting Paul,’ said Blanaid. ‘But as soon as I saw him, everything changed.’
‘I’m not good with men,’ said Imogen.
Blanaid snorted. ‘Don’t give me that crap, woman.’
‘Truly.’ But Imogen laughed. ‘Please don’t try to set me up with Oliver. My mother had an affair with his father. I’d be in therapy for years.’
‘No!’
‘Oh yes. Unfortunately.’
‘Was it an affair with a bad ending?’
‘Pretty much.’
‘I suppose there aren’t many that end well.’ Blanaid raised her arm and ordered another couple of juices.
‘None that I know of,’ agreed Imogen. ‘Tell me, what are the touristy things to do around here?’
Blanaid gave her a potted history of San Sebastian and then started talking about her upbringing in Dublin. As they were of a similar age, she and Imogen had often frequented the same bars and clubs and they were well into their orgy of reminiscences when Blanaid’s phone rang and Paul told her that the men were on their way to join them. When they did, about five minutes later, they immediately ordered food, because Paul told them he was hungry.
‘A very productive time,’ he said in a noticeably less gruff voice while they waited for the order to arrive. ‘I can definitely work with Oliver. He understands me and what I’m trying to do.’
‘And Paul understands the process,’ said Oliver. ‘Which hopefully will end up with a best-selling book for him and for our publishing company.’
‘Cheers to that,’ said Imogen. They raised their glasses and toasted the success of the venture, then tucked into the plates of calamari and salad that the waiter placed in front of them.
Imogen didn’t know how it happened, but the next time she looked at her watch, it was nearly five o’clock. Paul and Blanaid had been easy company, and the atmosphere of the beach bar had relaxed her so much that she hadn’t noticed time passing. It was Blanaid who reminded Paul that they were supposed to be meeting up with some friends later and that she needed time to make herself presentable.
‘You must come and see us again,’ she said to Imogen when they’d all walked back to the apartment building. ‘It was such fun talking to you and it’s always nice to hear another Dublin accent.’
‘I’d like that a lot,’ said Imogen.
‘I’ll be in touch by phone and email,’ Oliver told Paul. ‘You can contact me any time.’
‘Thanks.’ Paul grasped his hand. ‘I’m looking forward to working with you.’
He opened the door to the building and he and Blanaid went inside, while Oliver and Imogen walked to the pedestrian entrance to the car park.
‘Do you want to return to Hendaye now?’ asked Oliver. ‘We can if you like, of course, but it seems a pity to be here and not have a wander around.’
‘You’ve had a busy day,’ said Imogen. ‘I’m sure you’d rather get home.’
‘Not really,’ Oliver told her. ‘I’m quite happy to stretch my legs for a while.’
‘If you’re sure,’ said Imogen. ‘It would be a shame for me not to see a little more of the city while I’m here.’
‘We could do a speed visit to the Catedral del Buen Pastor,’ suggested Oliver. ‘So that we can say we did a cultural thing. Then, if you’re up to it, there are fantastic views from the top of Monte Urgull.’
‘There are fantastic views right here,’ said Imogen. ‘But I’m game.’
They turned away from the car park and followed the signpost that led to the cathedral, although Oliver knew exactly where he was going.
‘Impressive,’ said Imogen when they were standing outside. ‘Is it still used as a cathedral?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Oliver. ‘Not that I’ve ever attended any services here. D’you want to go inside?’
‘Let’s have a peek,’ said Imogen. ‘Mainly to get out of the sun.’
‘I’m sure God won’t mind,’ said Oliver.
They spent fifteen minutes cooling off inside, although Imogen also lit a candle at one of the shrines. She thought about her mother as she stood in front of the flickering electronic flame and prayed that her spirit was content.
‘It’s not that I believe in an afterlife,’ she admitted to Oliver. ‘It just seems the right thing to do.’
‘I know what you mean,’ he said as they emerged into the bright sunshine. ‘Unlikely though it may be, you’d like to think there’s a place where everything works out in the end.’ He smiled at her. ‘It’s still quite warm. Are you OK to walk up to the top of the mountain?’
‘If it was a huge mountain, I’d say no,’ said Imogen. ‘But it’s more of a big hill, isn’t it? I’m surprised they didn’t build the cathedral at the top, towering over everything and everybody.’
‘That’s because the military got there first with its barracks,’ said Oliver.
‘War and Peace.’ Imogen smiled at him as they started to walk.
After a short distance, Oliver stopped outside a gift shop and bought Imogen a baseball cap emblazoned with España on the front to shade her face.
‘Thank you,’ she said, arranging it on her head. ‘How do I look?’
‘Charming,’ he told her.
‘Liar. I’m hopeless at hats and caps. Though it’s easier to keep on with this hairstyle.’
‘It’s a new look for you?’ asked Oliver.
‘I used to wear my hair longer. This is more practical.’
Imogen adjusted the cap so that the peak was shielding her face, and they continued up
the stepped paths that led to the summit of the hill, where other tourists were taking photographs of the battlements and the stunning views of the city.
‘I wish I’d brought my phone to take photos!’ she exclaimed as she turned towards the town. ‘This is spectacular.’
‘You don’t have a phone with you?’ Oliver’s was already in his hand as he prepared to take a photograph. ‘Who doesn’t bring their phone with them these days?’
She grinned. ‘I don’t get many emergency cleaner calls. And I’m not much of a photographer.’
‘In that case, stand over there and let me.’
Oliver framed her in his phone’s camera and showed her the result. It was a good photo, although the baseball cap still hid a lot of her face.
‘Take it off,’ he said, ‘and let me do another.’
‘I’m not good at having my photo taken,’ she said. ‘It’s fine, really.’
‘Don’t be silly. Tell you what, let’s do a selfie.’ He stood beside her and held the phone at arm’s length. ‘Smile, Imogen!’
She leaned towards him and he took the photo.
‘Not bad,’ he said as he showed it to her. ‘Although you look as though I’m about to chop your head off.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Never mind.’ He gave her a quick hug. ‘It’s nice to have it.’
They wandered around the top of the hill for another twenty minutes before beginning their descent to the town again. By the time they reached the bottom, Imogen’s feet were sore.
‘Let’s have a quick drink before we head back,’ said Oliver, stopping outside a pavement café. ‘All that walking around is thirsty work.’
‘Great idea.’ She sat down thankfully.
‘Why don’t you have a glass of wine?’ he suggested after the waiter had brought them water and some olives. ‘There’s something very civilised about sitting in the sun sipping wine and eating olives, don’t you think?’
‘I couldn’t possibly have wine when you’re drinking water,’ she said. ‘I’d feel guilty.’
‘Why?’ He looked astonished. ‘You don’t have to have it if you don’t want, of course, but they have some nice ones on this list.’
Vince had never allowed her to drink alcohol if he wasn’t having it himself. It was one of his rules, and when she’d questioned it, he’d retreated into an icy silence. Afterwards he’d told her it was about respect. He’d banged the respect drum a lot, she remembered, using it as the definitive closing argument even when it didn’t make sense.
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