‘And the boys? Have you given any thought to –?’
‘Of course I have. But I’ll have them for weekends and some of the school holidays... I’m probably going to go part time so that’ll help... It’s not like we’re going to be enemies, we’ll work things out. In fact, it’s odd but... in some ways we’ve recently been better friends than ever.’
He opened his mouth to say something but then just shook his head. Started crying. I took his hand and squeezed hard, watched the trees on his Hawaiian shirt turn into a watery blur.
But Kate was coming over with two glasses of champagne and we had to try and control ourselves. ‘Come on you two, a hundred and eighty-two guests, eight hundred and ninety for charity, a fabulous BBC film of my brother looking fun and sexy, what are you crying for?’
‘Big day for us,’ Jez managed, moving closer and putting his arm round me. We clinked glasses. ‘To the tropical gardener and the wood woman – allies forever.’
33.
‘I haven’t really thanked you for what you did,’ I said into Ali’s shoulder.
‘Is okay. But, you know, Ricardo is stubborn man. And very posesivo.’ He held me in a tight dance hold as if to demonstrate.
‘Well it’ll be easier once we’re –’
‘Was better with Jez.’ He loosened his grip and sent me into a sácala turn. ‘He understand about your teaching.’
‘Better for you, yes,’ I said.
‘No, for you too. Is strong man, he let you follow what makes you happy, is not problem for him. He is artist, he understand – give you time and space.’ He turned me again but I let go, irritated by his self-serving character assessment.
‘Either that, or it just gives him time and space to follow what he wants to do.’ Ali was shaking his head. ‘Or should I say who he wants to do.’
He looked puzzled – one of those language difference moments – but then put his arms round me and kissed my head. ‘Ay, pobrecita. But you know... is long time you are married and can happen... maybe you make a new start.’
‘That’s it, I am making a new start,’ I said, taking out my mobile and putting it on the piano.
‘You are waiting for a call?’
‘Yes. Now I’ve told Jez, Ricardo’s going to tell his wife tonight – soon as he can, he said.’
‘You see? He does this, but you are here with me again. Still you don’t do as he say. Always there is problem. You are like me, how-you-say, free spirit. Coffee?’
‘Please.’ I followed him through to the kitchen. ‘And when he calls, can you be really quiet? He thinks you’re in Cuba...’ He shook his head and chuckled. ‘Well I didn’t want him worrying... And you do know it’s the last time I can teach you here? When you come back I’ll be living with him and –’
‘I know, I know. And then he put the cadenas,’ he said, putting his wrists together as if in chains.
‘That’s not fair. I mean, considering what happened...’
‘Nothing happen,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders.
I felt stupidly insulted. ‘Well yes, something did happen...’ Or was going to, I wanted to add, but could feel myself blushing.
We’d come back into the living room. He suddenly put down his coffee, went over to the sofa, lay back on it with his head on the arm and beckoned to me with a cheeky grin. ‘Remind me what happen.’
‘No! Look it’s not funny,’ I said, but unable to keep a straight face. ‘Come on, get up, we’ve got to get on with this ‘magical journey’ haven’t we. Seems like you’re first – where’s Jessie?’
‘Ah. She’s... gone for some days.’
‘Where’s she off to now then?’
‘She goes to her parents for two days, one time a week... She always come back.’
‘Oh. You mean she’s upset.’
‘The problem is she ask and ask but does not want to hear the answers.’
‘About what you did in China.’
He looked slightly offended and then shrugged again, as if just regretting some natural phenomenon; it seemed he could be sympathetic and heroically helpful, but guilt was not in his emotional vocabulary.
‘And also of... marrying. She is like so many people, wants a piece of me, cannot just... be.’
‘Oh dear. Poor Jessie.’ But there was nothing I could say that would help her. And he’d got up, sat himself down at the piano and was leafing through the book humming to himself. ‘Well I’d like a piece of you... and it’s Scarborough Fair – looks like you’ve had a go at it.’
‘Ah yes,’ he said, relaxing, laughing, hastily rubbing out some note names with the end of my pencil. He played it beautifully, so we turned the page and, to his horrified amusement, made a start on the Wedding March.
I was enjoying myself, he was on good form – receptive, intuitive, tactile and funny during the duets – but the strong coffee was making me jittery and I started to worry about my phone’s silence: my head began to throb.
‘You do it again.’
‘What?’
‘Put fingers into side of the head. Perhaps you need to eat. We go now? If Mario is busy we try other place.’
‘Well... that would be lovely but I don’t want to be in a restaurant when he calls. I’m supposed to be at Emma’s.’
‘So... you are in restaurant with Emma.’
‘I said Emma was teaching me how to make something.’
‘Oh. So you make the dinner for us here?’
‘Er... if I did you wouldn’t want to eat it.’
He frowned. ‘No... How you have looked after children, your husband?’
‘Jez does it. I told you. Ever since I had Seb and we found out he was brilliant at it.’
‘You are very unusual woman.’ He thought for a moment. ‘But you can... maybe we can make something. Come.’
We went through to the kitchen and stood in front of the open fridge.
‘Potatoes, on-yons, and... what is, I don’t know,’ he said, pointing to a small Clingfilm-wrapped bowl. ‘And cheese, but... maybe no,’ he said, opening the packet and wrinkling his nose.
‘Anything in here?’ I asked, opening the freezer, ‘...other than ice?’
‘Is for my legs.’
‘Hang on, what’s this?’ I said, pulling out a bobbly bag of what looked like mince. ‘But then I’m not sure...’
‘Maybe we do it wrong and die,’ he said with a chuckle.
I shoved it back. ‘Oh, but these’ll work,’ I said, pulling out a vast bag of peas.
‘Is for my knee.’
‘Well not tonight it isn’t. And... Yes, these eggs are still just in date. It’s okay, we’re going to survive.’
Ali cut up the potatoes and boiled them into a school-dinner mush while I leathered the eggs, put a plaster on his finger and let the peas boil over.
‘This is... an achievement,’ he said, as we clinked glasses of orange juice, ‘and not bad with the soy sauce.’
‘I bet, but I mustn’t, salty stuff really sets my head off.’
‘You don’t drink enough, I think,’ he said, finishing his plate. ‘And... maybe your posture, Rosi, is part of problem.’
‘Well we can’t all –’
‘No listen, stand up.’
I let him pull my shoulders about, tell me I was creating tension in my neck, line me up, push my bottom in, pull me up by the hair.
‘Ow!’
‘Don’t be shy because you are tall. Is beautiful. That’s better. Pilates – it helps with this.’
‘Tried it – so boring.’
‘Then dancing.’
‘I do.’
‘Salsa yes, but maybe you try ballet, you like it enough... Or flamenco – is very good for la postura. But for now, how we take out this pain?’
‘I can’t believe I forgot my medication, I usually just – ’
‘Then permit me make you better. Come, I give good massage.’
‘I’m sure you do. But we need to clear up.’
‘The plates
can wait. First you need to lie down,’ he said, taking my arm.
‘Where are we... can’t you do it on the sofa?’
‘We can do it any place, but is best on bed.’
‘Massage.’
‘Yes, massage of course, what else!’ he said, laughing. Then he dug his thumbs between my shoulders, sending a rush of pain-relieving blood to my head.
‘Uh... God... okay, as long as... well, you know.’
A sheepish grin suggested he did. He put his arm round my waist and guided me down the corridor, stopping to pick up a towel from the bathroom, hesitating outside his bedroom, and then pushing open the door at the end.
There was a double bed, some soft toys and Action Men spilling out of a box, and a long shelf of number-ordered Sudoku books.
‘Is where my family sleep when they stay. My brother, he likes this number thing.’
‘More than likes.’
‘Yes, he loves, and collect. He is, you know... autista?’
‘Autistic. Yes, my younger son Kenny is too, on the mild side, but the talent with numbers has passed him by. He’s an expert in sheep... abejas. No that’s bees... ovejas.’
‘Ah, sí. But sheeps are nice, I think is better than all this,’ he said, smiling and waving his hand over the Sudoku. ‘And you know, Sergio is difficult about touch, but he likes massage, it helps him. Maybe Kenny likes it too, you must try.’
Of course, I thought, anybody can benefit, it’s a therapy; it doesn’t have to be sexual. This is all quite alright.
‘So... lie down on front – ah, but first take off this,’ he said, pulling at my t-shirt. ‘And the bra, I give you a towel.’
I hesitated for a moment, imagining Ricardo’s fury, the grip of his hand on my arm. But he hadn’t called and my head was throbbing. So I took off my top and clutched it to me. I started to shiver.
‘Your circulación is not good, you are very cold,’ he said, pulling my t-shirt from me and taking my hands in his and rubbing them.
‘It’s the migraine.’
‘I make a bath for you.’
‘What? No, I’m fine, really.’
‘No, you must be warm for massage.’
‘But...’ He strode out of the room and I could soon hear a thunder of water going into the huge bath that I’d admired so often. Oh well, I thought, may as well do it properly. I folded my arms and followed him into the bathroom.
He was leaning over the bath, swishing the water about to increase the pine-scented bubbles. I looked at the white waistband of his boxers and the band of olive skin and remembered him reaching up to the luggage rack in the train. He turned off the tap and looked round at me.
‘Get in, get in,’ he said. But he wasn’t making any move to get out of the room.
‘A towel?’
‘Ah.’ He opened a cupboard and took one out, carefully hanging it over the basin.
I waited for him to leave. He was looking down and scratching his head as if he’d forgotten something. The bathmat perhaps.
‘That’s fine. Off you go then, I won’t be –’
‘I want to get in too,’ he suddenly said to the bath.
‘Oh no, no – ’
‘I’m clean, I have shower after gym.’
‘I’m sure... that’s not really the... Don’t you think we’re both in enough trouble already?’
‘Exactamente. So what is the difference?’ he said, laughing. ‘But is okay, we just play, massage feet, is fun,’ he said, putting his arms round me, his chest warm against my bare back.
It sounded so childish and soothing: the perfect antidote to my intense Ricardo-anxiety headache. ‘Okay, but only if we keep our pants on. And my bra.’
He laughed. ‘Vale,’ he said, taking off his t-shirt and jeans with the speed of a quick costume change then standing in front of me in his boxers with his hands on his hips. I looked away and stared at the floor, wondering if I could change my mind.
‘Rosi, come on, take off the skirt.’
‘Not with you standing watching me, no.’
‘Okay, I don’t look.’ He stepped into the bath, sat down and cupped his hands over his eyes.
I took off my skirt and got into the bubbles, drawing up my knees. ‘Alright, I’m in.’
Alejandro’s bath manners were as impeccable as his stage ones: he’d taken the tap side, he stirred in hot water at regular intervals, kept to his end. No bubble throwing into the eyes. With permission, reciprocal foot massage. On request, an averted gaze as I removed my imperfect form from the water.
‘Take off under-clothes, they can be in the tumbler-dry while I give massage.’
I stood there wrapped in the towel.
‘Yes, do this, or you go home in wet pants.’
My cheeks started to burn with embarrassment so I went off to the kitchen, removed my bra and knickers and set them to tumble. Then I went to the piano and checked my phone: no texts or missed calls. There were probably a few seconds when I questioned the advisability of returning to the bedroom in just a towel, but any sense I might have had was deafened by the pounding in my head.
He’d put on a silky dark red robe and I presumed he had something on underneath. This time I did as I was told, carefully laying down on my tummy and then moving the towel down to my lower half.
I heard him rubbing the oil between his hands and then he started, gently at first, then increasing the pressure, asking me how it felt, returning to the areas that made me groan however hard I tried not to. I began to feel dazed, very relaxed. And then he removed the towel.
‘No. Put it back. You said my neck and back...’
But he’d started on my calf muscles and the backs of my thighs. ‘Ricardo not give you massage?’
‘No. Jez does... did. Put the towel back Ali.’
He put it in a strip over my bottom. ‘Ricardo does not have the patience, wants to take you, own you quickly.’
‘No, you’re wrong. Ooh that’s nice...’
‘Then, is good lover?’
‘Yes, he is.’
‘Mm. But is not possible if is not patient... but, lo siento, I can feel tension now we talk of him. Relax,’ he said, stroking my bottom through the towel.
‘Um... I don’t think you should be – ’
‘You need to turn over, I do the quads.’
‘No thanks. Anyway, I think you’d find I don’t have any.’
‘Turn over. I put towel in place.’
I couldn’t see how that was going to work; there’d be a moment, if only seconds, when I’d be lying on my back stark naked. ‘No. Come on, I feel wonderful, you’ve done enough.’
‘Please,’ he said.
‘No! I should get dressed now. Get me the other towel.’ He seemed to be just standing there. Presumably looking at my body. ‘Come on.’ No response. ‘Ali, now!’
‘Oh Rosi... You know the problem, when you get cross I just want to kiss you.’
‘The towel, Ali.’ I closed my eyes; was I sending up a silent prayer? Seconds passed. I kept quiet, as if that made my point clear. But it didn’t.
He held my hair in one hand, the other on my waist, and started to kiss my neck. Then he stopped and stood up, as if he’d remembered what had happened before, remembered what I’d said, was controlling himself. I thought he was getting the other towel from the chair. But then I heard something soft fall to the floor. And somehow I knew it wasn’t the towel.
It was no good; I hadn’t come all that way, since the first meeting on the train, not to at least have a look. So I raised myself up on my elbow and opened my eyes.
A bronze sculpture. A statue of the perfect man. Much as I’d already seen from the front row at the theatre, but with a bashful grin and, lower down, a somehow comical lively protuberance from a bush of black hair.
I flopped back on to the pillow, turning my head away. ‘Oh no... put it back on,’ I mumbled into the pillow.
And then suddenly he leapt over me and landed lightly as a cat by my side, grinning into
my face. He put his hand to my waist and pushed to turn me onto my side, as if we were doing some kind of horizontal pas de deux.
‘Don’t be shy Rosi, of your body, is no problem for me, like you have seen,’ he said, smiling, stroking my side and then gently running his fingers over my breasts and tummy. ‘Is my turn to take you on magical journey.’ I must have looked alarmed. ‘Or just dar una vuelta, a walk in the park, whatever you want.’
He pushed again and rolled me on to my back. He massaged my thighs – ever the perfectionist, he had to finish what he’d started. And then the kissing and licking started, my face, my neck, working his way down, slowly, and I put my hand on his head, stroked the neatly boyish end of his curls at the beginning of his powerful neck.
I suppose it must have flashed through my dazed head that Jessie would prefer it to be me rather than some awesomely ethereal ballerina, that I wouldn’t get pregnant at this point in my cycle, that it was the last time this could ever happen, and that it had been bound to happen, tarde o temprano. And maybe, even, that if I hadn’t met Ali, Ricardo and I would never have happened, making it somehow okay to be celebrating my connection with the man who’d set me on this journey.
He was very slow, very patient. Those years of training perhaps: all that barre before going to the centre, working up to the allegro. I felt deliciously spoilt, a little worried about what he might expect from me, but then he was arriving lower down and I became delirious, unable to wait... I pulled at his arm to come to me, and realised this was what he’d been waiting for: in one movement he was on top of me and it was happening.
‘Rosi, no! I say a walk, not just... three steps.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Is okay, we keep going, we go round again.’
***
I’d planned to get the twenty to, knowing full well I’d miss that and get the eleven past, which, considering Seb was always last out of anywhere, particularly Dancia, would have been okay. But I was sitting on the ten forty-one and having difficulty with twenty four hour clock calculations of my arrival time on the seafront. Until it occurred to me that the bottom line was simple: I was going to be an hour late.
An hour. But hadn’t I waited there in the car for well over half an hour last winter, the engine on and guzzling fuel to keep me warm, dying for a pee, my calls and texts ignored? And then he’d made me jump by hammering loudly on the window and, instead of an apology, came out with it was well good, me an’ Ollie are going to get doughnuts and cokes now from this place by the pier and I’d said, no you’re bloody not, get the fuck in. Surely he would remember this when my car wasn’t there, go to the doughnut place, sit and eat on one of the benches and wait for me. Anyway, when he’d be queuing to get his hoodie from the Dancia cloakroom, I’d send him a text and tell him when I’d arrive; it would be there if he was worried, even if he didn’t reply. It would be okay.
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