Dancing in the Shadows

by Anne Saunders

  Tom brought her out of her reverie by saying: ‘Come on, nuisance. I’ll run you back.’

  ‘Am I? A nuisance?’ She certainly seemed to be one all the way round.

  ‘No. It was just something to say. I didn’t mean it.’

  ‘Do you often say things you don’t mean?’

  ‘Not often. Dorcas, if I wasn’t crazy about Jane and if you weren’t crazy about this hombre you kissed me to forget, there would be a chance for us.’

  ‘Go on with you. It’s just something to say again.’

  ‘No.’ His hands cupped her face. ‘If Jane jilts me, and if things don’t work out for you and your guy, will you marry me?’

  It would be a miracle if things did work out for her and Carlos, but Jane must know she had pure gold in Tom. Dorcas could give an affirmative reply in the absolute certainty that it could never come to pass.

  ‘Given those circumstances, yes Tom, I will marry you.’ They should both have laughed then, only they didn’t. Dorcas’s throat was curiously tight.

  ‘Will you please excuse me while I have an emotional freak-out. I’m not used to proposals. Even insincere ones.’

  ‘What makes you think that one was insincere? I meant every word, Dorcas. That makes it sincere.’

  ‘Within the context of the wording,’ she put in hastily. ‘Yes. Within the context of the wording.’

  His serious features were transformed by his quick, sweet smile, witnessed previously during the morning, but never before with quite this impact. And she saw what he meant about the sincerity bit because she thought, if I weren’t hooked on Carlos, and you didn’t have Jane, I could fall for you in a big way.

  ‘Another beer before I take you back?’

  Dorcas couldn’t remember drinking the first one. She had abandoned her glass somewhere while it was still half full.

  ‘I would rather not. To tell you the truth I’m feeling a bit weary, and I suspect that’s how I look. If you really mean it about giving me a lift, I’d like to go now please, and then I’ll have time to tidy up before lunch. Are you quite sure you can spare the time?’

  ‘Quite sure.’

  In a matter of minutes she was seated beside him in his car. The return journey was accomplished in a fraction of the time it had taken her to walk it. Thinking of that walk, along that very dusty track, made her look down at her bare, sandalled feet. They were deplorably dirty. Not only that but her hair—the unflattering consequence of wearing a sun hat in fierce heat—was flattened to her head in perspiring tendrils. She thought it little wonder that Tom hadn’t contradicted her when she said she thought she must look weary.

  As Tom would have pulled up at the curly wrought-iron main gate, she said: ‘Will you drive round, please. There’s a small side gate. Could you drop me there, please. I’ve just remembered that my hostess is expecting visitors for lunch. I don’t want to be caught looking the sight I do and there’s always at least one early arrival.’

  Tom followed her instructions, and in doing so also followed the course of a long black car. He said: ‘Do you think someone else is choosing to sneak in without being seen?’

  Both cars pulled up at the same gate.

  ‘It would appear so,’ said Dorcas, recognizing the car. ‘It’s Señor Ruiz. Would you like to meet him?’

  ‘I think I’d better,’ said Tom, killing the engine. ‘It might look odd if I just drove off.’

  Enrique Ruiz had a marked twinkle in his eye as he approached Dorcas and Tom. Addressing Dorcas he said: ‘Do I have a guilty accomplice?’

  ‘I just remembered the señora is expecting guests for lunch. I thought I should make myself presentable before joining them.’

  ‘I also remembered. I, too, like to prepare myself for the ordeal of meeting my wife’s women friends. But I prefer liquid fortification. This way is a short-cut to my study. Perhaps you and your friend would care to join me?’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Dorcas, realizing she had been remiss over the introductions. ‘Señor, may I introduce Tom Bennett. Tom is the owner of the Garage Inglés.’

  ‘I am aware of that,’ said Enrique Ruiz, ‘although we have not previously met. I have heard good reports of your work. You are gaining the reputation of being a first class mechanic. I have been meaning to put some business your way for some time. I will do so without delay.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. You are very kind.’

  ‘I am a business man. Kindness does not come into it. Now quickly, into my study,’ Enrique Ruiz said with such brisk authority that neither Dorcas nor Tom dare do other than obey.

  ‘Is white rum to your taste, young man?’

  Tom said it was. Then Señor Ruiz said: ‘White rum is not for little girls. A light fino is a more fitting apéritif for you, Dorcas.’

  The señor handed Dorcas her sherry. As she watched him pour white rum generously into two glasses, she thought that if her kind señor had a heart complaint, he too would have been wiser to choose the sherry. She wondered if the señora knew her husband drank spirits before lunch.

  ‘Dorcas is looking at me in a most disapproving way,’ the señor said naughtily. ‘Save that look, Dorcas. You will need it when you are a wife.’

  ‘Not if she marries me,’ Tom stated, with equal wickedness. ‘I won’t do anything that Dorcas disapproves of.’

  ‘Is such a union possible?’ don Enrique enquired with obvious interest, and if it hadn’t been a fanciful notion, Dorcas would have thought his curiosity was spiced with dismay.

  Tom gave a very definite and succinct yes. Dorcas took longer over her reply, wording carefully because she wanted to be sure that nothing could be misinterpreted, nothing misunderstood.

  ‘Tom proposed that in the unlikely event of our being free of present emotional encumberments, we should marry each other. Keeping scrupulously to that wording, I said yes.’

  In the face of don Enrique’s bewilderment, Dorcas struggled on. ‘It is the sort of promise that is never taken up. Like a small daughter saying she is going to marry her papa when she grows up.’

  Were small Spanish girls too sensible to make such a statement? Just as Dorcas was beginning to despair, comprehension lit the deceptively austere Latin features.

  ‘Ah . . . you funny English! I now have the understanding. Please have the patience with a dull old man. I am over thirty years into a marriage with an English woman and yet a turn of phrase, a piece of humour that is peculiarly English, still baffles me.’ Enrique Ruiz had the most kindly penetrating eyes of any man she knew. Dorcas saw a smile creep into their expression. ‘I am not, as you English say, “with it”.’

  Predictably, don Enrique invited Tom to stay to lunch. ‘I am not asking because when the hour reaches so, it is only polite to ask a visitor to stay. I am asking you to honour my table for a purely selfish reason. I do not care to be the only male lunching with the women’s sewing circle.’

  ‘Doesn’t Michael intend being in for lunch?’ Dorcas asked.

  ‘Sadly no. Your brother is absent on some business of his own.’ Indicating what he thought was the nature of that business, he patted the portion of his chest where he judged his heart to be.

  Dorcas let it bounce off her. At the moment she could do without thoughts of Michael’s amorous antics, her own being all the weight her mind could take.

  ‘You haven’t met Señorita West’s charming brother?’ Enrique Ruiz enquired of Tom.

  Tom admitted that he had not had that pleasure.

  Enrique Ruiz seemed to chuckle over Tom’s choice of words. ‘A pleasure . . . yes. For the ladies and still a pleasure for me because I do not enjoy the limelight and I do not mind that Michael steals this for himself. As Michael is not to be present at lunch, I look for an ally.’

  ‘I appreciate the invitation, Señor Ruiz, but I must say no. It’s not that I’m daunted by the matrons of the women’s sewing circle—well, not all that much—but I really must get back to my work. I’m already behind on my schedule.’

>   ‘And you can’t put off while tomorrow? No, it is not right that I should ask.’

  ‘Tomorrow is a big day for Tom,’ Dorcas said importantly. ‘His fiancée is arriving from England.’

  ‘In that case I will not attempt to persuade you to stay. Perhaps some other time.’

  ‘I shall look forward to it, señor.’

  ‘It has been good meeting you, my boy. I will not forget my promise to put some business your way. It is not a favour. Your work merits it.’

  ‘It is kind of you, señor. I shall be most grateful. Thank you for your hospitality.’

  The final goodbyes were said. Tom went. Dorcas would have gone too, already too many minutes had been shaven off her getting-ready-for-lunch time, but don Enrique put out a detaining hand.

  ‘Tom Bennett is a very nice, a very pleasant young man, but I am glad he has a fiancée who is arriving from England tomorrow. I am not saying he would not make you a fine husband, because he probably would; what I am saying is that I do not want to lose you. Not just yet.’ A question was vaguely surfacing in his eyes. The smile that was so like Carlos’s quivered across his features, a smile of such inveigling charm that Dorcas would willingly have told him whatever he wanted to know. ‘You said both you and Señor Bennett had emotional encumberments.’

  So that was what he wanted to know. It was the one thing Dorcas dare not tell him. She knew he was fond of her. She did not want to put that affection at risk by naming his son as the man she loved.

  The slamming of a car door, heralding the arrival of the first guest, saved Dorcas the necessity of answering.

  ‘We will talk later, child. If you hurry you will not be caught.’

  Now that the noose was no longer straining round her neck, Dorcas could smile.

  ‘Wish me luck, señor. Although a pair of wings on my heels would be of more practical use.’

  * * *

  Dorcas thought about what to wear while she was under the shower. Her choice, a crisp, glazed cotton shirtwaister, suited a fresh, unmade-up face. She had time only to apply moisturizer and lipstick. A quick comb through her hair, a fresh pair of sandals located and put on, and she was ready to face Rose Ruiz’s guests. Maria Roca, Isabel’s mama, represented the only familiar face. It meant a gruelling session of introductions before she could take her place at the dining table.

  Mercifully, she found herself next to Señora Roca, who took the first opportunity to whisper: ‘They are not as formidable as they look. I must warn you, though, to expect a barrage of questions. When women reach a certain age of maturity, curiosity takes second place to tact.’

  ‘Thank you, señora. I will bear that in mind.’ For what good it would do her. ‘Is Isabel not with you today?’ Allowing outlet to her own curiosity.

  ‘The naughty child made prior arrangements. I see your brother is absent too.’

  ‘Señor Ruiz suspects Michael of having a romantic assignation.’

  The moment the words were out, Dorcas knew she’d blundered. But Señora Roca didn’t pick her up, which made her wonder if she wasn’t being too mentally alert. It could be coincidental that Isabel Roca and Michael weren’t present.

  But now that the idea had sparked, it wouldn’t go away. Michael was meeting someone in secret. Right from the start Isabel had drooled openly over him, and Michael was rat enough to take an unfair advantage of Isabel’s infatuation. Perhaps she was doing Michael an injustice in piling all the blame on him because Isabel would be difficult to resist. She was a beauty; despite her air of girlish innocence, she had the full appeal of a woman.

  ‘Is anything the matter, child?’ Maria Roca asked anxiously.

  ‘I hope not,’ said Dorcas. ‘I sincerely hope not.’

  ‘Carlos got off all right this morning?’ Señora Roca enquired guilelessly, although she had said the one name guaranteed to rivet Dorcas’s attention. ‘Such a dear boy. The man he has become reflects the child he was. Always polite and well mannered. By that I do not mean he was a quiet child. Dear me, no! Just the opposite. I could tell you some of his pranks . . .’ And Maria Roca did just that until the matron on the other side, making it clear she thought Dorcas had been monopolized long enough, decided it was time she had a slice of her attention.

  * * *

  For the rest of the day Dorcas kept an eye open for Michael’s return, but although it was now evening, she still had not seen him. Sooner or later, and instinct pressed for later, she was going to have to have things out with him. There was still the business of his having told that exaggerated story of her not being able to follow a brilliant career because of the injury to her leg. Even though he had done no apparent damage, he must have known he was going against her wishes. And now there was this new fear that Michael was playing fast and loose with Isabel Roca. Couldn’t he see the danger? Didn’t he appreciate that this wasn’t England?

  Even as Dorcas built herself up to give Michael the cautionary telling off she felt he so justly deserved, she anticipated the outcome with a weary sort of inevitability. Michael had a way of manipulating words to suit his own ends that was little short of genius. She had the strongest feeling that his plausible tongue would make his wrong-doing sound like an act of gallantry. So many times she had started off knowing she was right, but had found herself being turned round until she was agreeing with Michael.

  During the day the sun blanched this part of the terrace, draining the flowers of their scents and weighting the air with an exotic blend of fragrances that was overpowering. Evening was kinder. The breeze that gentled the flowers carried a fainter and more subtle scent. The tranquillity of her surroundings smoothed away her frown. It was sacrilege to let all this be spoilt for her by thoughts of Michael. But the line between having the conviction and following it is perilously thin. Dorcas did not manage to tread it very successfully, because her thoughts kept returning to her brother’s cavalier attitude to life.

  The interruption would have been welcome on its own account. The content of it made it doubly so.

  ‘Teléfono, señorita.’

  Dorcas looked up to see Teresa standing before her. Who would be telephoning her?

  ‘Are you sure it’s for me?’ she asked the little Spanish maid.

  ‘Sí señorita.’

  Behind the respectfully straight mouth was a look that Dorcas could not immediately identify. The caller—male, if Dorcas correctly read the delighted interest Teresa was so valiantly trying to suppress—was someone Teresa knew.

  ‘Hurry, señorita,’ Teresa implored, adding a further clue. Someone whose orders Teresa was conditioned to carry out at speed.

  Not someone: Carlos? Yes? Her heart did its usual high vault, and the stuffing that seemed to have come out of her legs filled her mouth with a cotton wool effect.

  ‘Teresa, is it—’ And Dorcas stopped. It seemed blatantly revealing to ask Teresa if it was Carlos, with such bright hope in her eyes.

  ‘Sí, señorita, it is the young señor,’ said Teresa, not noticing that Dorcas had omitted to say his name.

  Dorcas breathed on relief when Teresa indicated the telephone in the hall. It would have been too inhibiting to have to take the call on the drawing room extension with Rose Ruiz listening. Even so, the hall, with its many doors leading off, was not exactly private. She must keep this fact in mind.

  ‘Hello, Dorcas here,’ she said in a voice that did not live up to her good intention by failing to hide all the strange things going on inside her.

  His delighted laugh underlined her negative attempt. ‘It is Carlos here, as you are already aware.’ Implying, pompously, that she only went to pieces for him.

  ‘Good evening, Carlos,’ she said with exaggerated correctness. ‘Did you have a safe and pleasant journey?’

  ‘A safe journey, yes. It was not pleasant to leave you.’

  She refused to be put off by the teasing reproach in his voice, and persisted: ‘Have you got a nice room?’

  ‘I have been given the room I am always
given when I stay at this particular hotel. It is on the seventh floor, where it is quiet.’

  ‘If you are away from the noise, you will be able to work undisturbed.’

  ‘That is the general idea. Always before I have been able to write out my notes. This time I am distracted by thoughts of you.’

  ‘If you are on the seventh floor,’ she said, wildly searching her brain for the words to switch the content of the conversation to something of a more manageable, less explosive content, ‘you must have a magnificent view.’

  ‘The hotel is situated on the highest point and is renowned for its view. The daytime impression from my balcony is of a higgledy piggledy series of drops. It gives an avalanche effect of building sitting upon building. Church standing upon tall slim apartment block, municipal building standing upon church. The city is overflowing with people; the roads are chronically blocked by cars. By day the sun strikes with malice. The evening is reward for sustaining the day. The city lights come on one by one. The places of special interest, the cathedral, the parks and gardens and some of the more distinguished monuments, are illuminated. I wish you could see my view by night. I think you would agree it is almost perfect.’

  ‘Almost perfect. From the way you have described it to me, I know if I were there I should think it quite perfect.’

  ‘If you were here it would be. My view is not perfect because I cannot see you.’

  ‘You are not being fair, Carlos. I am trying to remain very cool and level-headed, and you are not helping me one little bit.’

  ‘Why should I? I do not want you cool and level-headed.’

  His voice, stripped of everything but that soft, seductive note, grated on feelings that were too newly exposed to be anything but raw and tender. She was glad he could not see the blush in her cheeks, marking her weakness and vulnerability. She clutched the telephone mouthpiece harder to stop it dancing up and down in her shaking fingers.

  ‘Carlos, please.’ Besides the passionate plea in her voice there was a note of censure that contrasted sharply with the aching longing in her to hear more. ‘Carlos?’ she said into the small silence that followed.