Orange Blossom Days

by Patricia Scanlan

  Sally-Ann sat in her beautifully appointed air-conditioned suite and wondered why she had bothered to come with Cal on this business trip to Europe and, even more to the point, why had he asked her, this time? Things were not good between them. He was spending increasing lengths of time travelling, and he was short-tempered and stressed.

  She was a thirty-nine-year-old woman with twin daughters on the cusp of their teens, and a twenty-year-old marriage that had hit the skids. She needed to cut loose and start living, she thought gloomily, sprawling on the bed to flick through the TV channels. She should get up and go and lie by the pool, or have a massage as her husband had suggested, but she felt weary and lonely. She could ring her best friend, Grace, she supposed, but rejected the idea. Talking on the phone wasn’t the same as lounging around the pool at home with her, necking a Bud and venting. Grace, pragmatic as always, would only tell her to stay put.

  ‘Ya got a rich husband, a house to die for, home help for the kids, opportunities to travel . . . sweetie, go find your kicks if ya need to but don’t throw that lifestyle away.’ Grace was married to a successful orthodontist and she was still crazy about him, as he was about her. She and Sally-Ann had been friends since high school.

  Sally Ann’s eyelids drooped and she drifted off to sleep, the rhythmic whoosh, whoosh of the sea and the breeze whispering through the white muslin curtains soothing her frazzled spirit.

  CHAPTER THREE

  EDUARDO / CONSUELA

  Eduardo De La Fuente seethed with anger as he watched the community manager speaking animatedly on the phone to someone, with much gesticulation and eye rolling. If his secretary conducted herself like that he would sack her, Eduardo reflected, thinking of how demure and calm Luciana was, always knowing what he needed almost before he knew himself.

  Finally the irritating woman put the phone down and looked across the desk at him. ‘My name is Señora Constanza Torres. I am the community manager, and you are . . .?’ She arched an eyebrow at him. She wore too much eyeliner for her age, he noted dourly. No class. His wife, Consuela, wore the minimum amount of make-up and certainly not eyeliner.

  ‘I am Señor Eduardo De La Fuente, the owner of apartment number twenty-eight. I would like my keys immediately please. It’s ridiculous how long I’ve had to wait.’

  ‘It has been a busy day. Many new owners,’ the community manager said coldly. ‘Sign here, please, to say you have received your keys.’ She slid the keys and a sheet of paper across her desk towards him.

  Eduardo signed with a flourish and added ‘Notary’ beside his name. Señora Torres should know with whom she was dealing, he thought pompously. He was a person of some standing, not some mere tourist who was buying a pad in Spain to bring his golfing buddies to for debauched weekends. Eduardo’s nostrils on his fine aquiline nose flared slightly as he took his keys from the vaca mandona in front of him. He was almost tempted to privately call her una perra, but he normally recoiled from using bad language; it was very uncouth, as his Tía Beatriz had drummed into him growing up. But if he couldn’t think of Señora Torres as a bitch, he could most certainly think of her as a bossy cow!

  ‘If you have any problems, please don’t hesitate to contact me. Follow me to your building please,’ Señora Torres said briskly, as though he were some schoolboy and not a highly respected notary with his own successful firm in Madrid. She took off at a smart clip and he followed her, disgruntled that his day of pride was being marred by yet another domineering female. No wonder he disliked the species. She and Beatriz would get on like a house on fire, or perhaps they would boss each other around. It would be interesting to see what his aunt made of this community manager. Consuela, his wife, was such a gentle soul . . . she would get on with the devil himself, Eduardo thought fondly, his stern features softening when he thought of his Beloved.

  How he wanted to surprise Consuela. She had not even seen the plans. She’d never been to San Antonio del Mar. This would be his anniversary gift to her. And how he wanted his aunt to be delighted with his purchase, and proud of him. Tía Beatriz was not easily impressed, but surely this achievement would evoke some words of praise and pleasure? A beautiful apartment in a frontline complex, with the sea practically at their door. A haven to retreat to during the scorching summer months, like many of his business acquaintances who owned properties on the coast. Ah yes, he’d dragged himself up the ladder of success and now he was reaping the rewards.

  He looked up to his left and noticed the Irish couple – he’d heard the woman say Irlandesa before he’d interrupted their conversation with the community manager – walking around their wraparound balcony and felt a stab of envy. Eduardo would have liked very much to purchase a penthouse but he was not willing to risk getting into debt. He was a conservative man; he prided himself on his financial rectitude. He had not gone over the top when affluence came like some of his colleagues, who were taking out mortgages for villas with their own pools that would take years to pay off. And something else, Eduardo thought smugly. The property market in Spain was unsustainable. The bubble would burst eventually, but nobody wanted to admit it. And when it did, then he would buy his penthouse, he daydreamed as the community manager led him into the third block of apartments in the complex. They rode the lift to the third floor in frosty silence.

  ‘Aquí,’ Señora Torres indicated the door to her right. Eduardo knew that his cousin would be his neighbour across the hall. He was glad it was someone he knew. When he’d mentioned, in confidence, to Gabriel that he was thinking of purchasing an apartment on the Costa, his cousin had asked to see the plans. Gabriel, an architect, had been impressed. They had often discussed buying a holiday home and now that Eduardo was taking the plunge, Gabriel decided he too would buy. They had taken the early morning AVE from Puerta de Atocha to Malaga, where they were met by a member of the sales team and driven to the prospective site, admired the view and the picturesque town, and then gone to look at the plans in the sales office in Marbella.

  The sales rep, a sharp-suited Frenchwoman, had done her best to sell them each a penthouse, of which only three remained; but Eduardo had kept true to his borrowing principles, although he would very much have liked to purchase one. The south-facing beachfront apartments had all been snapped up, the Frenchwoman said proudly, and the upper-storey west-facing apartments were sold too, so because they didn’t wish to be on the ground floor or the first floor they had taken two adjoining third-floor apartments, facing south – a bonus – but nevertheless with some of their sea view obstructed by the frontline blocks. Certainly not the best apartments in the complex. Nevertheless, there was a smaller pool than the main one facing the beach, and another beautiful garden. Eduardo reasoned it would be quieter and more private in the high season. They had put a deposit on their respective apartments and taken the fast train back to Madrid that evening.

  He’d not said a word about his purchase to his wife.

  Soon Consuela would know that she now had a summer home by the sea and could leave Madrid during the intense heat of high summer. His aunt would stay no longer than a week; ten days at the most, Eduardo knew that for sure. Beatriz was too rigid, too bound up in her routine to abandon it for the more relaxed lifestyle on the coast. He would not try and persuade her to stay longer than she wished. Of that his aunt need have no fear.

  He opened the door to the apartment. ‘I have no further need of you. Gracias,’ he said dismissively to the community manager.

  Constanza Torres gave him a haughty stare. ‘Nada,’ she replied, turning on her heel before he closed the door behind her.

  Hopefully he wouldn’t have to deal with the woman again. She was employed by the builders. Once the complex was handed over to the residents, they would employ their own concierge.

  Eduardo dismissed her from his thoughts as he walked out to the balcony and was soothed by the rhythmic lilt of the sea. How refreshing! How soothing to the soul. This would truly be a place of rest and relaxation, he promised himself, taki
ng deep breaths of sea air.

  Eduardo felt a frisson of uncharacteristic excitement exploring his new abode, walking around the big, bright empty rooms, admiring the excellent finish in the bathrooms and bedrooms. Seeing the glasses and champagne in the kitchen, he smiled. His aunt and wife could drink that; he would treat himself to a small snifter of brandy, his only indulgence, apart from the odd glass of dry sherry.

  Today was a good day, Eduardo decided. They were few and far between.

  He locked up, took the lift to the ground floor, and made sure to close the door of the building firmly behind him. Driving towards the impressive high wrought-iron gates he saw the community manager gesticulating to one of the gardeners who was working on the planters at the entrance. Bossing him around no doubt. Her reign would be short lived, Eduardo thought grimly, pressing his newly acquired fob to open the gates, which slid smoothly open at his touch.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  JUTTA / FELIPE

  Jutta Sauer Perez studied her reflection critically in the gilt-edged cheval mirror she’d rescued from a skip some years ago. It was one of her most cherished possessions. In that mirror Jutta could see, every morning, how far she’d come in life. Her ruler-straight, expertly highlighted blonde hair was shining. Her make-up, subtle but skilfully applied, accentuated her high cheekbones and green, gold-flecked eyes. The discreet pearl earrings and single strand around her slender neck were perfect for the look she wanted to present to her clients.

  Today she wanted to be particularly soignée. The apartments at La Joya de Andalucía were being presented to their new owners and she’d three commissions for fit-outs already. Invariably, Jutta found that more would come her way from word of mouth endorsements. She’d never been so busy. It was just how she liked it to be.

  Her husband Felipe had left at six a.m. to drive to Murcia to view some land his development company was interested in purchasing. Felipe and his partners were buying swathes of land on the Costas, several of which were already in development. He also had a portfolio of rental properties between Fuengirola and Marbella, which she managed.

  ‘You should consider opening an office in Murcia or Alicante; you’d be swamped with work, Jutta. People are buying two and three apartments at a time; the Irish and British are mad for buy-to-let. The market is crazy up there. You should take advantage of it,’ was his constant refrain. ‘And they’re generally not as expensive and deluxe as down here, you wouldn’t have to be looking for all that designer stuff,’ he’d said to her this morning, before leaning down to kiss her goodbye.

  ‘I like finding designer stuff, as you call it,’ Jutta insisted, wishing he would stop putting her under pressure. She was building up her own company at a slow and steady pace and that was how she liked it. She’d made excellent contacts in several furniture shops along the Costa del Sol, and she got first-rate commissions.

  ‘But it’s too time consuming,’ Felipe argued. ‘You could fit out all your kitchens in Carrefour and—’

  ‘Felipe, you concentrate on your business and I’ll concentrate on mine,’ she’d interrupted calmly and he’d shrugged and laughed and called her his little German tortoise.

  ‘You have to think big like me, querida,’ he’d said this morning when she’d asked him did he not think he was taking on too much. ‘See you tonight for dinner with the Americans.’

  ‘You’ll be tired after all that driving.’ She leaned up on her elbow and yawned.

  ‘You know me, I like driving, letting my baby purr along the motorway. I’ll be there in four and a half hours, view the land and have lunch with my partners and back by six at the latest.’ He blew her a kiss and strode down the marble hall, whistling.

  Jutta shook her head. Her husband’s stamina left her exhausted sometimes. It was madness doing that round trip and scheduling in a dinner with his American business partner. Callahan Cooper was from somewhere in Texas: Jutta wondered if he would wear a Stetson.

  When she was barely a teenager and living in a quiet rural village near Dornburg in central Germany, she’d begun to watch reruns of Dallas with her mother, who had been a fan of the TV series since its inception. How she’d adored the fashion and the big shoulder pads and especially the notion that these glamorous women were successful in business – even if they were a disaster in the bedroom. How she longed to escape from the stultifying boredom of life in rural Germany. Jutta most emphatically did not wish to end up like her mother, a dutiful hausfrau helping her husband work the farm, addicted to American soaps, and whose highlight of the month was her visit to her sister in the city of Limburg that lay to the south of them.

  Strange, Jutta mused, that the university city of Koblenz where she’d studied Computer Sciences, was twinned with Austin, Texas. She must mention that in conversation tonight. Jutta liked to map out topics of mutual interest before meeting clients.

  How her life had changed when she’d left home to study in Koblenz. Her father had been so proud of her going to the brand new university. When he’d seen the enormous library with the floor-to-ceiling windows and serried rows of book stacks that overlooked the campus he’d said earnestly, ‘Study hard, daughter. You’ve been given a great opportunity: grasp it with both hands.’

  Studying had been the last thing on Jutta’s mind. She wanted to party and throw off the shackles of her old, constrained existence. Until university her social life had consisted of cycling to the neighbouring village of Thalheim to see her best friends Agathe and Lise, or walking her dog, Spock, along the banks of the Grundbach, hoping against hope that she might meet Gunter Neumann, who had snogged her once, in the forest near her home one Saturday afternoon when she’d taken Spock for his walk. She would never forget that deep-mouthed kiss and his hands on her small budding breasts or the wild strange longing that had flooded her as he gave a breathless groan and buried his face in her hair before jumping to his feet and looking down at her, saying, ‘Don’t tell anyone I kissed you, you’re only a kid and my friends would make fun of me.’

  ‘I’m nearly fourteen,’ she protested.

  ‘Still a kid, and a swotty one who wears glasses, and has spots. Not cool. I like your hair though,’ he’d said patronizingly, loping off between the slender saplings crowned by sun-dappled foliage.

  She’d gone home, looked at herself in the mirror, seen what seemed to her to be pus-filled volcanic craters on her cheeks and chin, and thrown herself on her bed and sobbed her heart out. When Gunther had pointedly ignored her the following Monday at school, her heart had shattered into a million pieces and she’d thought herself the ugliest girl in the world.

  Jutta grimaced remembering the heartaches her teenage self had endured. How she would love to meet Gunther Neumann now and let him see her blemish-free skin and glossy straight hair. Lise had told her that Gunther, having failed his accountancy exams, was working in a pub in Berlin and had turned into a bit of a pothead.

  She on the other hand ran her own company, Jutta thought smugly, stretching languorously in the big queen-sized bed she shared with her husband. And she could expand it if she so wished. In theory her husband’s suggestion was good. Felipe was right, the Costa Blanca could be an ideal area to open a branch of Jutta Sauer Apartment Fit Out and Letting Specialists – if she wanted to go down that route. But furnishing and servicing buy-to-let egg boxes was not what her company, in its present incarnation, was about.

  Perhaps she would consider it in the future. Nerja and Almeria, east of Malaga, were more upmarket than the east coast and would suit her better. Quality was Jutta’s mindset; quantity, her husband’s, and that was the difference in their business plans. Nevertheless her German common sense and his Spanish exuberance had got them this far. Two thriving businesses. An elegant apartment with sea views, in Elviria, close to Marbella. Two Mercs – granted hers was ten years old, but image was everything – and a lifestyle that was utterly different from the one she’d lived growing up in Germany all those years ago.

  Her father, Oskar, h
ad come to spend a holiday with them the previous year, and had been astonished at her and Felipe’s apparent affluence. ‘And you own all this?’ He’d waved his hand at the spacious third-floor apartment as they sat on the balcony sipping his gift of schnapps after their meal in the Don Carlos hotel, which was in walking distance of their home.

  ‘No Papa, we rent it.’ Jutta wondered wearily why she’d invited him. He kept asking about the price of this and that, and questioning where did they get their money. She’d forgotten how nosey he was.

  ‘And why would you not buy a property, since you are both in the business?’ Oskar queried, his gnarled, liver-spotted hands shaking slightly as he raised his glass to his mouth. For the first time, Jutta conceded that her father was becoming somewhat frail. She didn’t want to think about it, nor the consequences if he became unable to look after himself.

  ‘It works out cheaper to rent, Oskar,’ Felipe interjected smoothly. ‘We pay our rent and our utilities, but we don’t pay property taxes, maintenance fees, and so on. Those are our landlord’s responsibility, and although they’re reflected in the rent, it’s still cheaper for us.’

  ‘I see.’ His father-in-law nodded. ‘I suppose that makes sense. But there is security in having a roof over your head, that belongs to you.’

  ‘If you lived in a city at home you would have to rent, the property prices are so high,’ Jutta pointed out.

  ‘Well I don’t. My house is my own. God rest your mother, I remember the day we got the deeds as though it were yesterday.’ He launched into the same story he’d told on numerous occasions, and Jutta yet again privately gave thanks that she’d left home a long time ago and did not have frequent contact with her widowed father who held set, conservative views and who had never approved of Felipe.

  ‘Ein Schelm,’ – a rogue – Jutta had overheard him say to her mother after she’d finally introduced her family to the man she’d left them, her college and her home for.