‘Very nice to get that amount of time off.’ Jutta sat ramrod straight behind the wheel, unfazed by the impatience of the Spanish drivers who hooted and honked incessantly.
‘Indeed,’ agreed Austen.
‘What do you do?’ Jutta asked.
‘I’m just about to retire.’ Austen glanced back at his wife who was uncharacteristically quiet.
‘You look too young!’ she remarked. With anyone else Anna would have suspected flattery. But Jutta was not the flattering type, she figured.
‘Thank you.’ Austen smiled.
‘And you? Do you work?’ Jutta enquired, glancing at Anna in the rear-view mirror.
‘Yes.’ Anna decided she wasn’t giving away any information about herself to the self-assured young woman.
‘A lot of Irish women that I’ve met are just housewives,’ Jutta remarked derisively. ‘That would drive me mad. I have to work. My husband loves that I work.’ Jutta sped along the motorway towards another slip road.
‘Whatever a woman’s choice is and they can afford it, is up to them,’ Anna retorted.
‘Not my choice, for sure. Even if I ever have children.’ Jutta drove off the A–7 and minutes later swung into the car park of an elegant furniture showroom.
Poor kids; she’d be better off staying childless, thought Anna nastily, following Jutta and Austen up the gleaming marble steps to the upmarket furniture store.
‘Look around, get an idea, see if there’s anything you like. I’m going to look for the person I do business with. I’ve already let her know that we were on the way,’ Jutta ordered, giving an expansive wave around the store, as though she owned it.
‘Do we really need her?’ Anna exclaimed in exasperation as Jutta’s sharp footsteps clacked across the floor.
‘She’s brought us here. Without her we wouldn’t have known about this place. She knows where everything is. And there’s some classy-looking stuff on show. Didn’t you say creamy lemon was a colour you liked?’ Austen distracted her, pointing to a very attractive coffee table with a large terracotta and lemon lamp resting on it. Beside it, a long aubergine-coloured sofa looked extremely comfortable.
‘As long as she remembers we’re employing her, not the other way around,’ Anna snapped. ‘And that sofa’s the wrong colour.’
‘Yes but they do it in different colours, there’s the selection.’ He pointed out the swatches that lay on the armrest.
‘Oh!’ said Anna, somewhat mollified, beginning to feel excited. ‘That lamp is rather fabulous.’
‘So is the price, but let’s put good stuff in because it will last,’ Austen counselled, walking over to look at some dining tables.
Four and a half hours later, Anna and Austen were exhausted but extremely satisfied when Jutta dropped them back at the hotel.
‘I’ll pick you up here again at nine a.m. tomorrow. Enjoy your evening.’ She still looked immaculate, with not a bead of perspiration or a hair out of place, Anna thought enviously, as a trickle of sweat ran down her cleavage. She couldn’t wait to take her shoes off and have a shower. How the other woman walked in those high heels was a mystery to her.
‘Thank you, Jutta. You played a blinder.’ Austen shook hands with her.
‘A blinder?’ She looked confused.
‘You did a great job,’ he complimented.
‘Aahh, I see. Thank you. Yes, I am good at my job.’ Jutta smiled with no hint of false modesty. ‘Buenas noches.’
‘That one is something else,’ Anna laughed as Austen took her hand and they walked into the cool air-conditioned foyer. ‘ “I am good at my job,” ’ she mimicked.
‘She knows her stuff, though. We’d still be mooching around trying to make up our minds. We’d never have found that place. I really like what we’ve chosen. Now let’s have a quick drink here, go home and shower and change and then have dinner in El Capricho and watch the sunset,’ Austen suggested.
‘There’ll be no argument from me,’ Anna yawned. ‘That sounds good. Imagine she has to go out to dinner with another client tonight, after the day she put in today. Rather her than me.’
‘The poor client.’ Austen grinned. ‘The worst of it is over for us. Once you have the stuff for the kitchen bought tomorrow we can buy everything else in dribs and drabs when we’re over in June. Are you sure you don’t want me to come tomorrow?’
‘No, you go play golf, honestly. As you say, the worst is over today. I wanted you to choose the furniture with me. I can do the rest,’ she said, sinking into a soft easy chair.
‘Well, if you’re sure.’
‘I am.’
It suited Anna as much as it suited Austen. Her husband would have no interest whatsoever in crockery, cutlery, glassware and the like. He’d end up getting irritated and she’d feel under pressure and she would be just as glad to leave him playing golf the following day so she could shop at her leisure.
‘Today was another step nearer to our little piece of paradise,’ Austen observed later that night, as they sat watching a full yellow moon shine a glistening gold ladder of light across the Mediterranean, all the way to Africa. They were sipping Baileys Irish Cream liqueur, compliments of Salvador, El Capricho’s loquacious owner, following another delicious meal.
‘I’ll have to stop eating and drinking like this when we move in,’ Anna sighed happily. She invariably went home from Spain a half a stone heavier.
‘Don’t worry, we’ll get into a fitness routine. We can walk on the boardwalk every morning and swim, and play tennis. We’ll be grand,’ Austen said. ‘We won’t know ourselves, Anna, we’ll have the times of our lives here,’ he promised, raising his glass to hers.
CHAPTER SIX
EDUARDO / CONSUELA
Consuela De La Fuente sat on her lounger under an umbrella in the magnificent tropical gardens of the Don Carlos hotel and felt herself relax as the sea sang its peaceful song, quietly lapping the golden shore. Tía Beatriz had gone to her room to take a siesta. Eduardo had driven to a town near Estepona for a business meeting, and had phoned her to tell her that he was delayed.
It was a rare treat to have this quiet time to herself without having to act as a buffer between the peevish, demanding elderly lady and Consuela’s earnest, reserved husband.
Age and life’s disappointments had turned Beatriz into a cruz anciana. And a cross old lady she certainly was, Consuela had to admit. She was a trial sometimes. But a trial Consuela had to endure. Beatriz had reared Eduardo and had shown him more love and care than his own parents ever had and for that, Eduardo was in her thrall. Beatriz would be a constant and demanding presence in their lives for as long as she lived, and the way she was going, she might even outlive them, Consuela reflected humorously, dropping her book and settling for a doze.
They always trained it down from Madrid to Malaga and hired a car for the duration of their holiday. It was easier than subjecting his elderly aunt, who had stiff joints, to the long drive south.
The journey from Madrid through Castilla La Mancha and Andalucía was one of Beatriz’s great pleasures in life. From the moment they rolled out of Puerta de Atocha until they rumbled along the narrow pass through the steep High Sierras mountains and caught the first magical glimpses of the sea to reach Maria Zambrano station in Malaga, she would be vivacious and excited as a child, commenting on everything that caught her eye. It was always a good start to their holiday.
Eduardo would bring her home after ten days and the return journey to Madrid was always subdued, as his aunt’s holiday persona reverted to the rather stern, irascible individual they were more accustomed to.
‘I’m sure you’re glad to be rid of me,’ she would invariably say, when Eduardo would make ready to leave, having settled her in her apartment and made her iced tea, before returning to his office to work for a day or two before taking the train back to the south to rejoin his wife.
‘Do you know what she said?’ he’d fume, repeating it to Consuela. ‘ “I’m sure you’re glad to be r
id of me.” Did we not go out of our way to give her a pleasant holiday? She’s so utterly ungrateful.’ Consuela would have to soothe and placate him until his ire had diminished and he could relax enough to enjoy what remained of their holiday.
This time was different though. Eduardo, who always booked and arranged their holidays, had informed his wife and aunt that the apartment they usually stayed in would not be free for the first week and that he’d booked them in to the Don Carlos hotel.
Beatriz was enjoying the experience immensely. So many people to observe, such exquisite food that she didn’t have to prepare. Very different cuisine from the simple fare she permitted herself at home. And all because Eduardo was a successful notary and had his own firm, as Consuela had pointed out proudly when Beatriz had exclaimed in delight at the size of her room and the views of the sea from her balcony.
Eduardo had permitted himself an uncharacteristic beam of pleasure at his wife’s praise, especially when Beatriz had said with rare pride, ‘Yes, he has done very well, and worked hard.’
This morning her husband had been positively giddy about his business meeting. ‘I’ll be back at noon for lunch and after siesta we will take a drive along the coast,’ he told Consuela, kissing her on the cheek as was his wont before leaving her. His good humour had not lasted, though. His call to say he would be delayed had been short, curt and hardly informative. No doubt she’d know the reason why soon enough. Her eyelids eventually fluttered closed and the sound of the other hotel guests laughing and chatting drifted away.
Consuela gave a little snore that woke her up. She blinked, startled to see a large white sun umbrella above her, before realizing where she was. She settled herself more comfortably on the lounger, knowing she could snooze uninterrupted for another while. Eduardo might be put out about the delay he was being caused. For his wife, it was a blessing in disguise.
Beatriz Hernandez gave a sigh, stretched, and opened her eyes. Momentarily she was confused by her surroundings. A breeze crooned through the balcony door, and then she remembered. She was on holidays. Staying in a beautiful hotel, with Eduardo and Consuela. Not in her shaded bedroom in her apartment on Calle Antonio López, in Madrid, with the trees, tall sentinels outside her wrought-iron balcony, limp and exhausted in the overwhelming heat of summer.
She lay listening to the sea, and a feeling of peace stole over her. This was heavenly indeed. She must make the most of every moment. The time would come when she would be too old and too infirm to accompany her relatives down south for their annual summer vacation. Beatriz lived in dread of advancing old age. She was eighty now and slowing down. Her siesta naps were becoming longer and the walk to the Carrefour Express or down Calle Orgaz to reach her favourite spot on the Río Manzanares, and sit in the shade of the great trees that lined the riverbank, was getting more difficult. She dreaded becoming housebound.
She knew too that she was becoming more petulant and crotchety – well more than normal, she admitted humorously. Even Consuela, who was customarily kind and gentle, could now show signs of exasperation. It didn’t help, Beatriz supposed, that the younger woman was in the throes of menopausia.
She remembered her own menopause and the waves of rage and frustration that had come from nowhere, to imprison her in their unrelenting grip. Every feeling of sadness, regret, and desolation – and Dios knew she had many of them – had seemed even more pronounced and she’d thought she would go mad with despair.
Now in the winter of her life she had more equilibrium. But there was unfinished business that she still had to come to a decision about. Something she’d put off for many, many years. She could deal with it, or let things be. It was hard to know what was for the best.
Beatriz lay drowsily against the pillows and her thoughts drifted back to a time long ago when she was happy and life held no hint of what was to come.
‘Beatriz and I have eaten lunch, why don’t you have something on the terrace. I’ll have a coffee with you,’ Consuela suggested to her husband, although she would have loved to continue lying under the shade of the white umbrella, relaxing in the late afternoon sun. Eduardo was back from his business meeting and he’d phoned her and found where she was resting.
‘I just want something light. We can eat dinner tonight. I want to go on our drive. After your coffee will you check on Beatriz and see that she is up from her siesta?’ Eduardo tried not to look at the blonde beauty under an adjacent palm tree who was lying unashamedly topless, reading a magazine.
‘Yes, mi querido,’ Consuela said, gathering her belongings and following her husband through the winding, blossom-filled gardens to the terrace. Eduardo was in a strange humour; she’d never seen him so anxious to go on a drive while on holidays.
Eduardo scanned the menu impatiently and ordered a club sandwich and coffee for himself and coffee and a pastry for Consuela. He was hungry and ate the tasty sandwich with relish, all the time imagining the delight his surprise would bring to his wife and aunt. He devoured his meal swiftly, and could see Consuela looking at him perplexed. He usually ate every mouthful of food slowly, with mindful deliberation. ‘Go check on Tía Beatriz, I’ll meet you in the foyer. Don’t be too long,’ he urged, wiping mayonnaise from the side of his mouth with his napkin.
‘Is anything wrong, mi esposo?’ she asked, a little frown creasing her brow.
‘Not a thing, mi palomita,’ he said using the endearment he always called her when he felt especially tender towards her. She was his little dove, his champion and the apartment was very much his gift for her.
A smile crossed his wife’s pleasant countenance. Consuela was not beautiful in the conventional way. Her features were too sturdy, her nose not quite straight, but her light brown eyes splashed with tiny dots of hazel and ringed by long black lashes were invariably kind and her generous mouth could widen into a beautiful smile, showing her even, pearly white teeth with the merest hint of an overbite, which he found attractive. Eduardo wanted so much to tell her his momentous news. He felt a rare sense of boyish excitement as he watched her disappear inside the hotel.
‘Where are you bringing us, Eduardo?’ Beatriz asked, settling herself into the front seat of the hire car some twenty minutes later – these days it took her longer to get dressed. She always sat in the front seat when they were driving, feeling it was her due. Consuela was relegated to the back, much to her husband’s chagrin. But that was the way of it and he was used to it now.
‘To a delightful little town called San Antonio del Mar. It’s just west of Estepona.’ Eduardo clipped on his aunt’s seat belt and handed her the pearl-handled fan he’d bought her many years ago. She never travelled without it.
‘Is that where our rental apartment is? I’ll be sorry to leave the hotel.’ Beatriz flicked open her fan and settled back for the drive.
‘Yes, but it won’t be free to move in to for a few more days.’ Eduardo drove towards the underpass to get to the far side of the A–7.
‘Not like you to book an apartment that’s not ready for our occupation,’ Beatriz remarked, giving an exaggerated gasp when Eduardo shot off the slip road into the heavy holiday traffic at speed. ‘Drive carefully, sobrino,’ she cautioned crossly. Eduardo sighed. She called him ‘nephew’ when she was annoyed at him, which was frequently.
‘This is a nice area,’ Consuela interjected smoothly. ‘Close to Marbella and the hospital. I’m sure property is expensive here.’
‘Indeed,’ agreed her husband. ‘And frontline properties all along this coast fetch a very high price, because there are so few sites left to build on the Costa,’ he added smugly, thinking of the frontline property he’d just purchased, a tribute to all his hard work and prudent financial management.
‘Of course corruption is rife along the Costa del Sol. Aren’t mayors and government and council officials being investigated for bribery, fraud and illegal planning decisions?’ Beatriz sniffed, as though the Madrileños would never descend to such levels of bad behaviour.
&nbs
p; The laissez faire attitude of the southerners towards their business practices was looked upon with some contempt by the citizenry of the capital and Beatriz and Eduardo both felt rather superior to their southern fellow countrymen. The Costa del Sol was a very nice place to vacation but that was about it; Eduardo was extremely glad he didn’t have to work there.
‘Oh, Eduardo, this is very pretty,’ Consuela remarked when they drove around the square of San Antonio. The colourful flower baskets hanging from doors and windows, the bright awnings flapping in the sea breeze and the multitude of pavement cafés and little shops against the backdrop of a sparkling azure sea was like something out of a holiday brochure.
‘Yes, lovely, isn’t it?’ he agreed, taking a left turn that led them along a narrow road to large wrought-iron gates with whitewashed planters of scarlet geraniums and purple petunias on either side. Purple bougainvillea tumbling over the walls gave great splashes of colour against the white-painted background. Eduardo pressed the fob and the gates slid open.
‘Is this where the apartment is?’ Beatriz gazed around, noting the magnificent landscaped gardens.
‘Indeed it is, Tía, indeed it is,’ Eduardo said jovially, swinging into his designated parking spot. There was no sign of that dreadful Torres woman at Reception, for which he was profoundly grateful.
‘This is very, very nice,’ Consuela approved, ‘and so close to the sea. How wonderful. An excellent choice, Eduardo.’
‘I’m glad you think so,’ her husband smiled, helping his aunt out of the car. He led them to the arched entrance of the middle block, opened the door and ushered them along the tiled hall to the lift.
‘It smells of paint. Are these new apartments?’ Beatriz asked, stepping into the lift with her characteristic sprightliness.
‘Brand new.’ Eduardo followed Consuela in.
‘Excuse me, are you going up?’ A tall blonde-haired woman in an expensive-looking suit click-clacked across the hall in her high heels and entered the lift behind them.
Orange Blossom Days Page 5