by Anne Weale
She had left a mop and a bucket with a bowl compartment inside the door. To her astonishment, Nicolás began to use it as adeptly as if he spent his life mopping floors.
‘Where on earth did you learn to do that?’ she asked, from the inner doorway.
He straightened. ‘I grew up in an old house where everything was done the old-fashioned way. But I don’t understand why you’re still using this thing rather than a modern mop with a foam rubber pad.’
‘I like the traditional methods,’ she said lightly. The real reason was that her mother’s succession of domestic helps preferred to do things the way their mothers had done them. In rural Spain, the young were enthusiasts for new, effort-saving ways, but many of the middle-aged and elderly clung to the habits of a lifetime.
‘Shall I take over?’ she suggested.
‘No, I’ll finish here. You go and start on the next room. That way we’ll get it done sooner.’
Cally heard the telephone ringing. She ran down the stairs to answer it. She was kept on the line for some time.
In her absence, Nicolás finished mopping the floor, wondering as he did so how his friends and family would react if they could see him engaged in this unlikely task.
Why was he doing it? he asked himself.
Was it for the amusement of assuming a persona far removed from his usual self? Was it because he was hoping to resume the rooftop tête-à-tête interrupted by her father’s call for help?
His thoughts switched to Douglas Haig who reminded him of his own uncle, Tio Francesco, a man of considerable charm, like Cally’s father, but also a hopeless sot until he had been dried out at an expensive clinic.
It seemed unlikely that any of the casas rurales, and certainly not this one, made more than a reasonable living for their owners. Certainly the profits here would not stretch to the fees of a clinic where Mr Haig could be weaned off the bottle.
But it seemed grossly unfair that Cally should have to waste her life helping to prop up her parents. Perhaps she was devoted to her mother. Or perhaps her mother, like his own, was what he thought of as a ‘user’: someone with no compunction about manipulating others to serve their convenience.
Before they set out for the hotel, Cally changed into black linen trousers and a white cotton shirt, with a silk-and-linen-mix camel-coloured sweater to slip on if it were cooler at a higher altitude. Tortoiseshell earrings, a tortoiseshell bangle and several unusual rings, picked up in rastros here and street markets in London, completed a ‘look’ she hoped would pass muster whether the hotel’s clientele was casual or sophisticated.
Nicolás was sitting in one of the cane chairs in the entrance lobby, reading a copy of the English-language magazine Valencia Life that someone had left behind, when she reached the ground floor. He rose, put the magazine aside, and gave her a comprehensive appraisal.
‘You look as if you should be working in the fashion industry,’ he said.
‘Thank you. You look good too—but not as if you might work in the fashion industry,’ she added, smiling.
His grin made creases in his cheeks that she found disturbingly sexy. ‘I should hope not. Are we ready to go?’
‘Just as soon as I’ve said goodbye to my father.’
‘He’s in the office.’
Cally put her head round the door. ‘I’m just off, Dad.’
He was studying a telephone bill that must have arrived while she was upstairs. He glanced up and gave the grunt that signalled he was not pleased at being left in charge.
‘See you later,’ Cally said equably, not showing her irritation at his inveterate selfishness. At moments like this she could understand why he drove her mother barmy. But then her mother wasn’t easy to live with either.
Putting them both firmly out of her mind, she rejoined Nicolás. ‘Let’s go.’
On the way to the car park they passed a group of women gossiping on a street corner. Cally knew them only by sight but, within the boundaries of the village, everyone exchanged polite greetings.
When they looked round to see who was passing, Nicolás said good morning to them. Immediately, and without exception, every woman in the group reacted to being addressed by a good-looking man with an air about him that they seemed to recognise in the way that Juanita had.
His greeting was returned with gracious smiles and a sparkle that made it easier to visualise how they had looked when they were Cally’s age.
‘My stock will have gone up no end,’ she said dryly.
Nicolás made no comment on that. ‘Do you mix with the village people much?’
‘Not really…except with Juanita. The rest are always pleasant and friendly, but it’s difficult for foreigners to establish any kind of intimacy. I know one or two foreign children who have grown up here, but they don’t get invited into their Spanish friends’ homes as they would in America or England. Different countries…different ways.’
‘Country people are always clannish.’
‘It’s surprising the Spanish don’t seem to resent this extraordinary invasion of their country by hordes of Americans, Brits, Scandinavians, Germans and all the other nationalities whose winter climate at home drives them to come here.’
‘The foreigners have brought prosperity to a land that, two generations ago, was still very poor,’ said Nicolás. ‘Spain wouldn’t be enjoying her present affluence were it not for all the incomers. The Spanish are realists. It’s better to put up with incomers than to be forced to emigrate, as many had to after our Civil War left this country in a bad way.’
Because it offered more leg room for someone of his height, Cally, who had keys to both, decided to use her father’s car rather than her mother’s.
As they headed west, deeper into the mountains, she was keenly aware of the broad shoulder close to her own and the long muscular thigh on the other side of the gear lever. She drove more slowly and carefully than she had the other night when she was following the ambulance. Driving in Spain had taught her to be wary of oncoming vehicles whose drivers might be holding a cellphone in one hand and gesticulating with the other.
It was half-past one when they reached their destination; still on the early side by Spanish standards, but already several tables in the dining room were occupied by foreigners who had finished their starters and were eating their main course.
‘Let’s have a drink on the terrace, shall we?’ said Nicolás. ‘I’ll drive back so you don’t need to watch your alcohol intake. What would you like to drink?’
Cally could think of several women she had met at Young Publishers meetings who, super-sensitive to the smallest sign of a man being patronising, would have taken umbrage at that remark. She knew they would despise her for it, but the fact was that she rather liked having responsibility taken off her shoulders. One could have enough of being responsible.
‘A glass of white wine, please.’
Being driven back, several hours later, she realised it was a long time since she had enjoyed herself as much as she had today.
Lunching in good restaurants was not a new experience. She had done it many times in London, with her authors. Good food and attentive service were not novelties to her. But today she had been the guest rather than the host because, when the bill was presented and she had suggested they go Dutch, Nicolás had said firmly that he would not hear of it. She had sensed that he would be seriously offended if she argued.
‘I can’t remember when I last laughed so much. You are very good company,’ she told him, on the way back. She knew that the wine she had drunk had loosened her tongue a little, but when he had been such an amusing companion why shouldn’t she pay him a compliment?
‘I’m glad you’ve enjoyed it. I’ve had a good time too. We get on well,’ he said, taking his eyes off the road for a moment to give her that pulse-quickening smile.
Cally made a murmur of agreement. Only then did it dawn on her that, from the time they arrived, she hadn’t given a thought to the situation in London or the bleak
outlook for the future. Nor did she want to think about them now. This afternoon had been a holiday from real life and she didn’t want it to end. But end it must because, by the time they got back, two more guests would have arrived.
Nicolás and Cally did not join the newcomers and her father at the table that evening. Nicolás asked if he could use the desk in the office to do some writing on his computer and later he came to the bar and had a smoked salmon and rye bread sandwich. Cally wasn’t hungry. She had a tangerine and, perhaps unwisely, another glass of wine when Nicolás had one. But he had drunk less at lunchtime.
The Dutch couple, perhaps disappointed to find themselves the only visitors—they probably assumed that Nicolás was Cally’s Spanish boyfriend—went to bed early. Mr Haig, who had a TV set in the room he shared with his wife, went upstairs to watch football, one of the few interests he shared with the men of his adopted country.
‘Alone at last,’ said Nicolás, when the sound of her father’s footsteps mounting the staircase had died away. ‘Come and sit on the sofa with me and let’s continue our discussion on Life and Literature.’
There was a glint in his eyes that warned Cally he had more than a discussion in mind. She knew that she ought to make some excuse about having things to do, but the truth was that she wanted to sit on the sofa with him.
Aware that she was being foolish, but unable to resist the power of his attraction for her, she went round to his side of the bar. Nicolás had risen from the bar stool. He took her hand and led her towards the sofa. The feel of his fingers enclosing hers sent a spasm of pleasure right to the top of her arm.
‘Where shall we start?’ he said, as they sat down. ‘Do you ever go to Arts & Letters Daily?’
In the context of what she judged to be his intentions, the question astonished her. ‘It’s my number one favourite website. I love it. The look of it…the content…everything.’
‘I like it too,’ he said. ‘I’d say it was the most consistently interesting site on the web, at least for bookish people like ourselves.’ And then he smiled and, letting go of her hand, put his arm round her. ‘But perhaps we should discuss it tomorrow. Tonight I would rather kiss you.’ Which he proceeded to do.
It was a long time since Cally had been kissed; so long that she had almost forgotten how it felt to have a large hand cupping the back of her head and warm lips exploring her face. She closed her eyes and relaxed into his embrace, her heart thudding against her ribs as she waited for the moment when his lips would find hers.
When they did, she found that being kissed by Nicolás in real life beat everything she had imagined while lying in bed after the nearly-but-not-quite kiss on the roof terrace.
All the kisses in her past from the inexpert kisses of teenage Spanish boys to the kisses of her only serious relationship faded into insignificance compared with the deep excitement this man’s kiss was arousing in her.
For the first time she understood what wanting a man really meant. As his arms tightened round her, she slid her arms round his neck and melted against him.
How long it lasted, she had no idea. It seemed to go on for ever yet, when he lifted his head, to have ended far too soon.
When she opened her eyes, he was looking intently at her, his dark eyes brilliant with desire. ‘I think we are both too old for necking on a sofa,’ he said huskily. ‘Let’s go somewhere more comfortable and more private.’ He stood up, drawing her with him. ‘My room…or yours?’
CHAPTER FOUR
CALLY had often watched para-gliders soaring above the valley on the air currents generated by the mountains. Occasionally one of them would suddenly plummet downwards. Nicolás’s question made her feel as if something similar were happening to her.
Pulling herself together—or as much together as she could manage in the circumstances—she said, ‘Nicolás…I’m sorry…I think we have our wires crossed. Wanting to kiss you doesn’t mean I’m ready to go to bed with you.’
When he didn’t react, she added, ‘I know many people do…but I think it’s a mistake. I—I like you enormously, and I think we have lots in common. But you only arrived here three days ago, and that’s not long enough to switch from being strangers to lovers.’
While she was speaking, Nicolás had released his hold on her and made a space between them.
‘Very well…if that’s how you feel,’ he said evenly. ‘In that case we had better go to bed—separately. I won’t say “sleep well” because I don’t think either of us is likely to do that. Goodnight, Cally.’
‘Goodnight.’ She watched him walk away, finding it hard to believe that a few moments earlier her elbows had been resting on those broad shoulders and one of her hands had been stroking the nape of his neck.
When he had gone, she went to the wicket door and locked it. Then she turned off all the downstairs lights and went up to her room.
She knew she had made the right decision: that sleeping with him, so soon, would have damaged her self-respect and violated all the rules she had made for herself.
Other people did it. Other people treated sex as if it were no big deal, no more important than any of life’s other physical pleasures…eating, drinking, sun-bathing, swimming, dancing. But to Cally it was more important. She felt that making love was something she only wanted to share with someone so special that, beside him, all other men paled into insignificance. Someone who felt the same way about her.
She didn’t doubt for a moment that making love with Nicolás would have been wonderful. That a night in his arms would have obliterated the memory of her first disappointing experience of sex.
But for him, she felt sure, she was just an addition to a long line of women who had taken his fancy. He might like her, but he would forget her as soon as he left Valdecarrasca. While she, had she let him share her bed, or shared his, would have remembered him always. And was likely to do that anyway.
When the church clock struck midnight, Nicolás was still awake, lying on his back in the moonlight, thinking about the girl who, if he had had his way, would be lying beside him.
The urgent need that her pliant body and soft lips had aroused in him earlier had ebbed now. He could view what had happened dispassionately. Cally was the first woman who had ever said no to him. Surprisingly, he found himself admiring her strength of will. She wanted him as much as he wanted her. He was sure of that. But she hadn’t been out of control, incapable of resisting the demands of her senses.
In his heart he knew she was right. To advance from being strangers to lovers in three days was too fast, unless there were exceptional circumstances such as a war when, knowing they might be killed, people grabbed everything life had to offer with both hands.
But these were not exceptional circumstances and clearly Cally was someone who had worked out a set of principles and was determined to stick to them however strongly her body conspired against her.
In his world, people who made their own rules, regardless of peer pressure, were increasingly rare. Most women were like sheep, allowing themselves to be conned into wearing ridiculous fashions designed by men with no interest in the opposite sex except to profit from their gullibility. Women with voluptuous figures starved themselves in an effort to emulate twig-thin fashion models. Other women paid insane amounts of money to have their hair frizzed and fuzzed into bizarre styles. Many were also being conned into having their faces and bodies improved by cosmetic surgery. From a man’s point of view, all these were aberrations. What made a woman attractive was the warmth of her personality, her sense of humour, her sympathy for life’s unfortunates.
As far as he could tell, Cally’s only flaw was her failure to escape from her parents’ influence, her willingness to adapt her life to their needs rather than her own. Her conversation over lunch had confirmed that she had a keen and questing intelligence, that her interests went far beyond the boundaries of the narrow world of Valdecarrasca and its environs.
She ought to be holding down a demanding job, not wa
sting her time propping up a business that her parents could run by themselves if they had to.
On this thought, he turned on his side and was soon asleep.
Next morning Cally expected Nicolás’s manner towards her to be markedly cool. No man liked being rejected. She had not forgotten the furious resentment aroused when she had ended an affair with someone far less good-looking and personable than the Madrileño.
It seemed not only possible but likely that Nicolás had never been turned down before, and that would intensify his ire.
So it was with surprise and relief that she found, when he came down to breakfast, that he gave no sign of being put out and was as cheerful and pleasant as he had been before last night’s abortive embrace.
After breakfast, he went out for the day, but didn’t say where he was going and she didn’t like to ask.
Late that afternoon, returning to the casa rural, Nicolás met Juanita coming out of the farmacia.
‘I hear you took Cally to lunch at the hotel near Benimaurell,’ she said, after greeting him. ‘I didn’t hear it from her. I have a cousin who lives in that village. He’s met her. He recognised her as you drove through. His wife telephoned me to ask who you were.’
‘News travels fast around here,’ said Nicolás, amused.
‘It does Cally good to relax. She works too hard,’ said Juanita. She did not mention where the English girl did most of her work. If she hadn’t told the Madrileño about her job in London, so much the better. It was Juanita’s opinion that even young men were getting fed up with girls who were too independent. As they always had, and always would, men wanted a woman who would be a good wife and mother.
What Cally needed was a husband. Tomas, the handsome young fellow who came to the village every week delivering full gas bottles and collecting the empties, he had his eye on her. But he was a working man and always would be, not a toff like the Madrileño.
Juanita began to extol Cally’s virtues: her patience, her good humour, the way she could buy something cheap from a market stall and make it look as if it had come from an expensive shop in Valencia or Alicante.