I also settled for a nice new Chrysler Voyager, a great big seven-seater with windows so dark that, in emergencies, the local priest could have used it as a confessional. It also had a black paint job. When I brought it back from the dealer in Girona three days after Christmas, my dad took one look at it and asked me, ‘What’s that? A fucking hearse? Why didn’t you have “Funeral Director” painted along the side?’
Of course, none of the family knew the real reason why I had sent the Lada along the road. Not even Jonny’s fertile mind had worked out the significance of the two simultaneous holes in the side windows. All I told them was that I had been self-indulgent for long enough and that if John Gash could make a buck out of the damn thing then good luck to him.
‘You’re not self-indulgent, you tell me,’ my dad grunted, as he looked at the Voyager and the Mercedes parked side by side in the big garage. ‘What do you call those then?’
‘Tax deductible, Dad,’ I answered. ‘That’s what I call them.’ The best investment any upwardly mobile young man can make. . at least after he suddenly and unexpectedly finds himself seriously rich. . is in a top-class tax adviser.
I suppose I should have called Fortunato right away to tell him about the Lada business, but I didn’t. When I called at his office in Girona next day, after I had ordered the Voyager, they told me that he was on leave for the rest of the week. I don’t know why, but I didn’t feel like asking Prim for his telephone number.
Anyway, after a couple of days, I had persuaded myself that my imagination was working overtime and that the ‘gunshot’ which had drilled the Lada’s windows was far more likely to have been a local vandal with a very strong catapult and a bag of ball-bearings.
So, instead of triggering yet another police investigation. . or having Fortunato simply laugh at me. . I concentrated on preparing for the Hogmanay party which Prim and I had decided to hold. As the only Scots couple in L’Escala, we felt more or less obliged to fly the Saltire.
We had invited a number of friends from the British community in the town, plus a few other people we had got to know during our previous stay. I didn’t expect Prim to have put the Fortunatos on the list, but when I saw their names there, I said nothing about it. I was surprised when they brought Alejandro, but I don’t suppose I should have been; as I said, Spanish parents are much more relaxed about their infants than we Brits are about ours.
We overruled Mary when she tried to insist that she would do the catering. Instead, we hired local people, a middle-aged couple who ran a restaurant in the summer months and worked privately. . and for cash. . during the rest of the year. (It has occurred to me often that much of the personal taxation system in Spain operates on an optional basis.)
They set up a buffet for forty from ten p.m. onwards, plenty of seafood, cured ham, casseroles, and salads. We also asked them to provide the wines; a smart choice since they came up with a couple of really good regional vintages that were new to us.
One of the advantages about seeing in the New Year in Spain, or anywhere else in Europe for that matter, is that you can do it twice. As is the case with many other things British, our time is out of step with the continent.
When the witching hour came, we tuned in TV3, the Catalan channel, and watched the celebrations in the Placa de Catalunya in Barcelona, complete with the countdown to 1 January. We drank our toasts, wished everyone a Happy New Year, kissed a lot. . then tuned in to BBC1 via the digital satellite and an hour later did it all again.
At some point between the two midnights, I found myself face to face with Veronique. . if she was a Brit I’d have called her Veronique Fortunato but, in Spain, wives retain their own surnames. Alejandro had fallen asleep and had been parked with Colin in the boys’ bedroom, Jonny having been given a late pass until one a.m. local time.
‘So what’s your other name?’ I asked her, idly, in Spanish. . It’s not the best opening line, but it was all I could come up with at the time. ‘Sanchez,’ she replied, in English. ‘My Catalan name is Veronique Sanchez i Leclerc; formally we call ourselves after both our parents.’
I nodded; I knew that from my first time there. ‘So the names over your front door are Ramon Fortunato and Veronique Sanchez?’
She smiled. When she did, her brown eyes seemed to take on a deep amber glow. ‘Almost. Vero Sanchez is what everyone calls me.’
‘Where does the Leclerc come from?’
‘From Niort. My mother is French.’
‘Ah, like the previous owner of this place. Did you know him?’ As I said it, it occurred to me that I was doing something most Jocks hate. It happens all too often, though. You’re in London or Paris or L’Escala or wherever and you’re introduced to some English prat who says, ‘Oh, you’re Scottish are you? Do you know so-and-so? He’s Scottish.’ Dickhead, Blackstone.
‘Sorry,’ I said at once. ‘That was silly. France is a big place, and this town’s full of French people, even at this time of year.’
She made nothing of it, other than to give me a look, which I took as pity for my lack of social graces. ‘That’s true,’ she answered, ‘but also British, as I can see tonight, and Germans, and Dutch. There are people of many nationalities living here now. We are even beginning to see some who, ten years ago, would not have been allowed to leave their own country, even if they had the money.’
‘Poles, East Germans? I suppose so.’
‘Yes, but Russians as well. There are quite a few already up and down the Costa and every year brings more. This is something which worries Ramon; he says that anyone from Russia who can afford to buy a house here is probably a criminal.
‘He is concerned about what may flow from that. He says that they can kill each other in Russia if they wish, but not here in Spain.’
‘Come on, Vero. Not everyone in Russia’s a crook.’
‘No. The poor people are honest. But I was in Girona Airport one day and I saw tourists there who were going home to Riga, in Latvia. They were all under forty, the women were all beautiful and they all wore very expensive clothes. It was a big plane, too. I think my husband is right to be worried.’
At that moment, John Gash’s voice carried across to me. I thought of his sideline business. Maybe Shirley should worry too, I thought to myself.
‘You and Ramon seem very happy, for all that,’ I ventured.
She looked up at me, a shrewd look in those dark eyes. ‘Yes, I suppose we are,’ she answered quietly. ‘You know, I guess, that it was not always so.’
The door to the past was open. A simple, ‘No’, would probably have slammed it shut again; would have been sensible, too. But. . say no more.
‘Yes, I know. I’m happy that it’s worked out for you.’
‘And I for you. I know all about you, of course. Ramon told me about you and about why you went back to Scotland, when you lived here before. Then, a few weeks ago, I saw a magazine article about you, and your new career. It said what happened to your first wife. That must have been terrible.’
I nodded. How many times have I done that now? I don’t think I’ll ever be able to talk about it with strangers.
Vero filled the silence. ‘Still, I am happy for you now, that you and Prim are back together.’
‘I’ll bet you are.’ Mouth first; brain second. God, I gasped inwardly, What if she doesn’t know!
But she did. She looked at me, and then, for all her dark complexion, she blushed. ‘Ah, I am sorry. I didn’t mean that at all.’
‘No, I’m sorry; that was a stupid thing for me to say.’
She shot me a quick, awkward, grin. ‘It is true, though. Your wife is a very attractive lady, and my husband is a typical Spanish man. I am very pleased to see her married.’
‘That doesn’t always guarantee anything.’ No, I will never have a future in the diplomatic service; I’d forgotten the reason she and Fortunato were apart when he’d been shacked up with Prim.
She went an even deeper shade of red. ‘Shall I cut my tongue out?’ I asked
her.
That quick, guilty smile showed again. ‘We do seem to know everything about each other, don’t we?’ she murmured. ‘And about our past lives.
‘I’ll tell you the truth, shall I? Ramon can do what he likes now, and it won’t break my heart. I have my son. That’s why I took him back.’ She sipped her wine. I don’t know if she realised that she was smiling.
‘When I heard from an indiscreet friend in the clinic about Prim being pregnant. .’ It was her turn for consternation as she realised that maybe I didn’t know.
‘It’s okay,’ I assured her.
‘I’m sorry that I mentioned it.’
‘It really is okay. I didn’t think anyone else knew, though.’
‘Remember where you are; L’Escala.’
‘True. Does Ramon. .?’ I began. At the time I wasn’t sure why I asked her that.
‘No. I’m sure he doesn’t.’ I breathed a little easier. ‘When I heard about it, though, I was jealous of her for the first time. I admit it. That wasn’t the only reason why I took Ramon back, but it was the main one. I agreed to patch things up and try again, then as soon as I could I had his child. Now? We’re happy enough, as you said.
‘Our separate affairs are well behind us now; there’s no old temptation in my way.’ She glanced across at Primavera who was standing near the television with my dad, arms linked. ‘Nor, I am happy to see is there in his.’
Her eyes caught mine again. ‘But what about you? Are you jealous of Ramon?’
‘He’s here tonight as my guest,’ I pointed out. ‘So no, I’m not.’ As if to emphasise it, I gave her the party line. ‘When it happened it was none of my business, and it still isn’t.’
I hadn’t been aware of moving, but now I realised that we had drifted into the further corner of the big room, away from any possible eavesdroppers. I realised also that talking to Vero Sanchez i Leclerc gave me a distinctly odd feeling. There was a degree of intimacy between us, the nature of which I’d never experienced before. We were in a room full of people, among them our spouses. . shouldn’t that plural be ‘spice’?. . and yet I felt furtive, as we stood there, quietly baring our souls to each other. To my surprise, I felt guilty too. I wondered about that, until a constriction within my jockey shorts told me exactly why.
Thank you, Alejandro, I almost said out loud as the baby’s cry came from upstairs. There’s nothing better than a howling baby for dismissing Mr Stiffy, especially if his mother caused him to creep up on you in the first place.
Ramon broke off from a group of Brits, leaving Frank Barnett in mid-joke. ‘We should go home now,’ his wife said as he approached.
‘Yes,’ Ramon agreed. Just at that moment, there was a commotion around the television. The gathering parted and I could see the floodlit shape of Edinburgh Castle. It was ‘Happy New Year’ time again.
18
However happy we all think we are on high days and holidays, there’s no door that we can step through to leave reality on the other side. (Well, actually, there is, but they don’t sell return tickets.) We were reminded of that eight and a half hours into the new year when the phone rang by the side of our bed.
‘If that’s my sister. .’ I heard Prim muttering drowsily as I floated back up to the surface. ‘Bitch. We agreed that I would call her tonight.’
She picked up the phone, and answered with a slightly threatening ‘Yes?’
About three seconds later her face changed. Her free hand went to her mouth in an instinctive gesture, and she frowned more deeply than I’d ever seen. She didn’t say much, just four more ‘yes’s, each one quieter than the one before. Finally she nodded, and murmured, ‘I’ll call you back when I’ve done that.’
I stared at her, waiting, as she replaced the receiver. ‘That was Miles,’ she told me; her voice was steady, but I could tell she was having to work at keeping it that way. ‘Mum’s in hospital, in Los Angeles. She perforated a stomach ulcer last night. They’ve operated and that’s no longer critical but, during surgery, they spotted some other lesions. They removed them and sent them for biopsy; the hospital’s path lab is closed because of the holiday, so it’ll be a couple of days before they can run tests.
‘But it could be malignant. Oz, Mum could have cancer.’ I was sitting up by this time; I took her hand and gave it a quick squeeze. I’ve seen Prim in a couple of crises, and in each one she was unbelievably strong. But this was different; this was her mother she was talking about. I drew her to me, feeling warm wet tears on my shoulder, feeling the tremors of her quiet sobbing. I knew what she was thinking. I’ve been there myself with my own mother, and there was no happy ending then, for sure.
It didn’t last long, only a minute or so, then she was back in control. She looked up at me, embarrassed as she dried her eyes with the back of her hand.
‘What did the surgeon say?’ I asked her.
‘According to Miles, he said there was a chance that the growths will turn out to be benign, but he wasn’t hopeful. That’s exactly what I’d expect from an American surgeon. Say or do nothing that you might be sued over later.’
I blew out a big sigh as I thought about what had happened. ‘Elanore Phillips, of all people,’ I murmured. ‘I can’t believe it. She’s always seemed unsinkable to me.’
Prim chuckled, throatily. ‘Like a galleon in full sail, flying battle flags. That’s how I’ve always seen her, at her best.’
‘I didn’t know she had an ulcer,’ I said.
‘Neither did she. But it doesn’t come as any surprise to me; she isn’t exactly a nouvelle cuisine chef.’
‘So how’s SuperDave?’
‘Dad’s okay. He’s with her at the hospital. She’s still in intensive care, but that’s normal, post-op.’
‘And Dawn?’
From the way she glanced at me; I knew the answer to that one. Prim’s sister is a lovely, incredibly talented girl, but no film director, not even her husband, will ever cast her as a vampire slayer.
‘Miles is worried about her. . worried about the baby, really, I suppose, although he’d never say that. He asked me if I’ll go over there to be with her.’
‘Of course you will. I’m coming too.’
Prim shook her head. ‘No, you’re not. You can’t run out on the boys and your dad.’
‘But Dave might need some support as well,’ I protested.
‘Miles is his son-in-law too. He’s there already. Anyway, my father’s a lot tougher than he looks.’
She bounced out of bed and stood, looking down at me. ‘So am I, for that matter. I can take care of Dawn and him, if necessary. Not that it will be; it’s entirely possible that these growths are just simple polyps, and that all Mum will have to cope with is recovery from her surgery.’
‘Yeah, sure, but what if. .?’
She cut me off. ‘In that unlikely event, they’ll throw the full arsenal of anti-cancer weaponry at her. They’ll scan her for metastases, then treat, or take preventive measures as appropriate. Even if she has got stomach cancer, the survival rates are better than in most other types.
‘You really want to help me?’ she asked.
‘Of course.’
‘Right. Get on the Internet, find the next flight from Barcelona to Los Angeles and book me on it.’
It’s astonishing what you can do these days. By the time Prim came downstairs in her towelling robe, her hair still wet from the shower, I had booked her on a flight from Barcelona to Charles de Gaulle, then on to LAX, first class on the transcontinental leg.
‘Well,’ she demanded. ‘Haven’t you even logged on yet?’
‘And off. You pick up your tickets from the Air France desk at Barcelona, then check in straightaway.’ I glanced at my watch. ‘Your flight leaves in just under seven hours. That gives you two hours to get ready, and me two hours to waken up so I can drive you there.’
‘Where?’ asked Jonathan from the staircase. He was bright-eyed; looking at him, I made a mental note to drink Pepsi at our next party.
I told him where we were going. ‘Can I come?’ he asked.
‘No. You and Colin have to stay here and help your Granddad.’
‘Help him do what?’
‘I haven’t a bloody clue, but from the last I saw of him, whatever he plans to do today, he’s going to need help.’
19
Prim’s sudden departure for California knocked me completely off balance for a while. The family was the main reason why I’d stayed behind in Spain, and yet with her gone, I felt odd with them around; not uncomfortable exactly, but ill at ease. I had run out of interesting things to do with two pre-teen nephews, my dad and I had played all the golf that Mary and Ellie would allow, and so I was quietly relieved as I stood at the end of the driveway on the fourth of January, waving them off as the hired people-mover turned out of Carrer Caterina, bound for their flight home.
By that time, the Elanore situation had resolved itself: not for the better, but at least we all knew what she faced. The bad news was that the lesions removed from her stomach by the LA surgeon were indeed cancerous. The better news was that a full body MRI scan, carried out as soon as she was cleared to leave intensive care, had revealed no secondary growths, or metastases as Prim had called them in medic-speak.
In a rare show of his power and influence, Miles had flown in one of the top oncologists from the Mayo Clinic to supervise the diagnostic procedures. She had pronounced that, with a precautionary course of chemotherapy, our mother-in-law stood an excellent chance. . not of a cure, for a cancer specialist will rarely use that word. . of long-term survival.
Prim’s relief had flowed out of the telephone when we had spoken at seven that morning. ‘Do you want me out there now?’ I’d asked her.
‘No; it’s not necessary. Anyway, Miles says that he’d rather you used the peace and quiet to get on with mastering the script. I’m going to stay on here for a while, though, until the treatment is well under way, to help Dawn understand what’s happening to Mum.’
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