by Anne Weale
The expensive red sports car, his stainless steel and gold wristwatch and the quality of his clothes had already given Lucia the impression that he was well-heeled. What he had just said confirmed it.
A few years older than herself, but certainly not more than thirty, he was an engaging companion and by the time they shook hands—as even Spanish teenagers seemed to when greeting friends, she had noticed—she felt as if she had known him for far longer than a couple of hours.
During a salad lunch under the umbrella in the courtyard, she told the others about him.
‘What a romantic story, but how sad that Harry didn’t live to a ripe old age,’ said Mrs Calderwood. ‘Are you seeing this nice young man again?’
‘He said he would keep me posted about the cat. Nanny, as he calls her, has a cat and she may be able to find out if anyone local has a pet that’s gone missing.’
‘If the cat is badly injured, it would have been best to have it put down immediately,’ said Grey. ‘Animals aren’t like people. They have no intellectual resources to make life bearable if they are badly disabled.’
‘Did the vet suggest that, Lucia?’ his mother asked.
‘No, he said he would do what he could for it.’
‘The vet has a vested interest in keeping the cat alive,’ said Grey.
‘What a cynical thing to say,’ his mother protested. ‘I’m sure no vet worth his salt would dream of letting an animal suffer unnecessarily. It’s against everything they stand for.’
Her son lifted a sardonic eyebrow but made no further comment. Lucia wondered if he thought it was partly her fault the cat had been hurt. But even if he had been at the wheel, she doubted if he could have avoided hitting it.
A few moments later they heard the telephone ringing from inside the house.
‘I’ll get it,’ he said.
Watching him spring up the steps to the upper terrace, Mrs Calderwood said, ‘It may be one of the girls, ringing to ask how we are.’
But he didn’t call her to the phone. A few minutes later he rejoined them. ‘Mrs Alice Henderson wonders if you would like to join her for a drink at six thirty this evening. I said you were in the middle of lunch and would call her back.’ As his mother was looking mystified, he went on, ‘Mrs Henderson is the retired nanny Lucia’s Spaniard is visiting. Probably the invitation was suggested by him as a way of pursuing their acquaintance.’
‘I should think it’s far more likely he thought Mrs Henderson would enjoy meeting your mother,’ said Lucia. ‘Even if she doesn’t want to live surrounded by “expats”, she may sometimes miss having a chat in her own language.’
‘I should like to meet her,’ said Rosemary. ‘Where does she live, Grey?’
‘In the next-but-one village along the valley. I wrote her address and the directions on the phone pad. You shouldn’t have a problem finding it.’
‘Aren’t you going to come with us?’
‘I think I’d be surplus to requirements. She wants to chat to you, and I’m sure that Lucia’s Spaniard would prefer to have her to himself,’ he said, with a gleam of mockery.
Lucia found herself flushing. ‘Julian is not my Spaniard,’ she said, with emphasis. ‘Actually he’s a Catalan and clearly very proud of the distinction.’
‘What is the distinction?’ asked his mother.
Grey said, ‘Catalonia is the most industrialised part of Spain. The Catalans are separatists. They regard the rest of the country as backward compared with themselves.’ He rose from the table. ‘Sit tight. I’ll make the coffee.’
When he was out of earshot, his mother said, ‘Grey seems rather fidgety. I think he suffers from withdrawal symptoms when he’s away from the business for more than a few days. He’s a workaholic, like his father. I wish he could learn to relax more. It’s so lovely here, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, lovely,’ Lucia agreed, watching the bees at work on a lavender bush.
But despite the peaceful atmosphere of the courtyard, she didn’t feel very relaxed. Grey’s repeated references to Julian as ‘Lucia’s Spaniard’ had upset her. Grey seemed to be in a difficult mood, perhaps because, as his mother suggested, he was missing the cut and thrust of big business. But how could anyone hanker for that artificial world when they were here, in this much more appealing and real world? she wondered.
If he did, then his values were utterly different from hers.
Grey drove them to the meeting with Mrs Henderson. She lived in a terraced house with street parking along one side. The plastic blinds called persianas were down at all the windows facing the street.
Julian opened the front door, introducing himself to Mrs Calderwood and shaking hands before gesturing for her to pass down the dimly-lit hallway that opened out into a room further along. There, Mrs Henderson was waiting to greet them, but at first she could only be seen in silhouette against the light from the garden at the back of the house.
Lucia said, ‘Hello, Julian,’ and turned to introduce Grey. The two men shook hands.
It wasn’t until they were all outside in the garden that she had a clear view of their hostess. She was not at all the cosy, somewhat infirm elderly lady she had visualised. Mrs Henderson’s figure was spare, her thick iron-grey hair cut in a boyish crop and her tanned face as wrinkled as a raisin. She was wearing a man’s shirt and trousers with sandals on her bare feet. She exuded energy and vitality.
Part of the garden was given over to an aviary occupied by various small birds. Near this was a staircase leading up to a flat roof.
‘I’ll lead the way,’ said Mrs Henderson, and bounced up the stairs like a ten-year-old. ‘I’m out most days, mountain-walking,’ she said, as Mrs Calderwood joined her, followed by the others. ‘I know all the old mule tracks for miles around. Julian is trying to persuade me to move to Barcelona but I should be like a caged lioness. I enjoyed city life when I was young, but not any more.’
While Julian was pouring out the drinks, Grey said to his hostess, ‘I like your evil eye beads. Turkish, are they?’
‘Ah, you recognised them.’ Mrs Henderson’s gnarled hand went up to the necklace of bright blue beads, her only concession to femininity in her dress. ‘Yes, I bought them from a market stall on a walking holiday in southern Turkey. Do you know that country?’
Grey said that he did and they had a conversation to which the others listened, Lucia thinking, not for the first time, how charming he could be when he chose. She wondered what it would be like to have the charm turned full-force on her. An unlikely eventuality.
About an hour later, Rosemary smilingly refused Julian’s attempt to refill her glass. ‘We must go. Thank you so much for inviting us, Mrs Henderson. The view from this terrace is lovely.’
‘I am taking Lucia out to supper at a local restaurant,’ said Julian. ‘We’d be delighted if you would join us. Nanny and your son are obviously on the same wavelength,’ he added, with a glance at the two now engrossed in a conversation about the western side of Spain.
‘I think Lucia might prefer to have you to herself as you won’t be here for long,’ said Rosemary.
‘I have decided to extend my stay,’ said Julian, turning to look at Lucia.
The message was clear: he was interested in her. She couldn’t help but be flattered. At the same time it was a complication she didn’t want to have to deal with. She could see that, by any standards, he was an attractive man. But he didn’t attract her.
There was only one man who did that. But there was no future in it. They would have to be shipwrecked on a desert island, with no hope of rescue, ever, before Grey would look at her the way Julian was looking at her.
‘In that case, thank you, we’d be delighted,’ said Rosemary.
When Grey found that his mother had agreed to eat out with Alice—as she had asked him to call her—and the smooth operator from Barcelona who persisted in calling her ‘Nanny’ in that asinine way, he was not pleased.
It was obvious to him that the guy was a womaniser who
saw Lucia as a change from the glamorous, self-confident señoritas and bored-with-their-husbands señoras with whom he was accustomed to having it off. The fact that it would be difficult for him to set up the time to seduce her would add to the challenge. She would be no match for the Mediterranean looks, the bedroom eyes, the foreign accent; a combination that had been bowling over susceptible females since tourism had been invented.
The restaurant was only a short walk from the house. There was no traffic about and they walked in the roadway, five abreast, with the three women in the centre and the men at either end. Lucia was next to Julian who was telling her jokes and making her laugh.
Laughter transformed her, Grey noticed, making it possible to see what she must have been like at eighteen, before her father’s illness, before her life had gone wrong.
But if she succumbed to Julian she would be making another error of judgment. Perhaps she was one of those women who had no judgment, who would go through life always making the wrong choices and fouling things up for herself.
CHAPTER TEN
FOR their date à deux the following night, Julian had booked a table at a restaurant overlooking the crescent-shaped Arenal beach at Jávea. The table was under the awning that, by day, shaded the terrace from the heat of the midday sun. On a balmy spring evening this was still the most popular part of the restaurant and the table reserved for them was one of the best, with an uninterrupted view of the sand and the sea.
Judging by the way he was greeted, Julian was a frequent and valued patron.
‘What is that building at the far end, among the palm trees?’ Lucia asked, when he had asked for cava to drink while they studied the menu.
‘It’s a parador…a hotel run by the State,’ he told her. ‘That one is modern, but many of them are in castles and other historic buildings. They’re generally considered the best places to stay. Their charges are competitive and they serve regional cuisine.’
The cava turned out to be the Spanish version of champagne. It was accompanied by some appetisers in the form of stuffed olives, speckled quails’ eggs and huevos de lumpo, the tiny glistening black eggs of the lumpfish, spread on pieces of toast.
When they had decided what to eat and Julian had chosen the wine, he leaned towards her and said, ‘I don’t understand your relationship with Grey. Explain it to me.’
‘He’s my employer’s son.’
‘But he doesn’t approve of you having dinner with me. He scowled when I asked you last night. He glared at you when you accepted. I think he would prefer you to be dining with him.’
‘No, no…you’ve got it wrong. He isn’t interested in me in that way…only as a suitable travelling companion for his mother…which he doesn’t think I am.’
‘I know it is very difficult for artists to make a living, but I don’t fully understand why you need to help her with her painting. Couldn’t you find a more interesting job?’ he asked.
‘Perhaps, but this job was offered to me after I’d been out of the rat race for a while. My father was terminally ill and I gave up working to nurse him,’ Lucia explained. At this stage of their acquaintance, she didn’t feel it was necessary to tell him the other reason why she had been out of touch.
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ Her right hand was toying with the stem of her wineglass and Julian reached out and put his hand on her wrist.
It seemed a spontaneous gesture of sympathy with no other implications. After pressing her wrist for a moment, he took his hand away. ‘Is looking after Mrs Calderwood only a temporary expedient? Are you looking for something more ambitious?’
‘Not yet. At the moment I’m enjoying the chance to see something of Spain. Long term I’m not sure what I want to do.’
But suddenly, as she spoke, she knew that it wasn’t true. The ambitions she had started out with no longer inspired her. With her twenty-fifth birthday approaching, and thirty on the horizon, a new imperative was starting to seem important.
As a ‘lonely only’ herself, she had always visualised, when the time came, having several children. All at once, in a flash of enlightenment, she knew that, if it were possible to arrange the future, she would choose to spend the next ten or fifteen years raising a family. Not only because she wanted children, but because as an artist she needed them. For some time, a secret pipe-dream had been to make a name for herself by writing and illustrating children’s books. To do that, she needed to make a study of children, and where better than in her own family circle? But before you could have children, you had to find a man willing to father them. Any man wouldn’t do. It had to be someone special. How ironic that, now she had found him, he turned out to be the last man in the world who would ever consider founding a family with her.
‘You have a most expressive face,’ said Julian, dragging her attention back to him. ‘It reflects the nature of your thoughts in an intriguing way. In less than half a minute you have looked happy and excited and then very sad. What has been in your mind?’
‘Oh…a dozen things,’ she said lightly. ‘You know how one’s thoughts flit about from one thing to another. Tell me about your job, Julian.’
‘I am the publicity and PR director for my family’s boat-building business. It began, several generations ago, with a small firm building small fishing boats by traditional methods. Now we make yachts and motor cruisers to supply the demand from Spain’s yuppies. All along this coast—’ with a wave of his hand ‘—there are new marinas crowded with expensive pleasure craft, many of them made by us.’
‘Do you enjoy your work?’
‘There’s nothing I would rather do. I wouldn’t have wanted to be the boss, like my eldest brother, or the head of the accounts department, like one of my cousins. But the niche I have created for myself is most enjoyable. Before we paid a lot of money to agencies to promote our products and they didn’t do a good job. I am doing a much better one,’ he said, with a grin that saved his claim from sounding overly boastful.
Lucia contrived to keep him on this subject through most of the meal. She was genuinely interested, but also she wanted to avoid more questions about her life.
She didn’t know the reason why Grey had been annoyed when Julian proposed tonight’s date. She could only assume it was because he didn’t approve of her enjoying herself. If he had his way, she felt sure, she would still be in prison and destined to remain there for some time.
‘Now you are looking unhappy again,’ said Julian, breaking the flow of his previous remarks. ‘What have I said to remind you of something that troubles you?’
‘Nothing,’ she told him lightly. ‘You’re imagining it. Tell me more about your PR work.’
No 12 Calle Santa Josefina was in darkness when Julian stopped his car outside the front door and jumped out to open the nearside door for Lucia.
‘Thank you, Julian. It’s been a lovely evening,’ she said, keeping her voice low, although all the bedrooms were on the courtyard side of the house and their occupants were unlikely to hear any but very loud sounds from the street.
‘We must do it again,’ he said, putting his hands on her shoulders and leaning forward to kiss her on both cheeks. ‘Goodnight, sweet girl. Sleep tight, as Nanny used to tell me.’
She already had a key in her hand. He took it from her, unlocked the door, pushed it open, then removed the key from the latch and handed it back to her. As she was re-locking the door, she heard him driving away.
The curtains at the hall windows had not been drawn and light from a street lamp attached to the front of the house gave sufficient illumination to make switching on the hall light unnecessary. Intending to make a cup of herb tea, she opened the kitchen door and immediately saw that one of the table lamps in the adjoining sitting room must have been left on.
She switched on the kitchen lights and walked round the corner, intending to turn it off. The room was not empty as she had expected. Grey was sitting on one of the sofas. There was a book in his hand and a tall glass on the end table be
side him.
‘Oh…I didn’t think you’d still be up,’ she said, disconcerted.
He put the book aside and rose, picking up the empty glass.
‘I rarely go to bed before midnight. How was your evening out?’
‘Most enjoyable, thank you. Did you and your mother go out?’
‘Only as far as the village bar for a pre-dinner drink under the pepper tree.’
‘I’m going to make a cup of tea. Would you like one?’ she asked.
‘No, thanks.’
He took his glass to the worktop and filled it from the flagon of spring water. ‘Are you seeing Hernandez again?’
Something in his tone prompted Lucia to say, ‘Possibly. Have you any objection to that?’
‘Not as long as you realise that Spanish men tend to regard women from northern Europe as more free and easy than their counterparts here. Don’t be surprised if, next time, he sets up a situation where he can make a pass at you.’
‘I should be very surprised,’ she said indignantly. ‘Julian doesn’t strike me as a man whose approach to people is based on unreliable generalisations. I’m sure he would never overstep the bounds of friendship without clear encouragement.’
Grey put the glass to his lips and tilted his head to take a long draught of water. The movement drew her attention to the long strong column of his neck. She averted her eyes, annoyed with herself for registering a detail of his physical attraction at a moment when his mind-set was repugnant to her.
‘He may take your going out with him as sufficient encouragement,’ he said coolly. ‘If you’re not interested in him, why go out with him?’
‘Because I am interested in him, but not in the way you mean. He’s the first Spanish man I’ve met. Because he speaks perfect English means there’s no language barrier between us. He’s been telling me about his job…about Barcelona…about other parts of Spain. Have you never had any serious conversation with women? Are all your dinner dates set up with the objective you attribute to him?’