The Hideaway Read online

  I nodded. There’s probably nobody in the world who hasn’t seen or heard of Riverdance, the musical production that took Irish dancing to a whole new level.

  Fired up by the sangria, I boasted that I was an Irish dancer.

  ‘Really?’

  You’d think that I wouldn’t be any good at any sort of dancing, what with the lack of creativity and artistry in my make-up, but the thing about Irish dancing is that it’s quite technical – and, of course, that’s exactly what I am good at. It was a big relief to my mother when she realised I could manage a reel and a jig. It made her feel I had some connection with my traditional roots. I started going to classes pre-Riverdance, when the dancers were ramrod straight and totally expressionless, and the outfits were usually sludge green or a miserable fawn. Afterwards, when the show toured the world, it went madly in the other direction as the costumes became more and more extravagant and glittery, and the traditional ringlets of the female dancers morphed into a mophead of curly hair pretty much only achievable by wearing a wig. My own hair had a slight wave back then, but it wasn’t enough to satisfy Mrs McConnell, our teacher, who wanted us all to look like Jean Butler.

  So Mum bought me a curly wig in what she fondly imagined was an alluring shade of Titian, but which was undoubtedly orange. I absolutely refused to wear it – which meant that I never got the leading dance roles, even though I was probably good enough. Truthfully, though, I wouldn’t have wanted to be the one on my own in front of everyone. Unlike the rest of my family, I was happier in the background. Anyhow, the bottom line is that I can put on a decent performance if someone starts with the fiddle and the bodhrán.

  ‘You will have to show me,’ said Pep.

  ‘On St Patrick’s Day,’ I joked.

  ‘You will still be here then?’ He looked surprised.

  ‘Well, no,’ I admitted. ‘But maybe I’ll come back for a visit.’

  ‘I hope so.’ His dark brown eyes bored into me, and I felt my heart pick up the pace as though I’d just danced a series of double jigs.

  As I tried to think of something to say, Beatriz, the Fiesta Queen, came to join us. Close up she was even more gorgeous. The Navarros were a stunning family. I wondered about Luis, the brother Rosa had suggested would be perfect for me. And then I dismissed him from my mind. Nobody in Beniflor was perfect for me. I didn’t want anyone to be perfect for me. I didn’t want to get involved ever again.

  Pep and Beatriz were talking intently and I sidled away from them. I was beginning to feel tired, as much from the effort of trying to understand what was being said around me as for any other reason. I realised I was also a little drunk. Catalina’s sangria had been so lovely that I’d forgotten there was alcohol in it. I glanced at my watch. It was nearly one in the morning but nobody showed any signs of wanting to go home. The babies were still sleeping happily in their prams. The younger children were running around the square. The teenagers were dancing. The adults were talking.

  ‘You disappeared.’ Pep turned up at my side again. ‘Is everything all right?’

  ‘Of course,’ I replied. ‘I was just wondering about going home.’

  ‘But . . .’ he looked at me in surprise, ‘it is early.’

  ‘For you, perhaps,’ I said. ‘I’m used to different hours.’

  ‘Even the tourists do not go to bed before midnight,’ he said.

  ‘It’s after midnight,’ I pointed out.

  ‘You truly wish to leave?’

  ‘It’s nothing against the fiesta,’ I assured him. ‘I just . . .’

  ‘I will bring you home,’ he said.

  ‘Oh no,’ I told him. ‘Xavi’s dad will . . .’

  He shrugged dismissively. ‘José is with his family. I will do it.’

  ‘But you want to stay here,’ I said.

  ‘I can come back.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course.’

  So I went back to Catalina and José’s table and told them I was leaving. They were equally aghast at the idea of me going home so early, but after a brief conversation with Pep they nodded their agreement and said goodnight.

  ‘And please, anything we can ever do for you, just ask,’ said José. ‘We are very grateful to you for how you looked after Xavi.’

  ‘I was glad to help,’ I said.

  After another flurry of hugs and kisses goodbye, I followed Pep out of the square and along the street to where he’d parked the little van.

  I hadn’t noticed before that the lettering on the side said Bodegas Navarro.

  I clambered into the passenger seat, then Pep put the van into gear and we rattled down the main street and back to the Villa Naranja. He opened the gates with his fob, drove in and pulled up outside the house.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said.

  ‘De nada.’

  I didn’t know if I should ask him in for a coffee. It seemed polite. And yet it was probably also laden with expectation.

  So I asked him.

  I was sure he’d say yes.

  He said no.

  Chapter 11

  ‘I must get back to the fiesta,’ he told me. ‘I am helping with the sound system. I am sorry.’

  In the depths of my disappointment, I also felt relief. I was lusting after Pep Navarro, that was for certain, but sleeping with him would be a complication I could do without. Although, the devil voice said in my head, what complications could possibly arise from a one-night stand with a gorgeous man you’ll never see again after the summer?

  I’d thought there’d be no complications with Brad too, though, hadn’t I? And see how that had turned out.

  ‘Another time?’ Pep said. ‘I would like coffee with you. Very much.’

  I think he emphasised the word coffee. I didn’t know if that meant he was underlining its meaning or adding the meaning that I’d ascribed to it myself.

  ‘That would be nice,’ I said. ‘Thanks again for driving me home.’

  ‘You are welcome.’

  ‘Have fun at the fiesta.’

  He grinned. ‘We will be there until morning. Are you sure you do not wish to return with me?’

  ‘I’m exhausted,’ I said.

  ‘Then you must sleep.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I must.’

  I felt like we were characters in a play. But maybe that was because English wasn’t his natural language. Or because, like an actor, I was being another person. For the first time ever I wondered how my mother felt when she was playing a role. Did she immerse herself totally in the character and become that person? Or did she feel, as I did now, like someone observing herself from a distance?

  ‘I will see you when I come to clean the pool,’ he said.

  ‘Of course.’

  He leaned forward and I stayed standing straight, very prim and proper, as he kissed me on the cheek.

  ‘Hasta pronto,’ he said.

  I knew that meant something like ‘See you soon’ and I wondered how soon it might be.

  I was aching with desire for him. I didn’t want to feel it. But I did.

  I was having breakfast (a chocolate muffin and aromatic coffee) the following morning when my phone rang. For a heart-stopping moment I thought it was Pep, and then I saw the caller ID.

  ‘Hello, Mum,’ I said as I answered it.

  ‘Where the hell are you?’ she demanded. ‘I talked to Gonne and she said you were in Spain, and the ringtone definitely makes it sound like you’re abroad, but you didn’t say you were going on holiday. I really don’t understand why you’d simply take off without a word. It’s not as though we’re in constant contact but it would have been nice to have been told. I’m hoping you’ll come to a charity lunch I’m hosting. I’m counting on you, in fact, to save the date.’

  That’s the way my mum talks. She takes a deep breath and keeps going until she needs to breathe again. The best thing is to let her finish, because she doesn’t even notice an interruption.

  ‘I had the chance to stay in a private vi
lla,’ I told her. ‘I thought I’d take it.’

  ‘A private what? Where? Why? With whom?’

  ‘A private villa,’ I repeated. ‘It’s owned by the family of one of the girls I work with.’

  ‘But . . . but why would you head off without saying anything to anybody? Is it anything to do with that man? Are you back together? Are you with him?’

  My mother knew I’d been going out with someone and that he was my first boyfriend since Sean, that it was over and I was upset about it. She has a way of worming at least the basic information out of me that I can never quite resist. But I hadn’t told her anything else. Not about him being married, not about the earthquake, not about going to his funeral, nothing. I didn’t want her to make a drama out of my crisis. And she would have, because that’s what she does. She can’t help herself.

  She’d gone into high-drama mode when Sean had broken our engagement. I’d had to move back home for a short while and, grateful though I was to have a place to go, Mum had organised a family dinner ‘to cheer me up’ on my very first evening there. I’m not sure why she thought having Butler, Gonne and their happy families over could possibly cheer me up. All their arrival did was emphasise my rejected state. I know they felt they were being supportive by calling him a shit and telling me that there were plenty more fish in the sea, but the more they dissed Sean, the more idiotic I felt for having fallen in love with him in the first place. The thought of them picking over the ruins of my unknowingly illicit relationship with Brad was more than I could bear. And they would have done. Because there was no point in telling Mum and swearing her to secrecy. I love her dearly, I truly do, but the woman is incapable of keeping her mouth shut about anything. I’d always been the sensible one in a family of passionate people. I didn’t want to be the one whose emotional life had crumbled around her. Again.

  ‘We’re not back together.’ I felt my fingers tighten around the phone. ‘I simply wanted to be on my own for a bit.’

  ‘What did he do to you?’ she demanded. ‘Why have you run away? You weren’t like this even after the Dolt.’

  She always referred to Sean as the Dolt. Even when I was engaged to him. She thought it was funny.

  ‘I haven’t run away,’ I said. ‘I’m just chilling out.’

  ‘You don’t chill out, Juno,’ said my mother. ‘You’ve never chilled out in your entire life.’

  ‘Sometimes I do.’

  ‘Are you coming home soon?’ she asked. ‘Will you be able to come to the lunch? It’s for osteoporosis. I thought it would interest you.’

  Osteoporosis is a cause close to Mum’s heart. After she broke a bone in her wrist from a fall, I was the one who made her get a DXA scan and then told her that she was in the moderate osteoporosis category. In one of life’s little coincidences, a close theatrical friend of hers tripped a few days after her and fractured her hip. Until then, Marnie Mulcahy had been an active woman. The fall aged her overnight. Mum is paranoid about her own condition worsening. It’s the only thing she listens to me about. (Well, she doesn’t actually listen any more. She’s the one who lectures me now. She thinks she knows more about it than I do. Sometimes I think she might.)

  ‘It’s a great cause and I’d be happy to go, but I’m staying here for a few more weeks,’ I told her.

  ‘A few more weeks! How can you possibly do that? You’re always complaining that you don’t have enough time off, so how could you have enough holidays to spend in private villas in Spain? How can you even afford it? What the hell is going on with you?’

  ‘Nothing’s going on. And I have some savings . . . the money I didn’t spend on my wedding, remember? Is it so impossible to believe that I’d like some time out for once?’

  ‘I thought you said you weren’t still upset about the Dolt!’ cried my mother. ‘But here you are, talking about your wedding – your great escape, if you ask me.’

  ‘I’m not talking about my wedding.’ I sighed with exasperation. ‘I’m simply trying to—’

  ‘Gonne said she thought there was something odd about your messages,’ said Mum before I could finish.

  ‘There wasn’t.’

  ‘There’s something not right with you. A mother can always tell.’

  ‘I was feeling a bit down before I came,’ I told her. ‘But I’m fine now. I really am. You don’t have to worry.’

  ‘I worry about you more than the other two combined. There’s been something wrong with you for ages. But instead of sharing it with us, like a normal person, you insist on doing your own thing. Now you’ve fled the country and you’re holing up somewhere in Spain.’

  ‘I haven’t fled the country,’ I protested. ‘Nor am I holing up. You’re being silly.’

  Although she wasn’t, really. I had fled the country. I was holing up. It was just that she made it sound a million times more dramatic than it was.

  ‘I could come and see you,’ she said. ‘Maybe you’ll be a bit more forthcoming face to face.’

  ‘Please don’t, Mum,’ I said. ‘Not that I want to deprive you of a holiday or anything, but . . . but maybe you could come later. Right now I really need time to myself.’

  ‘And you have the nerve to say there’s nothing wrong!’ she exclaimed. ‘If it was Butler I could accept it. He needs solitude for his poetry, even though Larry doesn’t always see it that way. But you – you’re a Duracell bunny, Juno Ryan, always on the go. You don’t do well on your own.’

  ‘I’m doing perfectly well on my own,’ I assured her, ignoring the slight directed at my brother’s very understanding husband. ‘Besides, Saoirse or Cleo might come out for a few days.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘So you don’t have to worry about me. You really don’t.’

  I’d been surprised when she said she worried about me more than Gonne and Butler. I’d rather thought that she mostly despaired of me.

  ‘Mothers are programmed to worry about their children,’ said Mum. ‘It’s what we do. And we’re programmed to know when they’re lying their little asses off too.’

  ‘I’m not lying to you,’ I lied. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘I’m not going to force myself on you,’ said Mum. ‘But if you need me, call.’

  My eyes welled with tears. Just because my mother hadn’t wanted me didn’t mean she didn’t love me. I knew that. But I allowed myself to forget it sometimes. I was a terrible daughter. A terrible person.

  ‘I’ll call, I promise,’ I said.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Are you working on anything right now?’ I asked.

  She’s seventy years old and she still likes acting more than anything. In the last few years she’s reprised her role on an Irish soap opera as a guest star, returning as a woman who’d disappeared and who everyone thought had been murdered. The storyline had kept the nation on tenterhooks for months, but it had shifted focus and she hadn’t appeared in the most recent episodes.

  ‘I’ll be back on Clarendon Park soon,’ she said with a note of satisfaction. ‘They know I bring in the viewers.’

  Her character, Imelda, was a total battleaxe. Everyone loved to hate her, and Mum was totally brilliant in the role although, as she occasionally muttered darkly, to have a decent role as an older woman it’s almost obligatory to play a hard-core bitch. Someone deranged or vengeful, she said, or else cold-hearted and frigid. Imelda slotted into the vengeful mode, and even though Mum said she was fun to play, she bemoaned the fact that nobody over thirty-five was allowed to be a love interest. Unless it was part of some complicated affair.

  ‘Older women are sexual beings too,’ she told me. ‘I wish we were allowed to portray that on screen more regularly. But of course only the male ideal of beauty and allure is ever shown. It does a terrible disservice to the rest of us. You’d think no woman past the menopause had a sex life. Which is patently untrue.’

  She had a point, I knew she had. But it was lost in my attempts not to think of my mother as someone with a sex life.

  I told
her I was delighted that Imelda was making a comeback on Clarendon Park.

  ‘The schedule is very manageable for the first episodes. But if you don’t come home after a few weeks I’m coming to see for myself that you’re OK.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I assured her.

  ‘I love you,’ said Mum.

  ‘I love you too,’ I told her in return.

  Her words echoed in my ears even after she’d ended the call.

  Chapter 12

  It had clouded over while I was talking to Mum; the first grey clouds I’d seen since I’d arrived at the Villa Naranja. But it was still warm, and I spent the rest of the morning varnishing another set of shutters while wondering if Pep Navarro, who had to be at least eight years younger than me, thought of me as a sexual being or a battleaxe. I’d fondly imagined that my early thirties were my prime years, but after my conversation with Mum I couldn’t help thinking that I was deluding myself. Yes, I was young, even if most women of my mother’s generation had been married with children at my age. Yes, I could be considered attractive, notwithstanding the grey hairs that were beginning to make their appearance on my head more and more regularly. But was I young enough or attractive enough for a man in his twenties? Did I fit into his picture of an ideal woman?

  Probably not, I concluded as I put the lid on my tin of varnish. Pep Navarro undoubtedly had his pick of fresh-faced girls. My ridiculous desire for him was encouraging me to make a fool of myself. And I’d had enough of making a fool of myself. I wasn’t going to do it again.

  I put away the varnish and the brushes and changed into my swimsuit. Then I dived into the pool and flipped on to my back so that I was floating gently on the surface. I closed my eyes and emptied my mind. I’d had enough soul-searching for one day.

  I was still floating when I heard the sound of the gates sliding open and a car pulling up outside the house. A treacherous frisson of excitement ran through me. Pep had come back. Perhaps he saw me as a sexual being after all.

  I hauled myself out of the water and pulled in my stomach as I stood dripping on the edge of the pool. If the Greek god was going to see me in a bikini for the first time, I wanted to look my best. I didn’t care how superficial that made me.