The Hideaway Read online

  ‘You scared the living daylights out of me,’ I told it as I approached it slowly. ‘Were you in the house last night? Did you knock over the glass?’

  The cat ignored me and began washing its face with its paw.

  ‘What’s your name?’ I asked.

  The cat continued to wash its face. I came a little closer. I’ve always liked cats, although my mother hates them and refused to allow me to adopt the skinny stray that used to frequent our house when I was smaller, even though I begged her like I’d never begged her before.

  ‘But it’s black and it’s lucky,’ I protested. ‘You said that a black cat in the house makes a play successful.’

  ‘In the audience on opening night,’ she told me. ‘Not in my house. Arrogant, wilful creatures.’

  So I wasn’t allowed to put out food for the black cat, and eventually he gave us up as a lost cause and moved on to more fruitful pastures (Mrs Jacobs, three houses down). But I still liked cats precisely because they were arrogant. Because they behaved as though they didn’t need anyone. And sometimes I wanted to feel that way too.

  ‘Are you hungry?’ I asked the silver-grey cat now. ‘Would you like something to eat?’

  I realised almost at once that I was being silly. I had nothing to offer him other than one of the soggy Danish pastries that I’d taken from the plane. There was no food inside. It hadn’t bothered me earlier because I wasn’t hungry. But now, to my surprise, I was.

  The Danish pastries, when I retrieved them, were even soggier and less appetising than they’d been the previous day. The only foodstuff in the kitchen cupboard was pasta and coffee. I made myself a cup of black coffee and drank it sitting on the doorstep watching the cat, which had now stretched itself out to its full length and was lying in the shade of the fountain. I wondered if it came by every day. I hoped so. Although I’d wanted nothing but seclusion and isolation, I was already beginning to wonder if I’d be able to stick the total emptiness of Villa Naranja for very long.

  I finished the coffee and stood up. The cat got to its feet too and shot off into the orange groves. I thought about following it and told myself not to be silly. But I went as far as the first tree and picked up an orange that was lying on the ground beneath it. I peeled the fruit and then popped a segment into my mouth. It was sweet and juicy and quite unlike anything I’d ever bought from the supermarket or the convenience store around the corner from the apartment.

  But I wouldn’t survive on windfall oranges, I told myself, even as I wondered if ‘windfall’ was the term when there wasn’t even the slightest hint of a breeze. I needed to buy some food, no matter how uninterested I was in eating. And I needed to settle myself into the house so that I would be able to stay for a few weeks. I needed those few weeks. I needed to find myself again. I’d been failing miserably in Dublin, and everyone knew it. At least here I could be a failure on my own.

  I went back upstairs and stood in front of the mirror. Until the previous year my nut-brown hair had been long and wavy, but as part of the annual fund-raiser for the hospital I’d shaved my head. Now, although my hair had grown again, it was cut in a bob just below my ears – an in-between length where it was going in all directions. I brushed it and used a tortoiseshell hairband to keep it in place. It needed the hairband in order not to look as though I couldn’t be bothered to brush it at all. The other rather scary thing about the regrowth was that more than a few greys had started to appear. At the moment I was pulling them out whenever I saw them, but I had a horrible feeling that one day I’d need to take more drastic measures. Except for a brief flirtation with pink streaks in my early twenties, I’d never bothered colouring it because I’d inherited the rich brown from my mother, who was famed for her luxurious, shiny locks. She wears it in a sophisticated silver now, carefully tinted to enhance its sheen, but I was a long way from wanting to be silver.

  After fixing my hair and putting sunscreen on my face (something Mum had drummed into me from a young age – I always listened to her about beauty, even if I sometimes ignored her more time-consuming advice) I closed up the house and got into the car. Driving along the country road in daylight was a much less fraught experience than it had been the previous night, and I realised that the Villa Naranja wasn’t as isolated as it had seemed either. There were more houses than I’d previously thought dotted among the orange, lemon and olive groves – although, like the Villa Naranja, most of them were set back from the road and behind big iron gates.

  Five minutes brought me to the town of Beniflor. Again, I had to correct my preconceptions. I’d imagined a small, backward town, but the main street, which forked two-thirds of the way along, had a varied mix of shops including a couple of mobile phone stores, three café bars, a pharmacy and a florist.

  I took the left-hand fork in the street, which led to a mid-sized supermarket with some empty parking spaces outside. I pulled in and stopped the car. There were lots of signs in the store showing prices having been cut for various items – although, as I had only about five words of Spanish, I had no idea what cerezas, remolacha or pulpo were, or if they were anything I’d possibly need regardless of the discounts.

  I got out of the car and walked inside to find out.

  Cerezas, it turned out, were cherries and there was an enormous punnet of them on sale for a little over €1, so I put it into the plastic shopping basket I’d taken from inside the door. Half a melon at an equally low price was added to the basket as well. Maybe I’d turn into a fruit and veg freak while I was here, I thought, as I spotted green beans for a few cents. Maybe something good would come of it all.

  I swallowed the lump in my throat. Of course nothing good could come of the fact that I’d had my heart broken by a man who’d died in tragic circumstances along with 250 others, including the wife I hadn’t known existed, and whose son had been dragged injured from the rubble.

  I was glad that nobody knew about my relationship with him. At work they knew that my boyfriend had died in an accident but nobody linked it to an earthquake in another country. Of course there was talk about my personal ‘tragedy’, with people coming up to me and saying that they were sorry for my loss, even though most of them hadn’t known I was going out with anyone at all. But it faded, as things do, except in the radiology department, where the staff knew that I was devastated and Drina might have guessed more than she ever let on.

  I continued to walk around the supermarket, which was actually quite big inside and had a decent meat and deli counter along with a well-stocked fish counter. I discovered that remolacha was beetroot and pulpo was octopus, so neither of them found their way into my basket. I picked up other items at random – filtered coffee because I’d seen a machine in the kitchen and I’m not a big fan of instant, a large bottle of water, croissants, bread rolls, ham from the deli counter, some salad and tomatoes and then a variety of sauces in jars. I’d never have made it as a potential contestant on MasterChef. Most of my culinary efforts came from jars or frozen ready meals and, given that my hours could be erratic, my food often ended up being from a takeaway. But there were no ready meals in the supermarket’s chiller cabinet and I ended up adding some pre-packed chicken breasts and some rice to my basket. The rice came in a little bag with the word arroz printed across it in blue. I identified it because of the picture of steaming grains on the front.

  Given that I’d only had half a cup of flavourless coffee and an orange for my breakfast, I was beginning to feel peckish. I’d often felt hungry over the weeks since the earthquake, although as soon as food passed my mouth I was unable to eat another bite. But since I was here, I decided to check out the town and find a place to have a coffee. I bought a freezer bag at the checkout and placed the chicken and ham into it, then put my bags in the boot of the car which was, fortunately, already in the shade.

  I walked back down the street. After I’d passed the fork in the road again, I followed one of the side streets, which twisted in all sorts of directions before opening into a diam
ond-shaped plaza. The plaza was paved with smooth tiles and dotted with tubs of red and yellow flowers, which mirrored the flag hanging from what was clearly an official building on one of the diamond’s diagonals. On the opposite side was a whitewashed church with a domed steeple covered in navy-blue tiles. There were a couple of clothes shops on another side and, on the last, a bar and a pastelería named the Café Flor.

  I sat down beneath the dark blue umbrella of one of the outside tables and picked up the menu. Almost at once a pretty red-haired girl in skimpy shorts and a cropped T-shirt walked out and smiled at me. She hesitated for a nanosecond and then, in English, asked what I’d like.

  ‘A coffee,’ I replied.

  ‘With milk? And would you like anything to eat?’

  I looked at the menu again. Even reading it had taken the edge off my hunger but I knew I had to have something.

  ‘A slice of cherry pie,’ I said.

  ‘Would you like cream or ice cream with the pie?’ she asked.

  When I didn’t reply immediately she suggested the ice cream.

  ‘Our cream comes out of an aerosol,’ she said. ‘The Spanish love it but it’s sweetened and it sort of dissolves after a few minutes. On the other hand, the ice cream is from a local family and it’s gorgeous. Although it’s fifty cents extra.’

  Even though I was on a strict budget (I didn’t have a huge amount of savings and, of course, I wasn’t being paid for my time off), I thought I could stretch to the extra fifty cents for the ice cream, and said so. The waitress grinned at me and disappeared back inside while I sat and observed the bustle of the plaza.

  Most of the activity seemed to be taking place around the building with the flag, as a steady stream of people entered and left. The bar on the corner was filling up with elderly men who were mainly drinking coffee and small glasses of spirits. The women either went into the clothes shops or headed off to do other things – although, a few minutes after I had sat down, a group of young women in their twenties sat down at the table next to me, took out iPads and started talking animatedly about whatever they were sharing. Meanwhile, some young boys, all aged around ten, began racing each other. It took me a while to realise that they were actually trying to get around the plaza without touching the ground. They were attempting this feat by running along a tiled wall, jumping on to marble seats set into the ground, and using some raised planters as platforms to leap from. When they got as far as the bar, one of the old men shouted at them and they shouted back before running away, laughing.

  The red-haired girl brought me my coffee and pie.

  ‘Enjoy,’ she said, putting it down beside me and then going to take the order from the young women at the other table.

  The coffee was silky smooth and the cherry pie delicious. As for the ice cream – it was out of this world! Without even noticing it, I managed to eat everything in front of me.

  ‘All OK?’ asked the waitress when I signalled for the bill.

  ‘Wonderful,’ I said. ‘I can’t believe I’ve found a café like this in such an out-of-the-way place.’

  The girl smiled. ‘We’re not that out of the way,’ she told me. ‘It’s only a twenty-minute drive to Benidorm, you know.’

  ‘Do you get many visitors?’ I looked at her doubtfully, not thinking the little town of Beniflor had much to offer anyone who was looking for a traditional sun holiday.

  ‘You’d be surprised,’ she replied. ‘Lots of people prefer to be in the mountains, rather than at the coast, and Beniflor has some old Arab baths which are quite an attraction. I’d recommend checking them out if you’re here for a few days. My mum and dad run the hotel a little further outside town. It’s always busy.’

  ‘Is that the small and chic one?’ I asked. ‘I’ve forgotten the name.’

  ‘La Higuera.’ She smiled again. ‘It means the Fig Tree – there’s a really old one in the garden. My parents like to think of it as a boutique offering. The hotel used to be an old hunting lodge, and when the opportunity came up they decided to renovate it.’

  ‘A big undertaking,’ I observed.

  ‘Mum and Dad ran a hotel in Benidorm for ten years,’ said the waitress. ‘They know what they’re doing.’

  ‘And it’s going well?’ I asked.

  ‘So far so good,’ she replied. ‘Are you staying nearby? You should visit.’

  ‘I’m at the Villa Naranja,’ I said. ‘It’s—’

  ‘Oh! Old Doña Carmen’s place.’ She nodded and her curls bobbed around her face. ‘How nice.’

  ‘You know it?’

  ‘Everybody knows everybody in Beniflor,’ she said. ‘And they’ll find out all about you too, so I hope you don’t have any dark secrets.’

  None worth talking about, I thought to myself, as I asked her if she lived here or if she was just working in the café for the summer.

  ‘Mum and Dad moved here before I was born,’ she replied. ‘So I’m Spanish born but, I guess, English bred. I watch Strictly and Corrie with my mum in the evenings but I support Spain in every big sporting event, and I’m going to university in Alicante.’

  ‘What are you studying?’

  I realised, as I asked the question, that this was the most I’d spoken to anybody in weeks.

  ‘Psychology,’ she said. ‘There are good prospects for psychologists here, and it’s something that interests me.’

  ‘And working in the café for the holidays?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Not the hotel?’

  ‘Better all round for me not to work with Mum and Dad,’ she said. ‘But the café is owned by the mother of their pastry chef. I know you liked the cherry pie but I promise you her almond tarts are to die for.’

  ‘Maybe next time,’ I said as I put what seemed to be a paltry sum on the table.

  ‘I hope we see you again soon.’

  ‘I’ll be back,’ I promised. ‘Thank you for all the local information . . . um . . . what’s your name?’

  ‘Rosa,’ she said. ‘Rosa Johnson.’

  ‘I’m Juno Ryan. It was lovely to meet you.’

  ‘You too.’

  She flashed me another brilliant smile, then cleared my empty cup and plate from the table and brought them indoors.

  I was feeling unexpectedly lighthearted as I arrived back at the Villa Naranja. Beniflor was a pretty town, and Rosa’s cheerfulness was almost infectious. Besides, it was hard not to feel a little brighter beneath the warmth of the sun and the clear blue skies. Maybe I was getting over it, I told myself. Maybe I was getting to the point where I could see the sun and the skies and not have to ask myself if I was OK.

  The moment was fleeting. I felt the pain stab me again, a deep thrust in the very centre of my being. And I heard him say my name, the northern lilt in his voice. Juno. How are ye, Juno? I whirled around but there was nobody there. My heart was thumping and I stood immobile for at least a minute before I could walk into the kitchen to put the food away.

  I understand the stages of grief. I learned about them. I’m familiar with the principles of denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. I know it’s not a linear process, that you can go back and forward through them. But I’d no idea where I could place myself. I’d gone through denial and anger over the last few weeks. I wanted to leave both of them behind. But I didn’t know what bargain I could make. There was nothing that could bring Brad back. And if there was – what could I say to him? What could he say to me? There was no explanation for his lies. Nothing to make me feel better. If I was anywhere in the five stages now, I was probably at depression, because it was hard not to feel the weight of despair that my unwitting relationship had left me with. Yet I don’t like to think of myself as the kind of person who gets depressed. I’m usually a glass-half-full kind of person. But nobody tells you how overwhelming grief can be. How it can sneak up on you and take you over when you least expect it. How it can take you from the place you think you are and leave you somewhere entirely different. And it’s even worse
when you don’t really know what you’re grieving for. Was I more broken-hearted because Brad had lied to me than because he’d been killed? Was I devastated at his treachery or the fact that I’d never see him again? I couldn’t answer my own question, and I didn’t want to keep asking it.

  I needed to keep busy, to block out the unwelcome thoughts that found their way into my head. I’d tried hard in Dublin but my success had been limited. Now I was here, alone, and I knew I’d have to find something to do or I’d go mad. Although I hadn’t said anything to the girls, who’d urged me to occupy myself with something new and different, I’d planned on using my time here to study. I’d been thinking of adding to my specialisations for a while, and this was my opportunity. So I’d downloaded the latest books on nuclear medicine to read about other aspects of radiology before making choices. But I didn’t have the heart to open them.

  I took out my phone, accessed my voicemail and listened to his voice again.

  I wish I was there with you. I wish I had my arms around you right now.

  I wanted it so much. Just one more minute with him. With his arms around me. And I wouldn’t waste it in asking him why he hadn’t told me the truth. I didn’t care. All I wanted was to be with him. If I’d been the one to have gone on the holiday with him, I would’ve been there when he died. I would have died myself. But it wouldn’t have mattered. Because right now I was dead inside, anyway.

  I shoved the phone into the pocket of my shorts, angry with myself. I worked in a hospital. I knew all about life and death. And the hope that keeps us going. I should be hopeful. I needed to be hopeful. That was why I was here. So no more listening to messages. No more wishing that things had been different. They weren’t.

  With a renewed sense of determination I pulled the phone out again and accessed voicemail once more. But when it came down to it, I wasn’t able to delete his last words to me. Nor could I delete his final text. But at least I’d thought about it. I’d made a gesture. And now I needed to think about something else. Something to take my mind off him completely.