The Hideaway Read online

  ‘So I see.’

  He pushed the hose across the base of the pool. The water was a lot clearer than it had been when I’d first arrived.

  ‘Do you come every day?’ I asked.

  He hesitated as he processed my words.

  ‘Only one time a week,’ he told me. ‘Today. This day every week.’

  ‘OK,’ I said.

  ‘She . . . the pool . . . had not been cleaned for a time,’ he added. ‘So I came two times last week. There is a . . . a . . .’ he searched for the right word but eventually gave up, ‘. . . a piece that must be changed in the . . . the pump but I cannot do that today. It is a simple thing. There is no problem to use the pool. She . . . it is good.’

  ‘Great. Thank you.’

  ‘You like to swim?’

  I hadn’t really thought about it.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is nice to have pool in the summer,’ he said. ‘Now is not very hot. But later, yes. There is very much heat here in next weeks.’

  It mightn’t have seemed very hot to him but it was hot enough for me. I felt a trickle of perspiration slide from my neck and down my back.

  ‘Um . . . would you like something to drink?’ I asked. ‘Water? Juice?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ he replied, his English suddenly becoming a little more fluent, as though he’d got all of the difficult stuff out of the way. ‘I have bottle of water with me.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘I finish soon,’ he said. ‘You will be able to swim.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said.

  ‘They told me someone was coming to stay. You are friend of the family?’

  ‘I work with Pilar,’ I replied.

  ‘I know her.’ He nodded. ‘She come . . . came . . . here many times with her mamá. She is nice girl.’

  ‘Very nice,’ I agreed.

  He hauled the large blue hose out of the pool and curled it up. Then he took a squeegee-type brush and began to clean the tops of the tiles.

  ‘She will come here, Pilar?’ he asked. ‘While you are here?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I replied.

  ‘I have not seen her for a long time. She is working in England with you?’

  ‘Ireland,’ I corrected him.

  ‘Ah.’ His eyes suddenly lightened. ‘Not the same place, no? Very different.’

  ‘Very.’ I grinned.

  ‘Guinness,’ he said.

  There is a sad inevitability about people mentioning Guinness when you say you’re Irish.

  I nodded.

  ‘I have drinked . . . drunk . . . it once,’ he said. ‘I am sorry, I did not like it very much.’

  ‘I don’t like it very much either,’ I confessed. ‘I’m more of a wine person.’

  ‘Lots of good wines here,’ he said. ‘You must try them.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘My family makes wines,’ he told me. ‘I will bring some for you next time.’

  ‘You don’t have to . . .’ And then I realised I was being rude. ‘That would be lovely. Thank you.’

  He finished the tiles and then lifted the cover to what I realised was the pump for the pool.

  ‘I have set times for it to come on and off,’ he said. ‘Is necessary to keep water clean.’

  ‘OK,’ I said.

  ‘Is good for swimming now.’

  ‘Great,’ I said.

  He closed the lid and hefted the hose over his shoulder.

  ‘I will see you next week. You are here for many weeks, yes?’

  ‘I’m not sure how long,’ I said. ‘But I’ll definitely be here next week.’

  ‘I see you then,’ he assured me. ‘I will have wine.’

  ‘Thank you. Do you need me to close the gate behind you?’

  He thought about it for a moment then shook his head.

  ‘I have the button.’ He reached into his shorts and took out a remote control. ‘Is OK.’

  ‘In that case, see you next week.’

  ‘Hasta luego,’ he said and went to the van.

  I was a woman devastated by the death of her secret lover in a tragic accident. A woman who’d discovered that he’d betrayed both her and the wife she’d known nothing about. I’d kept my sorrow and my grief balled up inside me. I was on leave of absence from my job because I’d totally lost it. I hadn’t slept for months. I’d come away to try to find myself again, even though I knew I’d never be the same person as I was before. And, out of nowhere, I was lusting after the pool cleaner.

  ‘You are a total slut, Juno Ryan,’ I said to myself as I returned to the kitchen. ‘You haven’t a decent bone in your body. How could you possibly be imagining . . .’ I didn’t even let myself think of what images could easily fill my head if I allowed them to. Instead, I made myself some coffee and took it out to the stone table with one of the croissants I’d bought in the mini-market.

  As I licked the last crumbs of the croissant from my fingers, Banquo appeared and jumped on the bench beside me. He pushed his head into my lap and purred happily.

  What is it about the purring of a cat that instantly relaxes you? Banquo’s presence soothed me and stopped me from working myself into another frenzy of self-loathing. You can’t have ugly thoughts when you’re stroking a cat behind the ears. It’s impossible. Even though I was uncomfortable on the hard stone bench by now, I didn’t want to get up and disturb him.

  ‘Not that you’d give a toss about disturbing me,’ I remarked as I began to lose the feeling in my legs. ‘It’s true that cats still think they’re gods.’ Which made me think of the pool cleaner again.

  My phone vibrated with a message from Cleo. She hoped that I was having a lovely relaxing time. I replied to say that I was. I didn’t mention the pool cleaner. But I did say that I’d been joined by a cat.

  You’ve become a single woman living alone with a cat, she responded. Maybe I need to visit.

  You’re very welcome, I replied.

  Will do my best, she texted back. But you know what it’s like here. Manically busy. BTW new radiographer started today. Very competent.

  That’s good, I said.

  We exchanged a few more texts and then Cleo said that her break was over and she had to get back to work. I pictured her in the ground-floor room of the hospital, talking to the patients, being as kind and as gentle with them as possible, trying to allay any anxieties they had. People sometimes ask us if we can see anything on the scans or X-rays. It’s not us but people like Brad McIntyre who make the diagnosis and tell the patient. But, of course, there are times when a tumour is very evident and you know that someone is in for a hard road ahead. Those are the times when the job is difficult.

  I was feeling guilty as I continued to rub Banquo’s head. Cleo was still at the coalface of the hospital, having to cover some of my work and having to familiarise the new radiographer with our procedures, while the most taxing thing in my day would be deciding what was for lunch.

  It wasn’t right. I shouldn’t have crumbled. I shouldn’t have let my personal life interfere with my work. I should have been able to cope.

  I thought of the Greek god again. I supposed I must at least be moving on now if I had what the nuns at my convent school would have called ‘impure thoughts’ about him. But that’s all they were. Thoughts. It was nice to know I could still have them, but I wasn’t going to act on them. I didn’t actually want to have mad passionate sex with someone I hardly knew. I wanted . . . and here I stood up abruptly. I didn’t know what I wanted.

  Banquo gave me a reproachful look as he jumped delicately from the stone bench to the ground.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said.

  He stalked off towards the orange grove, his tail high.

  I liked the fact that he didn’t care about me. I didn’t want people to care about me. To be honest, I didn’t care about me.

  I began to walk around the outside of the house, dragging my feet through the pink and white stones. I tried to empty my mind completely. When I’d completed a circuit, I sto
od back and looked at the Villa Naranja. As I gazed at the shutters, I realised they badly needed attention. If they were varnished and hung properly, I thought, the house would look far less tumbledown and maybe a good deal more appealing to the buyers Pilar’s mother needed to attract. Of course painting the outside would help too, but that was a big job. The shutters, on the other hand . . .

  I went inside and examined them up close. The wood, once dark, had been bleached to a pale tint by the sun, and the hinges were loose as well as being rusty. I might not be creative but I’m definitely good at practical tasks. I once told Sean that I’d love a hammer-action drill as a birthday present. He gave me perfume. Beautiful expensive perfume. But I would have preferred the drill. Now, as I looked thoughtfully at them, I knew I could fix the shutters. It was a job that I wanted to do. And it would be better than sitting around with the medical books that would only remind me of Brad. Much better to embark on something useful while I was here. That’s what I needed in order to move on.

  I sent a message to Pilar asking if her mum would mind if I did some maintenance work around the house.

  Are you crazy? she replied. You’re on a break. Mamá doesn’t expect you to do anything.

  But I’d like to, I sent in return. It won’t be much.

  A few minutes later she responded with a No problem – you mad thing! which made me laugh.

  I did a bit of a search and eventually found some DIY equipment, as well as a pair of wickerwork outdoor chairs and a striped parasol, in an outside shed. Much to my delight, among the hammers, hoes, rakes and saws was a small electric sander, which would be perfect for working on the shutters. I carried the chairs and their cushions to the patio and placed them in the shade. I erected the parasol over the stone table. Then I went indoors again, took a quick shower and got dressed in a T-shirt and shorts. After that, feeling rather pleased with myself, I locked up the house and drove to Beniflor.

  Chapter 8

  I parked in the same spot outside the supermarket and walked back along the main street. The town houses, which shared the street with the shops, were painted in shades of yellow and cream. Many of the deep window sills contained flower boxes and baskets, and their blossoms spilled through the wrought-iron grilles in a cascade of colour.

  I was walking in the direction of the plaza, although this time along a narrower street with more houses on one side and a plot of arid land on the other. At the end of it, much to my delight, was a large store with a sign that said Bricolaje and DIY.

  I’d expected to have to struggle with the shopkeeper to explain that I needed sanding paper, hinges, screws and varnish, but when I went inside I saw that it was a self-service store where I could walk happily along the aisles and pick up the supplies I needed. I like DIY stores. I like the woody smell of them, and the bare bones of what are going to be home projects – the doors, the floorboards, the power tools . . . I like the power tools most of all. I picked up a new bit for the drill that I’d found at the Villa Naranja, as well as some face protectors to save me from the dust. Then I brought all of my purchases to the till where the assistant, behind a white counter, was cutting keys for another customer. Both assistant and customer – men in their mid-fifties, I reckoned – stared at me as I put my basket of purchases on the counter. I knew I looked like the complete tourist in my gaudy green shorts, striped T-shirt and jewelled sandals. And even though I have the imagination of a newt, I couldn’t help wondering if either of them had read Fifty Shades of Grey and were questioning my motives in having a large roll of masking tape in the basket.

  The customer said something to the assistant and both of them laughed while I felt my face flush. Then the customer left with the keys and the assistant turned to me with a friendly hola.

  I said hola in return and then he scanned my purchases and told me the amount, which obviously I didn’t understand. I craned my neck to peer at the cash register, and he then repeated the amount in slow, careful English.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said as I handed over the money. ‘I mean, gracias.’

  ‘You are welcome.’ He passed over my purchases.

  The plaza was only a short walk away so I decided to call into the Café Flor for a coffee again. With my plastic bag full of non-tourist things, I was suddenly beginning to feel part of the place. I was finding my feet, finding my way around. I wasn’t a tourist. I was living here. Even if it was only for a short time.

  ‘Hello!’ Rosa beamed at me as I sat down beneath one of the big parasols. ‘Nice to see you again. How are you getting on?’

  ‘Not bad,’ I told her. ‘Settling in.’

  ‘Running repairs?’ she asked with a brief nod towards the plastic bag bearing the name of the DIY store. ‘Is everything OK up there?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ I replied. ‘I’m just doing a few little jobs around the house.’

  ‘Señora Perez will be pleased,’ said Rosa. ‘Eduardo is supposed to look after it, but he doesn’t have a huge amount of time either.’

  ‘Eduardo?’

  ‘Her son,’ said Rosa. ‘He’s a lawyer. He has an office in Beniflor Costa but he’s been in Madrid for the past couple of months.’

  ‘Beniflor Costa?’

  ‘If you take the road to the coast you’ll reach it,’ said Rosa. ‘We’re the rural cousin of the hipper costal hangout. It has the original influx of expats, we get the ones who can’t afford the sea-view prices.’

  I grinned.

  ‘Are there many non-Spanish residents around here?’

  ‘Not in the town itself but in some of the nearby urbanizaciones,’ said Rosa. ‘Many of them came to Beniflor in the seventies and the communities expanded. There used to be a lot of Brits, but these days the buyers are coming from northern Europe.’

  ‘I was thinking it’d be a struggle for me without a word of Spanish, but everyone seems to have some English,’ I said.

  ‘Well, for some, especially the older generation, it’s just basic stuff,’ she told me. ‘But most of the younger people have learned it since school – and nearly everyone has worked in the hospitality industry at some point, so they’re not bad.’

  ‘They make me feel ashamed,’ I admitted.

  ‘Oh, once you’ve been here for a couple of weeks you’ll pick up some words,’ said Rosa. ‘And it’s not as though you need it to get by in Beniflor.’

  ‘I guess not.’ I picked up the menu and scanned it. ‘What do you recommend today?’

  ‘The lemon tart,’ she told me.

  ‘I’ll have that – and a cappuccino,’ I said.

  She nodded and went to get my order while I sat back and luxuriated in the warmth of the sun on my legs. I reminded myself that I was on a longer break than a fortnight’s holiday. That I didn’t have to plan on going back to work yet. That, even if I had left them in the lurch, the radiology department was getting on fine without me and my replacement was competent. It was hard to believe that such a big part of my life now seemed distant and remote. Everyone likes to think that they’re indispensable – but none of us are, really. Not me. And not Brad either. Because the team in Belfast were getting on without him too. It was just me who was struggling.

  I wasn’t going to think about Brad. I was here to forget him. I picked up the menu again and studied it without taking in a word.

  ‘Here you go.’ Rosa put my coffee and cake in front of me.

  ‘Thanks.’

  She bustled off and I took out my phone. The café had free Wi-Fi and so I logged on and checked my various social accounts, something I hadn’t bothered to do at the villa. I don’t post very much myself, but I like seeing what other people are up to. Facebook doesn’t make me feel inadequate or hopeless, like some people claim. I like seeing my friends’ happy status updates. I like wasting time on trivia. There are so many horrible things going on in the world that it’s nice to lose yourself in a cat obsessively flushing a toilet from time to time. I thought then about Banquo and wondered what his real name was and who his real
owners were. He hadn’t seemed feral to me. He’d been perfectly comfortable in the house.

  A couple of pickup trucks drove into the square and began unloading yellow crash barriers. A few minutes later, a bright-yellow cherry picker trundled in too. The men from the trucks and the cherry picker started a loud and animated conversation. Rosa came out of the café.

  ‘They’re getting ready for the fiesta,’ she told me.

  ‘What fiesta?’

  ‘The Beniflor fiesta, of course. It’s in honour of San Bernardo, our patron saint.’

  ‘Is it a religious festival?’

  I’m not religious. I can’t get my head around a God who created a world where so many awful things happen to good people. Like incurable diseases, or abject poverty, or earthquakes.

  ‘There’s a religious aspect,’ Rosa said. ‘But it’s not really a religious event. It starts with a Mass and a parade of San Bernardo’s statue. Then there’s the crowning of the fiesta queens followed by a big community dinner in the plaza. All of the streets have their own tables. There’s lots of events the following week, and the bars and restaurants do special deals. Then we finish off with a firework display in front of the town hall at midnight. That’s the town hall,’ she added, pointing to the official-looking building which now had three flags hanging from the upper balcony. I recognised one as the Spanish flag. The red-and-yellow striped one, Rosa told me, was the flag of Valencia, which was the regional community we were in, and the third – blue and white with a picture in the middle – was the town’s flag. The picture was of San Bernardo.

  ‘You have to come, it’ll be great fun,’ she promised. ‘It’s the highlight of the summer. Of course, every town has its own festival – and some are much bigger affairs – but ours is the best fun.’

  I laughed.

  ‘Seriously,’ she said. ‘We pack more in than anyone else.’

  ‘I thought I’d come to a quiet backwater,’ I remarked. ‘But it seems like it’s all go.’

  ‘The summer season is about having fun,’ Rosa told me. ‘Which is why people come here.’ She looked at me curiously. ‘Why did you come?’