The Hideaway Page 9

  I drained my coffee cup.

  ‘Oh, just getting away from it all.’

  She paused before speaking.

  ‘Getting away from it all is great,’ she told me. ‘But it’s nice to be involved too. So I hope we see you at the fiesta. It kicks off next week. There’ll be dancing and all sorts. And, of course, we choose the Fiesta Queen. This year it’s Beatriz Navarro. Her father owns the finca next to the Villa Naranja.’

  ‘I guess it’d be nice to meet the neighbours,’ I said.

  ‘Beatriz is gorgeous,’ Rosa told me. ‘The whole family is. Miguel Navarro married a beauty queen, and their kids are all heartbreakers.’

  ‘Any good-looking men?’ I spoke before even realising what I was saying, and my words shocked me. I wasn’t looking for a man. Even if I’d had lustful thoughts about the pool cleaner, my heart wasn’t ready for it.

  ‘Three sons,’ Rosa said. ‘The second, Carlos, is married and lives in Argentina. But Luis might suit you. He’s the eldest and works on the finca. He’s about thirty-five, very handsome.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ I said. ‘I won’t be chasing after him.’

  She grinned.

  ‘You’d be the only one.’

  ‘Honestly,’ I said. ‘I’m here for a rest, not . . . not anything else.’ I took my purse out of my bag. ‘How much do I owe you?’

  I handed over the paltry sum and left another euro on the table as a tip.

  ‘Good luck with the DIY,’ she said as I stood up.

  ‘I’ll let you know how I get on,’ I promised.

  I called into the supermarket before going back to the villa and stocked up on essentials. I also bought a large bag of dried cat food. I wasn’t sure who was feeding Banquo but I thought I’d better get in on the act, just in case.

  In true cat fashion, though, there was no sign of him when I got home.

  Although I was still struggling to sleep at night, the sultry heat of the early afternoon had made me feel lethargic. I didn’t bother to take my purchases out of the bag, but simply left them in the kitchen and flopped down in one of the newly discovered wicker chairs. I hadn’t expected to nod off but it was an hour later before I came to, and that was only because Banquo had jumped on to my lap and was kneading my stomach viciously.

  ‘Ow!’ I cried as I sat up. And then called, ‘You wretch!’ after him as he fled into the orange grove.

  I got up and poured him some water, then shook some of the dried cat food into a yellow ceramic bowl, which I put down for him. Almost at once, he reappeared and rubbed up against my legs, purring noisily before sticking his nose into the bowl and sniffing a few times. He turned to me and gave me a reproachful look, which seemed to say, ‘Dried food? Really? I have better taste than this.’ But when he realised it was all that was on offer, he tucked in.

  While he ate I wandered over to the swimming pool. It was clear and inviting, and for the first time I realised that, despite the fact the Villa Naranja had seen better days, I was staying at a private house with a swimming pool of its own. Which meant that I could swim whenever I liked. However I liked.

  I peeled off my shorts and T-shirt and dived in.

  The water was fresh but not freezing, and as I surfaced I felt a sudden explosion of well-being. A sense that life was worth living. That there was joy in the simple things. Yet even as all these emotions coursed through me, I couldn’t help remembering that the only reason I was here was because of something truly awful.

  And I felt guilty for my moment of pure delight.

  Chapter 9

  I spent the next few days alone in the house – except for Banquo, who divided his time between the recycling box and one of the wicker chairs on the patio. Although it had taken longer than I’d expected, I’d eventually managed to unscrew the shutters and bring them downstairs, where I propped them in the shade of the patio. (I’d managed to catch my index finger in one of the rusty hinges, and I had to remove a splinter from my thumb when a shutter slid from my grasp on the terracotta stairs, but I’d coped without a major disaster.) I sanded them during the day, and at night I sat outside in the balmy air with my iPad and read until it was dark. I was eating mainly fruit and salad, which meant that my body was currently a shrine to healthy living – if I ignored the glass or two of wine that accompanied the salads.

  But the best part of being alone was not having to put on a game face, to pretend everything was all right when it wasn’t. It was also good to get up at whatever time I felt like and not be ruled by my alarm clock – although I was usually up early because, without the shutters on the windows, the sun flooded into the bedroom. Most nights, I went to bed late because I dreaded lying in the dark not sleeping, yet I dreaded sleeping even more because I was afraid of what my dreams might be. But even though my sleep was still erratic, the nightmares that had plagued me in Dublin had eased, and while I saw Brad in some of my dreams, others were the usual confusion of jumbled events. There were even some blissful moments when I wasn’t dreaming at all. So staying at the Villa Naranja had made me healthier and more rested, that was certain.

  Yet no matter how much I wanted it to be different, I was still stuck in ‘if only’. If only I’d asked Brad more about his family. If only I’d asked about his life in Belfast. About his friends. If only I hadn’t been so damn accepting of everything he said and did. If only I’d questioned him about his family holiday, about why it was so important to him. If only . . . if only . . . if only I hadn’t been dazzled by love, he might have admitted the truth to me and I’d still have been shocked at the tragedy of the earthquake but I wouldn’t have been so completely and utterly steamrollered by what had happened.

  Because if I’d known the truth, I would have broken it off with him as soon as I knew he was married. Of course I would. Wouldn’t I? I had no interest in having a relationship with a married man. I wouldn’t have accepted his invitation to dinner if he’d mentioned he had a wife. Unless, perhaps, I’d had a reason to believe that his relationship had irretrievably broken down. If he’d told me that Alessandra didn’t understand him. Or that he didn’t understand her. Or that they were staying together for Dylan’s sake. Would I have gone out with him then? Would I have decided that their marriage was over and that it was OK to be with him? But if that was the case, would he still be sleeping with her? And would she have wanted to get pregnant?

  The trouble was, I simply didn’t know, and it was eating me up inside. I’d told him all about Sean, yet he hadn’t said a word about previous – or current – relationships, even though it would have been the perfect opportunity. So why had he kept his secrets from me? Why hadn’t he been the person I so badly wanted him to be?

  Despite the balmy days at the Villa Naranja, despite the great food and the lazy evenings, I was still trapped in a kind of limbo. Of not being able to let go. Of not knowing how I was supposed to feel. Of searching for answers to questions I’d never dreamed of asking and would never know how to answer.

  There were a dozen shutters on the house altogether, eight full length and four smaller. I’d divided the work into two separate projects – the upstairs and the downstairs – beginning upstairs. My plan was to sand and varnish all of the upstairs shutters before starting on the downstairs ones, just in case it took longer than I expected. At least this way, half of them would be done. I was doing all the sanding first so that there was no chance of dust settling in the varnish.

  I fitted a new sheet of sandpaper to the sander and plugged it in. Then I pulled the mask over my face and started work on the final shutter of the upstairs batch. Because I was totally engrossed in what I was doing, I nearly had a heart attack when I saw the shadow of a figure behind me.

  I whirled around, the sander still going.

  ‘Oh,’ I gasped. ‘I didn’t hear you.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ The Greek god looked at me apologetically.

  I switched off the sander and removed my mask. The Greek god looked at the shutters.

  ‘
You are doing all this work yourself?’

  A sexist Greek god, I thought, as I replied a little tartly that I was perfectly capable of doing some sanding or painting or whatever else needed doing around the house. Even pool cleaning, I added, if somebody showed me how.

  He grinned at me.

  ‘It is clear that you know what you do,’ he said. ‘I am surprised that you are doing it, that is all. You are on holiday, no? Most people on holiday do not start reformas.’

  ‘I’m not exactly on holiday,’ I told him, my tone slightly abashed. ‘I’m staying here for a few weeks and I could see that the shutters needed some attention so I thought . . . well, I like being useful. I’m not good at sitting around doing nothing.’

  ‘You like doing this?’ He looked at me appraisingly.

  ‘I like practical things,’ I told him.

  ‘Me, too.’ He nodded. ‘That is why I am cleaning the pool.’

  ‘Do you work full time at it?’ I asked.

  He frowned. ‘Full time?’

  ‘Is it your job?’

  His face brightened.

  ‘For the summer,’ he said. ‘Because we – my family – are close to Doña Carmen’s family, and my father made the offer to Señora Perez. The offer of me,’ he added. ‘But I do not mind. I spent a lot of time here when I was younger. Anyway, I am sorry to have frightened you. I came to clean the pool and to fix the seal.’ He said the last word with a triumphant smile.

  ‘You startled me, not frightened me,’ I said.

  ‘Startled is not frightened?’ he asked.

  ‘Not exactly.’ I tried to explain the difference but he threw up his hands in despair.

  ‘So many words in English for the same thing,’ he said.

  ‘Nearly the same thing,’ I corrected him.

  ‘I studied it in school,’ he said. ‘And I worked in England for some months. But I have not spoken very much for some time and it is hard to remember.’

  ‘Actually, you’re getting better by the second,’ I said. ‘I guess it comes back to you.’

  ‘I think that is true.’ He smiled again.

  I was trying to think of a man in the whole world who was better-looking than him. But I couldn’t. Not one. Not a singer, not a Hollywood star, not an athlete . . . nobody. As a Greek god, even a Spanish Greek god, he was out on his own.

  ‘It is OK that I start now?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course.’

  I deliberately didn’t watch him. I concentrated on sanding the wood in front of me, although I was conscious that the heat I was feeling had nothing at all to do with the warmth of the sun.

  It seemed to take him forever, but eventually he finished. He showed me the old seal, as if he needed to prove there really had been a problem with it.

  ‘Would you like a drink of water this time?’ I asked. I wanted something to drink myself. My throat was parched.

  He nodded, and I went inside. I filled two glasses from the five-litre bottle I’d bought at the supermarket and handed one to him.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Do you need any help?’

  ‘I’m doing all right so far,’ I told him.

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed as he examined the shutters. ‘But putting them back will be more difficult, no? You need new . . . new . . .’

  ‘Bisagras.’ I beamed at him and picked up the packet on the ground beside me. ‘Hinges.’

  ‘Hinges.’ He nodded. ‘You need to put them in the wall also.’

  ‘I’m sure I can manage.’

  ‘If you need help, ask for me,’ he said. ‘It’s not a problem.’

  ‘That’s kind of you.’

  He took a phone out of his pocket. ‘You have WhatsApp? For message.’

  A fleeting sense of foreboding gripped me at the idea of sharing contact information with a man I didn’t know. Whose name I still didn’t know, I realised, as he looked at me expectantly. I could be getting myself into a messy situation. He could be married. He could . . . And then I told myself that I was being stupid, he was a local guy, and he wasn’t trying to date me by pretending he was a free agent. He was just being nice.

  I reached for my own phone.

  ‘I’m Pep,’ he told me. ‘Pep Navarro.’

  Navarro. Navarro. It sounded familiar. Then I remembered my conversation with Rosa at the café. The family of beautiful women and handsome men. Of course. He must be the youngest son. We shared contact information, and then he went to his van. He returned with three bottles of wine: one red, one white and one rosé. ‘These are from our bodega,’ he said as he put them on the stone table. ‘Let me know what you think.’

  ‘Thank you for bringing them.’ I looked at the bottles. ‘I’m not a wine expert. I just drink what I like.’

  ‘It will be good to have the opinion of someone who is not an expert,’ he said. ‘I hope you enjoy them.’

  ‘I’ll let you know.’

  ‘Will you be at the fiesta?’ he asked. ‘It begins on Friday.’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘Then I also hope to see you there.’

  ‘You, too.’

  He drained the water and waved goodbye. I didn’t return to sanding the shutters right away. Instead, I cooled off in the crystal-clear pool.

  Rosa gave me a fuller description of the upcoming fiesta when I went into town for coffee and pecan pie.

  ‘The opening ceremony on Friday is always great,’ she said. ‘Then on Saturday there’s a huge fancy-dress parade around the town. Obviously, there’s a competition for the best – and the participants take it very, very seriously.’

  ‘Are you in it?’ I asked.

  She looked a little embarrassed.

  ‘Well, yes. I’ve taken part every year since I was a teenager. I’ve never won, though.’

  ‘Does everybody take part?’

  ‘No, but a good crowd do,’ she said. ‘I’m going as Snow White this year. I realise I don’t have the look but I have a lovely costume.’

  ‘Do people line the streets to watch?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh yes. And they shout encouragement at us. It’s fun. It starts at half eight,’ she added, ‘and it finishes here in the plaza. The Fiesta Queen hands out the prizes.’

  ‘And is that it?’

  ‘Are you mad?’ She grinned at me. ‘A one-day fiesta! Whoever heard of such a thing. On Sunday there’s a paella competition in the square and later there’s another parade, although this time it’s the statue of San Bernardo from the church and around the town. On Monday there’s music and a flamenco show.’

  ‘Action-packed,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, that’s only the start of it,’ Rosa told me. ‘Like I said before, there’s stuff on every day. There’s a concert on Tuesday, a bullfight on Thursday—’ She stopped when she saw the look of unadulterated horror on my face. ‘Not a real bullfight,’ she assured me. ‘It’s a mock one in the square, but the guys get dressed up in all the gear and they really go for it. There’s a flower-offering parade on Friday, that’s mainly for the children. The final fiesta day is on Saturday. That starts with bell ringing and firecrackers in the morning, a parade of the Fiesta Queen and town dignitaries, another Mass, another parade of the statue and another concert. It ends with music and a firework display in the plaza.’

  ‘Wow.’ I was gobsmacked. ‘Does anybody do any work during the fiesta?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘But it fits around the celebrations.’

  ‘And does everybody attend every event?’

  ‘Some people do,’ she replied. ‘You can’t miss the crowning of the Fiesta Queens on the first night and the fireworks on the last, but the rest is optional. There are three Queens, by the way. Beatriz is the main one, but there’s the Fiesta Queen abuela and the young Fiesta Queen too.’

  I stared blankly at her.

  ‘The Fiesta Queen abuela is a senior citizen,’ Rosa explained. ‘Abuela means “granny” in Spanish – and the grannies rule the roost here, absolutely. The young queen is from the ba
tch of girls who made their Communion this year. We have all the age groups covered.’

  My mother would have been perfect in the role of the senior citizen Fiesta Queen. I could see her standing there looking regal. Not grandmotherly. Thea Ryan only looks like a grandmother when she’s acting.

  ‘I’ll have a think about how much partying I can do,’ I said.

  ‘It’s a good way to meet people,’ said Rosa. ‘If you’re going to be here for a while, you need to mingle. You can’t hole up at Doña Carmen’s the whole time.’

  ‘I’ve met people there,’ I said. ‘Pep Navarro is the pool cleaner. I’m guessing he’s the Fiesta Queen’s brother.’

  ‘Oh.’ She was taken aback. ‘I thought he was working at the finca this summer, not pool cleaning.’

  ‘I think he’s doing the Villa Naranja as a favour,’ I said. ‘He said that he spent a lot of time there when he was younger.’

  ‘The Perez and the Navarros are good friends.’ Rosa sounded a little strained, and I looked at her curiously as she wiped a few imaginary crumbs from the table.

  ‘I’m sure Ana’s pleased,’ she said when she’d finished.

  ‘Ana?’

  ‘Mrs Perez. Doña Carmen’s daughter.’

  ‘Pilar’s mother,’ I said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m starting to get a handle on who’s who,’ I said.

  ‘By the end of the fiesta you’ll be totally up to speed.’ Rosa had regained her equilibrium and her sunny smile. ‘You’ll know everyone.’

  She went to serve more customers while I ate my pie and watched the boys race around the plaza. They were playing the game of getting around the square without touching the ground again, leaping from tubs to the benches set into the tiled surface of the plaza, and swinging around the small orange trees. They were laughing and shouting and generally having a good time, and as they got closer to the café I wondered how they’d bridge the gap between the nearest tub and the bench. There was an orange tree between them, but I couldn’t see how they’d manage to grab it and swing across. The first boy who tried very nearly succeeded, though. He leaped from the tub and tried to grasp the branch of the tree to propel himself forward. But somehow gravity took hold, he wasn’t able to swing enough, and he tumbled to the ground amid good-natured laughter. The second boy tried for a higher branch. He couldn’t quite reach it and made an attempt to grab a lower one as he fell. It was all so quick, it was impossible to see exactly what happened, but suddenly he was lying on the ground and shrieking loudly. The cry was one of pain as well as fright. I was up from my seat in an instant and over to him. The other boys crowded round, trying to get close to the action. The boy himself was screaming and I didn’t need my radiographer’s skills to see why. He’d managed to dislocate his shoulder.