Of course they’d been young and of course things might have ended of their own accord when Deira started college. But when, at her graduation, her sister casually mentioned that the day wouldn’t have happened without her, and said, with a certain sense of pride, that she’d been responsible for Thomas splitting up with her, Deira had felt herself go white with rage. And even though it was four years later and she was going out with someone else at the time, she could neither forgive Gill for interfering nor for souring her graduation day.
She’d eventually put it behind her and found happiness (at least until the moment Gavin had come home and told her about Afton), but any time she’d heard Thomas Kinsella’s name, she’d taken a sharp breath and wondered if they would still have been together if it wasn’t for Gillian. Because she heard quite a lot about Thomas Kinsella, one way or another. His father, who’d worked as a bricklayer, had moved into construction and development just as Ireland’s economy started to boom. Over the years, Danny Kinsella had bought up small plots of land, which had suddenly become valuable as they were rezoned. Kinsella and Son became one of the leading developers in the county. And Thomas and his wife Sinead became well known on the social scene. They even appeared in the pages of the celebrity magazine RSVP, posing in their huge country house with their three adorable children. Deira didn’t begrudge Thomas one bit of his success. But in the last few weeks, she hadn’t been able to help thinking about him and his family, asking herself if it could have been hers, and resenting the fact once again that her older sister hadn’t minded her own business.
She shook her head and got up from the bench where she’d been sitting. Young couples were strolling hand in hand through the park, and as she made her way through the exit in the city walls, she wished them all happiness and joy in the world. But she wondered if she’d ever experience those emotions herself any time in the future.
It was shortly after seven when Grace returned to the Café Iruña. All the outdoor tables were occupied, and there seemed to be some kind of party going on inside, but she was quite happy to lose herself in the anonymity of the crowd.
The place reminded her of the Café de la Paix in La Rochelle, with its high ceilings, gold fittings and dark wood. She imagined Simenon at his marble table five hundred kilometres away, and remembered Deira’s comment about grizzled old men holding court in their bars and cafés. Hemingway, by all accounts, had enjoyed downing bottles of wine and mixing with wealthy expats while he wrote. Simenon had probably had a good time too. No matter what era you talked about, she decided, men generally seemed to allow themselves less responsibility and more fun than women. Or was it simply that women took it all too seriously? That they didn’t allow themselves to have fun?
As she walked through the café, she saw a life-sized bronze statue of the famous writer propped up at a bar counter. Thinking of Ken’s clue, she took a few photos and then walked back towards the entrance, where she sat at a high table beside the doors that opened onto the plaza. She ordered a sparkling water and waited for Deira to show up.
She could imagine Ken here with his academic friends, knocking back glasses of wine and discussing the literary greats. He’d have topped every comment they made with an observation of his own, always trying to be smarter and cleverer than everyone else. Ken had been a man who considered himself educated and cultured, who knew what he was talking about and whose judgements were valuable. And indeed other people must have seen him the same way, otherwise he never would have been invited here for his lecture tour.
Why did he marry me? wondered Grace for at least the thousandth time since he’d died, and probably the millionth time in their entire relationship. Why, when I’m so shallow by comparison? He would have been better off with someone like Deira. Someone who understood the things he understood. Who liked the same books. Who was knowledgeable about art – Ken had maintained a keen interest in art as well as literature. He’d enjoyed opera too. The only piece of opera that Grace liked was the chorus ‘O Fortuna’, which had been used in a beer commercial.
‘Oops, sorry!’
The exclamation caused her to turn at the same time as a man with a glass of beer in his hand narrowly avoided a large group of people entering the café. His manoeuvre had caused him to bump into Grace’s table, sending her water sliding towards the edge. She put out a hand to stop it falling.
‘Good save,’ said the man. ‘Sorry again.’
‘No harm done,’ said Grace.
He looked at her and smiled. ‘Irish?’
She nodded. ‘We get everywhere.’
‘Indeed we do. Would you mind if I shared your table for a short while? I’m meeting someone later so I popped in for a drink beforehand. I didn’t realise it would be so busy this evening. It’s not usually crowded at this hour.’ He glanced around at the café, which was now almost full, and shook his head in puzzlement.
‘You’re welcome,’ said Grace. ‘Are you on holiday, or do you live here?’
‘I don’t live here, replied the man. ‘But I visit from time to time. My ex-wife is from Navarre.’
‘Oh.’ Grace gave him a polite smile, then took out her phone so that they didn’t need to share life stories. When she glanced up again, he’d done the same. She was suddenly aware that with his dark hair and five o’clock shadow, he was an attractive man. And then, as she put his age somewhere in his late thirties or early forties, she realised he could easily be her son.
Why do I have these random and probably inappropriate thoughts about perfect strangers? she asked herself as she switched her attention back to her phone and hoped that Deira would show up early. Is there something wrong with me?
Her prayers were answered five minutes later when she looked up again and saw Deira walk into the café. She raised her arm in greeting and Deira spotted her straight away.
‘Am I late?’ she asked.
‘I’m early.’ Grace was about to say something more when she realised that Deira was staring at the man sharing the table. Her expression was one of both surprise and recognition.
‘Hello again,’ said the man, who had looked up from his phone when Deira had arrived at the table. ‘We’ll have to stop meeting like this.’
‘You know each other?’ Grace was astonished.
‘Not exactly,’ said Deira. ‘We met on the ferry. And he . . . I’m sorry, I never asked your name,’ she said to him before turning back to Grace. ‘He was my knight in shining armour when I fell and bruised my ribs.’
‘It was nothing,’ said the man. ‘I hope you’re feeling better now.’
‘Much,’ replied Deira. ‘Thanks to Grace, really. She gave me the most brilliant gel. It seems I only meet the best people while travelling. But you two . . .’ She glanced from one to the other. ‘Are you old friends?’
The man shook his head and smiled. ‘Perhaps we should introduce ourselves properly. I’m Charlie Mulholland.’
The two women introduced themselves too, then Charlie asked if he could get them a drink.
‘I’ll get these,’ said Deira.
‘No, no. It’s my shout,’ he insisted.
‘Seriously, I owe you one,’ said Deira. ‘Grace too. What will you have?’
Charlie asked for another beer, while Grace stuck with sparkling water.
Deira went to the bar and ordered the drinks, choosing a wine for herself and also accepting the small dish of mixed nuts and olives the barman gave her.
‘So,’ she said when she’d settled at the table. ‘How come you’re here in Pamplona? I thought you were going to Paris.’
‘I did,’ said Charlie. ‘But my plans were thrown into a bit of a muddle, so I came here sooner than planned. I’m a documentary maker,’ he added when both women looked at him enquiringly. ‘My most recent was a series about EU citizens living and working in Ireland.’
‘Oh, I think I saw that!’ exclaimed Grace. ‘Was it the one where the Lithuanian woman bought a farm in Tipperary?’
‘Yes.’ He lo
oked pleased.
‘I loved that episode,’ said Grace. ‘And the one with the Polish guy who set up his own business. Very inspiring.’
‘Thanks,’ said Charlie.
Deira gave him an apologetic look and said that she didn’t watch much TV but she’d look for the series on catch-up later.
‘Don’t feel obliged,’ said Charlie.
‘No, I’m interested,’ Deira assured him. ‘So what are you doing now?’
‘That programme in reverse,’ replied Charlie. ‘Irish people living and working in the EU. I know the Irish abroad has been done a million times,’ he added quickly, ‘but I’m concentrating on people who’ve become an integral part of the life and culture. The reason for the Paris trip was to interview a woman with an intriguing personal life story who’s working for a prestigious publishing firm. Unfortunately she had to head to the Basque country for a family funeral and won’t be able to do it till later. However, I’d also set up an interview with an Irishman in Bordeaux, so I did that instead and then came on here to meet Amaya. She’s my ex-wife,’ he added. ‘I always visit when I’m here. I’ve a couple of interviews to do in Spain, so I’ll head back to Paris again after that.’
‘That sounds exhausting,’ said Grace. ‘We were in Bordeaux yesterday. We could just as easily have bumped into you there.’
‘Are you doing it all on your own?’ Deira asked. ‘Don’t you have a crew?’
He nodded. ‘My sound and film people have gone on ahead.’
‘I can’t believe you’re driving everywhere,’ said Grace.
‘Makes it easy for the more out-of-the-way locations,’ Charlie said. ‘Not everyone is living in a big city.’
‘Was the team on the ferry with you?’ asked Deira.
‘No. Dave and Lou flew to Paris and I picked them up there,’ replied Charlie. ‘They went straight to Madrid after the Bordeaux interview.’
‘It all sounds very glam,’ Deira said.
‘Not really.’ Charlie grinned. ‘But it beats being in an office.’
Everyone agreed that a job that included travelling beat being in an office. Grace told a couple of anecdotes about her airline days, while Deira said that although she was office-based, her job involved getting out a lot. When Charlie asked what she did and she told him, he looked surprised and told her that Amaya ran an art gallery.
‘Part of the reason I drove was to bring some paintings for her,’ he said. ‘She’s running an exhibition of painters from other countries. So I brought some she wanted from Ireland.’
‘Isn’t that amazing?’ Grace looked from Charlie to Deira. ‘Two Irish people with a common interest in art meet in a bar in Pamplona.’
Charlie smiled. ‘To be honest, I’m not much of an art buff,’ he confessed. ‘I only brought what Amaya wanted. Two artists – a man named Bernard Boyne and a woman called Jennifer Roache.’
‘Oh!’ Deira couldn’t help the exclamation. ‘I know Jennifer Roache. My very first exhibition included her aunt’s paintings. Thelma passed away a few years ago, but Jennifer is a great painter too, and her art was part of one of our later exhibitions.’
‘That’s unbelievable,’ said Grace. ‘Although maybe not really, because it doesn’t matter where you go, you’ll find an Irish person and they’ll always know someone you do.’
Charlie nodded. ‘Researching the documentary was like that,’ he said. ‘I don’t think there’s anyone we’re interviewing who doesn’t have at least a passing acquaintance with someone we already knew.’
‘You should visit the gallery, Deira,’ said Grace. ‘Check on your Irish artist’s work.’
‘I might.’
‘It’s not far from here,’ said Charlie. ‘Calle Cortez.’ He reached into his pocket and took out a business card, which he handed to her.
‘Amaya Saez Zubiri,’ she read. ‘Galería de Arte.’
‘The gallery is open until ten o’clock,’ said Charlie. ‘I’m sure you’d enjoy a visit.’
‘Your divorce must have been very amicable if you’re promoting your ex-wife and transporting paintings for her,’ remarked Deira.
‘Tough at first,’ Charlie said. ‘Amicable enough in the end. It’s partly what interested me in the whole thing about people living and working in different countries. Amaya was in Ireland when we met, but she wanted to come back here when her parents grew more infirm. I was doing well in Ireland and I didn’t want to move. When I did, I resented it. It’s my fault really that it didn’t work out. I didn’t give it a chance.’
‘Oh, but could you still?’ asked Grace.
Charlie shook his head. ‘Too much water under the bridge. She has a new man now anyhow.’
‘It all sounds so civilised.’ Deira picked up her phone as she spoke and checked for messages. There were none.
‘I’m probably making it sound better than it was,’ said Charlie.
‘Sorry.’ Deira put the phone down again. ‘I didn’t mean to make light of it. When did you divorce?’
‘Three years ago. It doesn’t seem that long, to be honest. Life goes by in a blur sometimes. And you miss things you didn’t know you’d miss. Like conversations about painters I’ve never heard of.’
‘Do you have children?’ asked Deira.
‘Amaya has a son from before we married,’ said Charlie. ‘Iñaki. He’s great. We keep in touch with FaceTime and stuff, but it’s not the same.’
Would you like a baby? A son of your own? Someone you could see all the time because you’d be in the same country? I could do that for you. You could do that for me. Deira didn’t say the words out loud, but she was thinking them.
She’d wondered on the ship if he could be the one. And now here he was sitting in front of her talking about children in a very upfront way. He knew what having a child entailed. Perhaps meeting him was meant to be. A real, proper sign. Surely Tillie would think so. She’d text her later and ask her opinion.
Grace could see that Deira had gone into a dream world of her own, but she could also see that there was a connection between her and Charlie. Enough to make sure they were on the same page as each other. Meanwhile, Grace herself was invisible to him. It wasn’t that she’d been thinking that anything could happen between her and Charlie, but she was aware that she’d been sidelined in the conversation, shunted out of the way, while he and Deira had almost naturally slid into an easy familiarity that excluded her.
‘I think I overdid it earlier.’ She drained her water. ‘I’m really sorry, but I need to go and lie down.’
‘Grace! Are you OK? Do you want me to go back to the hotel with you?’ Deira looked at her with concern.
‘No, I’m fine,’ said Grace. ‘I just need to be alone for a while.’ She picked up her bag.
‘Are you sure you don’t—’
‘I’m fine,’ repeated Grace. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow sometime.’
‘But what about the—’
She’d gone before Deira had time to finish the sentence.
Chapter 22
Pamplona, Spain: 42.8125°N 1.6458°W
Back at the hotel, Grace curled up in the comfortable armchair in her room. She felt silly now at having rushed from the café simply because she’d been upset by the mutual attraction she’d sensed between Deira and Charlie. She didn’t quite understand it. After all, she wasn’t seriously attracted to him herself. But the idea that she was too old to be noticed by a man was depressing. She didn’t want anyone new in her life, but nor did she want to think that she’d become the invisible woman. It was crushing to think that no matter how much care she took over her appearance, nobody – male or female – would take the slightest bit of notice, because she was now part of the army of older women who, at best, fell into the category of ‘looking good for her age’.
She reached for the laptop, opening the link to upload her photograph of Hemingway. At least, she thought, as she watched the progress bar creep along the screen, she’d solved this clue herself without any input from De
ira O’Brien. Grace was suddenly fed up with Deira and her ability to solve Ken’s clues so easily. Acknowledging that she was being irrational didn’t make her feel any better. She wished she hadn’t made her impetuous invitation to the younger woman to come along on the trip with her. She hardly knew her, for heaven’s sake. Why would she need her looking over her shoulder?
Photo is not a match.
She looked at the message in disbelief. How could it not be a match? It was Hemingway. And it was in a place he loved. It had to be right. Unless there was something wrong with that particular photo. She’d taken a few from different angles. Maybe a different one would work.
It was weird, she thought, her mind wandering back to the bar again as she browsed through the photos, that she should feel disconcerted in thinking Charlie Mulholland’s attention towards her had evaporated the moment Deira had walked into the Café Iruña. In her entire married life she’d never so much as looked at another man or wondered if a complete stranger might fancy her. She’d been married to Ken and that was enough. Except when Matthew McConaughey was on TV, and surely any woman would be given a pass for him!
She closed her eyes and tried to imagine Ken beside her now. It was hard to see him as he had been before his illness. Hard not to remember him as a weaker version of himself. He’d always been her rock. And if not always there for her, he had, at least, always been part of her life.
And yet here she was, thinking about another man. Not fantasising about him, not thinking inappropriately about him, but thinking about him all the same. And jealous (really, Grace, she said to herself, really?) that he seemed to have a closer rapport with Deira than with her.
The Women Who Ran Away: Will their secrets follow them? Page 20
