‘It’s the only time I can meet Mel,’ she told him.
‘It’s not like you have that much time left with me,’ he said.
‘I’ll give you all my time later,’ she promised as she dropped a kiss on his head before going out.
But there hadn’t been any later.
And she was to blame for that.
When Deira returned from the restroom, she could see that Grace’s eyes were closed. She didn’t want to get into the car and disturb her, so she sat on one of the wooden benches set in the grassy patch outside the services building.
A young woman in a brightly coloured hijab sat at another bench, a few metres away. She was joined by a couple of other women, and the sound of their laughter carried on the still air. Deira envied them, thinking that her own laughter over the last few months had been joyless and cynical. She wished she could rediscover the fun in life, the things that would make her laugh without inhibition.
Was it a consequence of getting older? she wondered. Or was it simply that she’d lost the capacity to find joy in anything?
The door of the Lexus opened and she saw Grace walking over to her.
‘Are you all right?’ asked the older woman.
‘Yes.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Grace. ‘I might have been a bit out of order.’
‘It’s fine,’ Deira said. ‘I’m not at my best right now.’
‘Are you coming with me?’
‘I certainly don’t want to be abandoned at a service station.’
‘Let’s go, so,’ said Grace.
Deira got up and followed her.
They continued the journey in silence.
Chapter 24
Alcalá de Henares, Spain: 40.4820°N 3.3635°W
An hour later, Grace drove them into Alcalá de Henares, an old town of such stunning architectural beauty that both women were awestruck.
‘Clearly all these buildings have been renovated.’ Deira broke the silence as they followed the signs to the underground car park a few minutes’ walk from their hotel. ‘But they’re spectacular.’
They were even more spectacular close up. The two women pulled their cases along a narrow street of old buildings with iron-grilled windows and enormous wooden doors. The pavement was lined on either side with tall cypress trees and pretty flowers.
‘That’s the university.’ Grace observed the brick sign on one of the buildings. ‘Our hotel is a couple of metres past it.’
And it was – another old building with a renovated facade and a glass door that said ‘Hotel Santa Ana’.
‘I wonder if Santa Ana knew the two nuns in the professor’s clue,’ said Deira. ‘Maybe they were all mates, but she was the one who behaved herself and was made a saint.’
‘Let’s not rule it out.’ Grace pushed the door open.
It took a moment for their eyes to adjust to the dimly lit interior after the brightness of the street, but both of them immediately felt the pleasant coolness from the fountain in the centre of the octagonal reception area, which was two storeys high. An internal walkway ran around the irregular brick walls, with small corridors leading in various directions at ground level. There was a staircase close to one of the corridors, along with a small desk.
A door opened and a man in a dark suit asked if he could help them. Grace told him that she and Deira had reservations for the night. After checking the computer, the receptionist told them, in a tone of regret, that he hadn’t been able to allocate them rooms beside each other as Grace’s had been reserved earlier than Deira’s, and the hotel was full that night.
He asked Deira to wait at the desk while he led Grace along a long corridor into another internal courtyard set with flagstones and gravel. He opened an old-fashioned wooden door and turned on the lights as they went into the room, because it faced directly onto the courtyard, which was its only source of natural light. It was small but beautifully decorated with dark-wood furnishings and an elegant four-poster bed. In contrast to the old-world look of the room itself, the bathroom was modern, sleek and elegantly functional.
When he was sure that Grace had everything she needed, the receptionist returned to the reception area to bring Deira to her room on the first floor. This was smaller but equally well furnished, although unlike Grace’s, the window overlooked a narrow street behind the hotel.
Deira pottered around the room for a short while before texting Grace to ask if she wanted to meet up and search for the Cervantes statue. She wasn’t sure what the relationship between them was like right now. Grace had been kind at the service station, but Deira knew she still disapproved of the suggestion to stop off at El Pozo de la Señora. Deira hadn’t made up her mind if she wanted to try to get there herself, stay on the treasure hunt with Grace, or leave her here in Alcalá de Henares and go to Madrid for a flight home. She was going to have to face up to Gavin sooner or later. Perhaps sooner was the better option.
Her phone pinged. Grace’s reply was that she was going to have a short siesta and she’d text Deira again later.
Deira was far too restless to even think of a siesta herself, so she went downstairs and walked outside, blinking in the bright sunshine. She strolled along the cypress-lined road without any real destination in mind and eventually ended up in a large park filled with flowering shrubs and trees.
Sitting once again in the shade of a tree, she suddenly had the feeling of being outside of her own body, of looking down at herself and wondering how on earth she’d ended up here, in a place she didn’t know with a person she didn’t know when she should have been in Brittany with the love of her life. How was it that in the space of a few weeks, everything had changed so utterly? And how was it that, having loved and been loved by Gavin Boyer, she now felt nothing but rage towards him, as, she supposed, he also felt towards her?
She took a few photos and sent them to Tillie. Her friend had texted every day asking how things were going, and even when she’d had to tell her about the car, Deira’s replies had been uniformly upbeat. But right now, despite the heat of the sun and the beauty of the park and the fact that she should be feeling fine, her sense of disconnection was huge.
Out-of-the-world place, she added to one of the pictures. I feel as though I’m lucky to be here.
Tillie’s message came back immediately.
Live in the moment. Be in touch with yourself.
Easy to say, thought Deira. Not quite so easy to do.
Her phone buzzed again. This time it was a message from Bex.
Hi, Deira. There’s a bit of an issue at your house. I’ve been out since early this morning but I’ve come back now and Gavin is here.
Have you talked to him?
Yeah. I asked what he was doing and he said he’s taking his stuff.
Is he still there?
Yes.
Are you there too?
I’m outside. I didn’t want to annoy him. Lydia is with me.
I’ll call him. Don’t worry.
Deira took a deep breath, then scrolled to Gavin’s number.
Grace felt remarkably refreshed when she woke from her siesta. She’d fallen asleep almost as soon as she’d stretched out on the bed, and that sleep had again been deep and undisturbed. She appreciated it very much, as so many of her nights had been broken by images of being trapped in the car with Ken as it sank beneath the water. Even when she was awake she still imagined what it had been like for him; if, as the water had poured into the car, he’d changed his mind and been unable to do anything about it. Had he been scared? Or resigned? Had he been thinking about her and what would happen next? Or had he simply been relieved that it was nothing to do with him any more?
Grace had been grateful for the verdict of misadventure when it came. It made her feel better that other people would believe it.
But she had her husband’s laptop and his final email.
And she knew that it wasn’t the truth.
There was no immediate reply to the text she sent Deira a
sking where they should meet, so Grace wandered towards the Cervantes plaza. As she approached, she saw the younger woman standing in the shade of a tree, engrossed in a phone conversation. She stopped a short distance away to give her some privacy but Deira’s words were carried to her by the soft breeze.
‘I know we haven’t come to any formal arrangement yet,’ she was saying. ‘I understand that. But it’s not right that you should simply walk into the house when—’
There was a long silence, and then Deira spoke again.
‘Yes, I also know that my bloody family taking up residence there at the drop of a hat is a problem. You told me that often enough. But you can’t blame what you did on Bex and Gillian!’
A further pause.
‘Take what you like. I don’t care. I’ll deduct it from the insurance money.’
And with that, Deira ended the call and shoved her phone in her bag. By the time Grace got to her, it was ringing again.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I’ll have to answer it.’
‘Of course.’
Deira stepped away slightly and took the call. ‘What?’ she said.
‘Don’t hang up on me when I’m speaking to you,’ said Gavin. ‘God Almighty, Deira, you’ve turned into the worst sort of bitchy woman. The sort of woman we always despised.’
‘That you despised, for sure,’ she retorted. ‘And if I did, then I regret it. Because if a woman is being bitchy, she usually has a reason. In my case, it’s you.’
‘You have to be reasonable,’ he said. ‘I’m entitled—’
‘I don’t give a toss about your entitlements,’ she said. ‘Take what you want from the house – but not my coffee machine. And don’t upset Bex and her friend either.’
‘You can’t keep the money from the car insurance,’ said Gavin. ‘I need a car. Afton could go into labour at any minute.’
‘You’ve forgotten everything you ever knew about pregnancy,’ said Deira. ‘She’s nowhere near due yet. Unless you lied to me about that too.’
‘No. I didn’t. But the stress—’
‘Give me a break!’ Deira snorted. ‘She’s not under any stress.’
‘Of course she is. It’s her first baby.’
Deira gritted her teeth. ‘Take your stuff, go, and don’t come back,’ she said. ‘I’ll send you the name of my solicitor. It’s time to put this on a more formal footing.’
‘We don’t need solicitors,’ said Gavin. ‘We need to be mature.’
‘Oh, please.’ She snorted again. ‘I’ll text you the details.’
And she hung up again.
‘Things a bit fraught?’ asked Grace when Deira walked back to her.
‘He’s taking bits and pieces from the house while my niece is there,’ Deira said. ‘I feel bad about that. I don’t want her caught in the middle of my domestic dispute.’
Her phone buzzed again as she and Grace began to walk through the plaza, this time with a message from Bex saying that Gavin was gone and asking if she could go back into the house.
Of course, replied Deira. I’m sorry he caused you problems. She added a couple of sad-faced emojis. Bex replied with some of her own, telling her that Gavin appeared to have taken the elegant slimline kettle, the Victorinox kitchen knives, the Bose wireless speakers, the flat-screen TV in the bedroom and the abstract painting that had hung in the living room. Other small things too, she added. But they’re the big bits.
‘It’s not too bad,’ remarked Deira. ‘At least he did as I asked and left me the coffee machine! I’m not impressed with him taking the painting; it was by an artist I exhibited years ago, and I’m sure he took it out of spite. But the rest can be easily replaced. Besides,’ she continued, ‘I never used those knives. I’m not a great cook. All in all, I’m happy that particular drama is over.’
‘I wonder if there are people who never have any dramas or worries in their lives,’ mused Grace.
‘Realistically not,’ replied Deira. ‘Although Tillie does seem to float through hers, only fleetingly having anything to worry about. It might be a state of mind, but I can’t help thinking that she was born under a lucky star.’
‘My mum told me I was,’ said Grace. ‘Born under a lucky star, I mean. After all, I got into the airline when it was a well-paid, glamorous job. I met a guy who provided well for me. I have three great children.’
‘But then your husband became ill and died.’
‘We all die,’ said Grace.
Deira was startled.
‘I was thinking about him earlier,’ Grace said. ‘I don’t want to now. Will we look for the statue?’
‘We don’t have to look far.’ Deira pointed to the centre of the plaza. ‘The man himself.’
‘Except it’s not a photo of Cervantes we want,’ said Grace.
‘Huh?’
‘I read the clue again before I came out,’ she said. ‘Ken wants us to upload a picture of his most famous character. That’s what it says.’
‘You’re right.’ Deira gave her head an annoyed shake. ‘I was rushing into things. There must be a statue of Don Quixote somewhere in the town.’
‘In that case, let’s find it,’ said Grace.
They walked to the end of the plaza, where they turned onto a pedestrianised street of traditional family-owned shops. Despite Grace’s desire to solve the clue as quickly as possible, she was distracted by displays of organic soaps and skincare, home-made ice cream and artisan jewellery, as well as tourist shops with any number of T-shirts, caps and bags emblazoned with images of either Cervantes or Don Quixote. Much to their bemusement, there were also lots of items embossed with images of storks, as well as figures of the birds themselves in a variety of materials.
‘Storks weren’t a big part of Don Quixote, were they?’ asked Grace as she replaced a pewter version on a shelf and instead decided to buy a Cervantes snow globe for her grandson, to go along with the soap and pretty necklace she’d already bought for Aline.
‘Not that I remember,’ replied Deira. ‘Then again, I read it in my second year of college and I might have forgotten a stork incident.’
They continued weaving in and out of shops until they reached the end of the street, where clusters of people were gathered outside a restored house. It had the same light-red and cream brickwork as all the other buildings in the town, with the same terracotta roof, and there was a small flowered garden in front. More importantly, from their point of view, a sign informed them that it was the Cervantes Museum, and outside was a bronze bench where the tourists were snapping photos of themselves sitting between sculptures of Don Quixote and his sidekick, Sancho Panza.
‘Bingo.’ Deira’s mood lifted. ‘I’m glad you read the clue properly, Grace. It would’ve been infuriating to have missed this.’
‘Now all we have to do is wait till we can get a photo of him without a million other people,’ said Grace.
It was a long wait. But eventually she managed to take a picture of Quixote. Then she asked Deira to take one of her sitting beside him, to send to her children.
‘Do you want one of both of you?’ asked an English tourist, waiting for her own opportunity to take a snap.
‘Do we?’ Grace looked at Deira.
Deira nodded, and they sat together on the bronze bench.
‘Another one for the children,’ said Grace.
‘You’re in touch with them every single day?’
‘They worry about me,’ Grace said. ‘Sending the photos keeps them happy. All this concern will pass in time, but they honestly don’t need to fret, because I’m absolutely fine.’
‘Makes two of us,’ said Deira as she stood up and brushed dust off the denim skirt she was wearing.
Although she only half believed it.
Chapter 25
Alcalá de Henares, Spain: 40.4820°N 3.3635°W
Even though her annoyance with Grace hadn’t completely dissipated, and she was still furious with Gavin, there was something about the atmosphere of Alcalá de Henare
s that soothed Deira in a way that Pamplona hadn’t. The beautifully restored buildings – the monasteries, convents, churches and universities – seemed to reconnect her to the old books and paintings she’d always loved, evoking a different, slower way of life. And a way of life in which you didn’t automatically think you were entitled to everything you wanted. The thought came to her as she and Grace strolled silently through the streets. Back in the time of Cervantes, there was little talk about your entitlement to happiness. It was all about surviving. Surviving life, surviving unhappy arranged marriages, surviving multiple pregnancies, surviving being a husband’s possession. She wouldn’t have had a choice not to get married or have children, she thought. The only way of avoiding it would have been to become a nun. And that wouldn’t have been the sort of life that would have led to personal fulfilment.
She remembered a book she’d read back in her college days (and college was something else that wouldn’t have been a choice for her in the sixteenth century, she reminded herself). It had been about a woman who’d become a nun and gone mad. Many of the nuns in the convent had practised ‘self-mortification’, which meant beating themselves with ropes and chains. Their wounds had turned septic and the women themselves – all younger than Deira was now – had suffered terribly. Some had claimed to see angels and saints around their beds; many had attested to visitations by God or the Virgin Mary. As Deira had read the book, she’d realised that the nuns were hallucinating – either from the pain of their injuries or from the special ‘draughts’ they were given to drink. She couldn’t help thinking of those women now, many of whom had been sent away for a variety of family reasons, including not having husbands. She realised that however difficult life was for her, it was a million times better than either being married off or being shut up in a convent.
The Women Who Ran Away: Will their secrets follow them? Page 23
