I smiled and prayed someday I would take that to heart.
A few beats of silence passed, that kind of comfortable air that happens when you’re riding in a car at night, only the sound of wheels on the dark highway and the soft glow of the dashboard lights.
“You know what we should do?” he eventually asked.
“What?”
“When we get back from Barcelona, we should have a party. Let’s invite everyone from Las Palabras, all the ones who live here or nearby.”
My smile nearly broke my face. “That is a fantastic idea!”
“I thought you would like it,” he said. He put his hand over mine and gave it a squeeze. “We deserve some fun and friends, no?”
That night we got home and tore each other’s clothes off, barely making it in through the door. I hoped I was able to show Mateo just how beautiful he made me feel.
Barcelona ended up being an absolute gem. First of all, I loved road trips, so the fact that Mateo and I were jetting through the Spanish countryside, stopping at wineries and olive farms and drinking and stuffing ourselves silly on everything that was overripe and decadent was amazing. Then the city of Barcelona itself managed to knock my boots off. The city was a maze of beauty, a mix of the quaint and the avante garde. Dali and Gaudi-esque architecture made me snap a million pictures, the narrow and unassuming side streets led us to hidden tapas bars and used bookstores, the busy street of Las Ramblas made me spend too many euros giving change to all the living statues that were lined up and down it.
Mateo’s apartment was as fantastic as I had imagined it back at Las Palabras. It was in a modern-looking high-rise overlooking a wide expanse of golden sand beach. With the balcony doors open, you could hear the aqua waves crashing at night and feel the ocean breezes during the day. The apartment was only a studio and it was furnished sparsely, looking more like a hotel room than anything. But it was absolutely exquisite nonetheless.
The day before we left, we packed up a picnic lunch—rose wine, meats and cheeses—and headed to the beach just in front of the apartment. It was a Monday and less crowded than the weekend, with only a few bronzed bodies lying about. I decided to do what I had been too scared to do all weekend long and that was to sunbathe topless.
I sat up on my beach towel and untied the back of my string bikini, my breasts coming free. I could see a bit of movement in Mateo’s board shorts, the ever-present erection.
“I approve of this,” he said, eying my breasts lustfully. They were so white in the glaring sunlight I was surprised he didn’t need shades. He could go blind staring at them for too long.
“I figured if you can’t beat them, join them,” I said, lying back down.
“Now this must be an American or Canadian phrase because no one should beat your breasts. Bite and lick them, yes, but only me.”
I shielded my eyes from the sun, looking up at him. “It is an expression. Meaning, everyone else on this beach is topless so I might as well be too.”
“Yes, might as well,” he said. “Too bad I don’t like it when men stare at you.”
I frowned. “I would think most men on this beach are used to seeing breasts.”
“Yes, but not your breasts. Your breasts are pale, Canadian breasts. They are special, beautiful, and very large.”
I let out a laugh. “Wow, you really are putting on the charm, aren’t you?”
He shrugged and ran his fingers over the shooting star on my chest. “The other girls on the beach aren’t marked the way you are. They are just topless women, but you are something amazing that no one but me should get to see.”
“I’m keeping my top off,” I told him. “And if we’re lucky, I won’t burn them to a crisp.”
He immediately picked up a tube of sunblock. “Then may I volunteer for the job?”
“Will you try and not have sex with me in public?”
“I promise nada.”
He smoothed the sunblock on my breasts and I did what I could to not be turned on. While we could go back to the apartment for another roll in the hay, I also wanted to soak up the sun’s rays while still possible—this was pretty much the last week or two of good weather. I was only a light golden color while Mateo was this rich bronze that bordered on mahogany. The Spaniards got dark over the summer.
When he started paying too much attention to my nipples, I swatted his hand away. Eventually he got the hint and rolled over onto his stomach, perhaps to keep his hard-on hidden from passerby. While women did go topless on the beaches here, it wasn’t seen as a sexual thing.
Eventually I got tired of lying around and getting sweaty, so we went into the surf, playing in the waves. I was still topless and finding the whole thing absolutely liberating. Yes, I got some looks because of my tattoos and such, but overall, no one really cared. The only time people really looked was when Mateo picked me up over his shoulder, strode out into the waves and unceremoniously dumped me into the water. I landed into the end-of-summer chill of the Mediterranean and flailed for a few shocking moments, shrieking, before he pulled me up, grinning. I tried to take him down too but I just wasn’t strong enough and fell into the water again.
Jerk.
We came out of the waves and he pulled me to him, kissing me hard, tasting like salt. Then he slapped me lightly on the ass and laughed. Barcelona Mateo was a bit of a deviant—I liked that.
The next day we pretty much did the same thing, except we headed out into the city to have our lunch at one of the small bars we had stumbled upon the other day in a pretty yellow courtyard. It was so fresh and new in Barcelona that I was oddly sad that we had to return to Madrid. I guess the sea air and mild breezes reminded me of home, plus there was the fact that the two of us could just be ourselves and wander around the city without a care.
That said, there was plenty to look forward to upon our return. When we arrived back in Madrid on Wednesday, the weather now cooler by a few degrees, I had the party that Friday night to plan for the Las Palabras folks. I had gotten in touch with Jerry, whom I didn’t realize actually lived in Madrid, and reached out to about twelve Spaniards on the list, telling them to bring their significant others or a friend. It felt good to have a mini reunion, and I started entertaining the idea that maybe I could get a job working for the Las Palabras office in Madrid. I know that Mateo had said he’d take care of me and everything, but since I wasn’t going to school, I would eventually need to do something. And while I had planned to immerse myself in Spanish, I wasn’t going to be fluent for a really long time. I needed something to occupy my days and make me feel like I was contributing to the relationship and our way of life, even if in such a small way.
It was Thursday night when I was settling down on the couch with Mateo, a big fluffy blanket wrapped around us, glasses of red wine in our hands, when I got a call from Claudia. I eyed the time and thought that ten o’clock was unusually late for a call from her; then again the party was tomorrow and perhaps she wanted to know what to bring.
“Hello?” I asked.
“Vera?” she said, her voice sounding odd, kind of panicked. It made my heart skip forward in time.
“Yes? Claudia, are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” she said with a note of unease. A pregnant pause followed. “Have you seen the latest issue of Diez Minutos? It just came out today.”
“No,” I said carefully. Mateo was staring at me inquisitively but I could only shrug. I turned my attention back to the phone. “Why?”
“Um,” she said. “I’m not sure if it will be on the online version or not. But perhaps you want to go to the store and get a copy for yourself, to see. There is a…there is a picture of you in it.”
My heart came to a screeching halt. “What?” I asked, voice hard.
Now Mateo was sitting up, trying to get my attention, to figure out what was going on. But even I couldn’t figure it out because what Claudia had just said made no sense at all.
“How could I be in it?” I asked carefully.
“You just are,” she said. “On page eight. It, um, it’s a picture of you. The paparazzi took it.”
“What?!”
“You’re in Barcelona, on the beach. You’re topless in the pictures.”
I gasped loud enough to shake the walls. I shot up straight to my feet, hand to my mouth, the phone nearly dropping out of my hands. “How can that be?”
“I don’t know,” Claudia said, sounding desperate. “They often take pictures of celebrities on the beach. Your, um, nipples are blocked out. But it is you. Three pictures in a row. In one you are kissing Mateo. The other he is carrying you on his shoulder. The other he is slapping your behind. Vera, these were all about Mateo. And now they are about you.”
I couldn’t even breathe. I let the phone slip through my fingers, thudding to the floor. I pushed past Mateo, grabbed my house keys and a ten euro note from the change bowl on the counter, and ran out the door. It didn’t matter that I was barefoot and in pajama pants and a t-shirt, I was running down the stairwell, through the lobby and out into the dark of night.
The nearest convenience store was open late and just a block away—perfect for when you needed coffee, toilet paper, eggs, or a gossip magazine. The bell above the door rang as I pushed myself into the fluorescent lights, my bare feet slapping on the sticky floor. I didn’t care and I didn’t have to search for long. There it was, propped up below the counter, beside the newspaper and the candy bars.
I snatched it up, trying my hardest not to flip through the pages, and bought it. And by buying it, I mean I slapped the ten euro note on the counter, and without meeting the clerk’s eyes, I left it there and ran out of the store with the magazine.
I made it about half a block when I decided to break down and flip through it, but I saw the shadowy figure of Mateo leaving the apartment building and heading straight to me. “Vera,” I heard him call after me, but I was on a mission.
Under the orange glow of the streetlights, I flipped to page eight.
And there I fucking was.
Chapter 26
It was just as Claudia had described. Though the pictures were grainy, I looked as pale as a ghost next to Mateo, and slightly white trash when you factored in my tattoos and the fact that I was topless. You could even make out a bit of cellulite on my upper thigh.
This was a nightmare come true.
“What is wrong, Vera?” Mateo demanded when he caught up with me. “You’re not wearing shoes. Let’s get you back inside.”
He tried to put his arm around me to usher me back home, but he looked down and saw what I had gone loco over. It was just as well since I was too much in shock to explain anything.
He swore in Spanish and ripped the magazine from my hands. I was almost too much in horror and disbelief to pay attention to how he was feeling about the whole thing, but I couldn’t help but notice his face. I’d never see him so mad, ever. Even under the unnatural glow of the streetlamps, his face was turning dark red, his jaw so tense it really seemed he might bite someone’s head off. The magazine began to crumple in his hand.
I reached out and put my hand on top of his. “Wait. What does it say?”
He couldn’t even look at me.
“Mateo,” I said desperately. “Please. What does the article say?” When he still wouldn’t answer, wouldn’t break that trance he had seemed to go into, I yelled, “Please! It’s about me, I have a right to fucking know!”
Finally he blinked and turned his head to stare down at me, a strain of softness in his hard eyes. He swallowed and said absently, “It says…it says that I have been photographed on the Barcelona beach with someone who is not my wife. It says that we were spending a few days in the city and they are wondering if Isabel and I are getting a divorce. They added, if not, we will be after this. They didn’t mention Chloe Ann, thank god.”
“Is that all they said about me?” I asked. “That I was just someone that is not your wife?”
He stared at me, worried.
“Mateo,” I said, “I have a right to know. I can handle it. If you don’t tell me what it says, I’m just going to find it online and Google translate it.”
He still stared at me, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed.
“Fine!” I said, and I turned and ran across the empty road over to the apartment. I was sure Mateo would have yelled at me to stop, but he was still standing there, staring at nothing, the magazine in his hand. He had gone catatonic with rage.
If it had been anything else, I would have stayed and helped him, brought him inside. But this involved me too much and I hated being lied to.
I burst into the apartment and opened up the laptop on the coffee table. I did a quick search for Diez Minutos and started clicking through the magazine, searching and searching until I searched for Mateo Casalles.
There it was, the first story to pop up, the picture of Mateo slapping my jiggly ass. And the way the search engine displayed the results, the story underneath it was the one I had read back in Las Palabras, the one of him and Isabel at the restaurant.
I breathed in deeply, my eyes flitting between the two stories, me with my tits hanging out, the skimpy bikini I got from H&M, all pale skin, wild hair and ink, playing in the surf with a man fifteen years older than her. Then there was Isabel with her elegant short blonde hair, mature yet beautiful face, classy dress, hand in hand with her sharp-dressed husband. I knew exactly how it looked, and therefore knew exactly how this would play out. I didn’t even need Google translate for that. I was the trashy young thing on the side. The homewrecking slut who broke up a marriage between an ex-football star and semi-royalty, leaving their younger daughter in the wake.
I was worse than the other woman. I was Jezebel, waiting to be thrown to the dogs.
I knew right there that we were doomed. We always had been.
The worst part was that this whole paparazzi thing caught me unaware. It wasn’t like Mateo was being called for interviews or had photographers normally following him around or fans outside his door. To me he was just Mateo, not this ex-football star, so I never even thought about any of that in our day to day lives. Only occasionally would something remind me of it, say a clip of the Atletico team on TV or on rainy days when Mateo walked with a slight limp. Otherwise, I had lived in a bubble, totally unaware that he was someone really important.
I sighed in frustration and steeled myself against what I was about to read. I clicked on the article about us and hit Google Translate up on the top.
It turned out that what Mateo said was more or less true. He just left out a whole bunch about me. Mainly, that I wasn’t just “some other woman,” but according to Google translate, a wanton young girl who seemed a very unlikely match for someone as respected as Mateo Casalles. They also added there probably wouldn’t be much respect for Mateo after this, though what older man hasn’t thought about having a mistress half their age.
These fucking magazines were just as bad as the ones back home. And though I sympathized with celebrities with the way they were treated on gossip sites, I still read the stories eagerly. I never in a million years thought I would be the subject of one of them.
The thing is, I wasn’t sure how many people in the country cared what an ex-football star got up to, but this magazine apparently did. Shit was about to hit the fan in a major way, if it hadn’t already, and I had no idea what to do to prepare for it. I was not only humiliated and embarrassed but goddamn terrified of what this would do to Mateo and I. I felt like my heart was receiving tiny fractures that would one day lead to a break.
Eventually, Mateo came back into the apartment. I turned away from the computer, numb to the core, and eyed him warily. The magazine was gone, probably in the trash somewhere, where it belonged. He looked as terrible as I felt, though it seemed the anger that had overwhelmed him had left and now he just looked lost and defeated.
“Vera,” he said, his voice hoarse, as he slowly came toward me. He dropped to his knees right in front of me, l
acing his fingers with mine. He rested his head on my thighs for a few moments, eyes pinched together, breathing in and breathing out. He looked so small at my feet, so meek. It unnerved me deep inside, making me feel unstable.
He raised his head and his brow was wrought with sorrow. “I am so sorry, Vera,” he said softly. “You have no idea how sorry I am.” The way his voice cracked made my soul ache.
I gripped his hand tight. “It’s not your fault.”
“Yes it is,” he said. “I asked you to be a part of this.”
“You didn’t ask me to be a part of this,” I told him adamantly.
“Yes, I did. I wanted you to be a part of my life. I wanted…you. I never thought about the consequences, how they would affect you. I didn’t think much about anything. I was so caught up in finally having you, here in my life, by my side. I didn’t think.” He kissed my hand and gazed up at me. “I’m still not thinking. Vera, you make me mad, you make me crazy.” He shut his eyes again and spoke, his lips brushing my fingers. “Love is like a thief, it robs you of all thought and logic, and all you have left is a heart that you can only pray is strong enough to survive the rest.”
Goddamn it, even in the face of all this scrutiny, his passion never wavered.
“Please don’t leave me,” he said quietly, his eyes imploring mine.
Something inside me crumbled. “Why would I leave you?”
“Because,” he said slowly. “I can see it in your eyes. That you’re afraid.”
“I’ve always been afraid, Mateo,” I said. “From the very moment I met you, I’ve been afraid. But it doesn’t mean I’m leaving.”
“This isn’t fair to you,” he said, as if not hearing me. “I thought we were safe in Barcelona. I didn’t think anyone would notice or care. I was wrong because I didn’t think and that mistake has cost us dearly.”
I sighed and stared down at our hands. Just how dearly was this going to cost us? Isabel was going to find out now, his friends would know. What he tried to keep hidden—me—that was all going to be in the open now. It wasn’t just Mateo’s fault, it was mine too. I had known we had to lay low for a little bit longer, that we had pushed our luck already, that it was only a matter of time. I had just hoped and prayed that when we were found out, that it would happen after he was granted joint custody, after he had his rights to see his daughter.
Keep This Promise Page 82
