The Fault

by Kitty Sewell

  ‘He’s a mouthy punk with delusions of grandeur,’ Downing protested. ‘How old is he anyway?’

  ‘Just turned thirty-six. No offence, James, but did you look at this guy’s CV? He’s already picked up two awards for the Starfish Development in Dubai, and that article I sent you… he designed the concrete-encased polyfoam islands using plastic waste, long before plastic waste got a bad name. They’re churning them out in China as we speak. Personally, I believe Sebastian Luna is a bit of a prodigy. With this project under his belt he could well be the leading light of the civil engineering world.’

  A reddish bloom spread over James Downing’s sallow cheeks. He picked up the glossy brochure that had been hastily put together for the meeting and tossed it towards the centre of the table. ‘It’ll cost upward of four million to do the environmental, marine and engineering studies. There are a whole host of other considerations – not least political – quite apart from the fact that I don’t think you can build such a structure.’

  Saunders sighed with thinly disguised forbearance. ‘Look, we know Gibraltar have had several tenders for something to replace the failed Eastside project, and I’ve gauged that they’re gung-ho to see something truly unique. So the outline planning could be had within a month or two. The latest land reclamation in progress on the Rock has surpassed a billion already, and they’ve run into all sorts of trouble. If Luna is right, we could do this for a fraction of the cost.’ He touched his laptop and an image filled the wall behind him. Someone drew breath. The towering rock that was Gibraltar never failed to stir. ‘The actual site looks straight out over the Med, with the Spanish coast on one side and the Moroccan on the other. So far nobody has considered developing there.’ Saunders directed the pointer to the precipitous south-east side of the crag. ‘Here the cliff plunges straight into the sea. People have never looked at this bit of the coast: the cliff is simply too sheer for any kind of conventional land reclamation. It’s also dotted with caves at water level, but Luna has come up with strategies to have them incorporated in a way which will creatively enhance the development.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘Sir Anthony loves the concept. If we at SeaChange International – together with the Goodbard Group as architects of this glittering new development…’ Saunders let his gaze sweep around the table. ‘We’ll be fruitfully employed for the next few years. And no doubt beyond.’

  ‘Christ!’ exclaimed Downing. ‘Luna isn’t the only one around here who thinks he’s God.’

  Saunders narrowed his eyes but didn’t acknowledge the insult. ‘The Spaniards are making a lot of noise, claiming the seabed belongs to Spain. But what our good Mr. Luna proposes won’t touch the seabed.’ Saunders paused and lowered his voice. ‘A titanic tide-proof cantilevered shelf…it’s so fucking brilliant it takes your breath away.’

  His words hovered over the massive table for a full minute, until Bethan Williams tapped her water glass loudly with a pen.

  ‘I’m being politically incorrect here, but Mr. Luna seems a bit big for his boots, for someone so young. We know what he’s accomplished, but what do we know of his personal situation?’

  Saunders looked at some notes in the pile before him. ‘His criminal record check and sickness record are in order, clean bill of health apart from occasional crippling migraines. I had a word with Ian Smith who worked closely with him in Dubai. Outside of his obsession with changing the face of the earth, it seems he’s a bit of a loner. A workaholic and an insomniac, according to Smith. Met an American diving instructor in Dubai with whom he co-habited. Apparently, she’s got to be part of the package.’ Saunders lowered his voice a little. ‘Off the record, I was told he had a lot to juggle during his postgraduate studies and early career. The parents were divorced and the mother dumped a much younger sister on him, so our man had a lot on throughout his time at Imperial College. Smith reckons the girl is a bit of a tearaway. She came for a holiday in Dubai and Luna was pretty frantic about her, apparently.’

  ‘Aww, well,’ said Bethan Williams softly, ‘sounds human enough.’

  ‘He’s already got a connection with Gibraltar, a forefather on his mother’s side fought in the battle of Trafalgar and was buried in Gibraltar. His father, though a British citizen, was born in Seville, and Sebastian’s a fluent Spanish speaker. That might just be very helpful in Gib. Some of the bigwigs are of Spanish ancestry, and who knows what Gib’s future is in relation to Spain.’

  ‘I like him,’ Bethan Williams declared.

  ‘A shelf!’ growled James Downing. ‘What next?’

  ‘I don’t know about you people, but I think we need this man and his brainchild on board,’ said Saunders, pointedly ignoring his ageing nemesis. ‘Are we really going to hand him over to our competitors?’

  After a brief silence he looked around at his colleagues. ‘So…are we ready to take a vote?’

  Sebastian was in his element when talking to any gathering – conference, symposium or seminar – it was small talk he struggled with. While he sat and waited for the meeting to conclude, he kept quiet so as not to attract Miss Norton’s attention. He simply wouldn’t know what to say to her and felt bad about it. She had neither youth not beauty to trade on, but he was always alert to that quality of decency and kindness in people who otherwise seemed unremarkable, and yearned to connect to it in some way. Miss Norton’s mean cappuccino machine had ground, clicked, pumped, gurgled and fizzed out a frothy concoction that had been cooling in his hands for the last twenty minutes. The doctor had told him – in a long list of measures to combat insomnia – that coffee was a total no-no. Sebastian leaned forward and quietly put the cup on the coffee table in front of him.

  ‘Can I get you something else?’ said Miss Norton, poking her head out from behind her computer screen.

  ‘Oh, no. Thank you. This is lovely.’

  ‘Can I get you a magazine or something?’

  ‘Oh, no, thanks. I’m too nervous to read.’ He didn’t know why he’d said it, because he wasn’t a bit nervous. Jittery yes, but high as a kite.

  She nodded. ‘Trust me, I know exactly what it feels like. Not so long ago I was sitting in your chair, up against three other PAs, and they were all a whole lot younger and prettier than me.’

  He smiled at her. ‘Good on Mr. Saunders. He knew what he was doing.’

  She blushed slightly. ‘Maturity and experience still have their place, thank God.’ She hesitated. ‘But you, Mr. Luna, have nothing to worry about. I read all about you on the internet. The world is your oyster, as they say.’

  ‘Call me Sebastian, please.’ He indicated the boardroom with a toss of the head. ‘I only lied about one thing. I’m not a team player, I’ll have everything my own way.’ She peered at him, clearly suppressing a smile. ‘Don’t take any notice of what I say,’ he said, biting his lip. ‘Modesty isn’t my strong point.’

  ‘No,’ she said with emphasis. ‘You should believe in yourself. Us Brits are far too reticent. We’d get nowhere in America with our misplaced modesty.’

  ‘You think so? Eva, my fiancée, would argue that point. She’s always on at me to pipe down and not be so cocksure of myself. She is the font of all wisdom.’ On impulse he jumped up and drew from his back pocket a slightly concave photo. ‘This is her,’ he said, dashing over to Miss Norton’s desk.

  ‘Ah,’ she said, peering at the well-worn image. ‘Gorgeous girl.’

  She was right, Eva had not at all the look of a wise woman. Embarrassed, he slipped the photo back into his pocket and retreated to his chair.

  Another ten minutes passed before Miss Norton’s phone chimed.

  ‘Yes, Mr. Saunders. I’ll tell him.’ She nodded to Sebastian. ‘You go on back in there, young man, and be a good team player.’

  Sebastian stood up, brushed some flecks off his jacket, bowed to Miss Norton and opened the door. Once inside the boardroom, he paused and looked at the men and women around the table. The lovely lady with the soft Welsh accent smiled broadly at him. Trust a woman
to give the game away.

  I am the creator, he whispered to himself.

  The Rock Hotel, Gibraltar

  Sebastian lay sprawled on the bed, naked, sweating copiously and absolutely still. Eva’s black T-shirt covered his whole face. He couldn’t tolerate any light whatsoever, and yellow industrial-issue earplugs kept out almost all noise. Eva had left him to ride it out alone, having hung the ‘do not disturb’ sign on the door knob.

  Gradually he began to take notice of the faint odour of sweat on the T-shirt mingled with the scent of her favourite body lotion. This awakening of his senses was the first sign of relief, yet he would not allow himself any concrete thoughts. If he began thinking, work would seep in, structures would want to intrude behind his closed eyes and the pain could come crashing back like a lorry load of bricks. He focused on the faint nuances of womanly aromas, and moment by moment he began to return to himself.

  He pulled away the T-shirt and took a deep breath. Gingerly he unplugged one ear and bunched the pillow around his head. Through the pillow he could still hear a clash of sounds. Two cleaning ladies in the next room produced a steady stream of giggly chatter, interrupted only by the shifting of heavy furniture and an occasional burst of a vacuum cleaner. Gulls squawked gleefully as they swooped past the balcony doors. He could have sworn they did this on purpose. Gulls were smart, they teased dogs, he’d seen it himself. Worst was the intermittent screech of those damned kamikaze mopeds that every teenager in Gibraltar had his or her arse glued to. But the noises no longer seemed like hammer blows to his head, a reliable sign of recovery. For a moment he drifted off.

  An insistent noise jerked him out of his slumber. It came from a phone somewhere across the room. Annoyed, he dragged himself out of bed.

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Mr. Luna?’

  ‘Speaking!’

  ‘Good morning. I’m Stephen Stagnetto, the rental agent.’

  ‘Oh, yes, hello. My fiancée has gone across the frontier this morning. I’ll tell her you called.’

  ‘Ah, but Mr. Luna, just a moment of your time. Nothing I have shown Ms. Eriksson so far seems to suit and I fear I’m in danger of losing you to some other agent.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but…’

  ‘The reason I’m calling this morning,’ Mr. Stagnetto cut in, ‘is because I’ve just been appointed to administer something that might just interest you, something quite special that no-one else will have on their books.’

  Sebastian frowned. He knew a sales pitch when he heard one, or perhaps this was the sort of man who thought dealing with the little woman was a waste of time. ‘My fiancée and my sister are the people you want to rent it to, Mr. Stagnetto. I’ll tell…’

  ‘Mr. Luna,’ the man interjected again. ‘I’m told you insist on something with space and character. Now this would definitely meet the criteria. The building was constructed in the 1700s as a retreat for Irish nuns. The apartment is huge, near enough three hundred square metres. Apparently, it was also the visiting Bishops’ sanctuary.’

  Sebastian hesitated. He and Eva had looked at a few ‘luxury’ apartments in sterile new developments, but all that white and floor-to-ceiling glass didn’t fool him. In this tiny colony where space was finite, all new builds were cramped.

  ‘I don’t drive,’ he said, irritated with himself for confessing it so readily. ‘Where is it?’

  ‘As it happens, the upper town is best accessed on foot. I’ve not actually inspected the apartment yet but I’m just on my way up there now. Providing it’s in habitable condition, I’ll send someone up to give it a clean and then perhaps you and the ladies would like to view it tomorrow?’

  Sebastian looked at his watch. His head had returned to him intact, and he could use some movement. ‘I’ve got a free afternoon for once. Why don’t I just come with you?’

  Mr. Stagnetto laughed. ‘Well now! Man of action. But really, I just need to make sure it’s fit for showing. The property has been empty for some time. How about nine tomorrow morning?’

  ‘That’ll be “the ladies”, then,’ Sebastian answered briskly. ‘I’m going to be tied up all week.’

  He could hear the man’s hesitation across the ether. ‘Right, well, why ever not? You’ll have to take it as you find it. Can you come to my office within half an hour? It’s right across from the cathedral.’

  Mimi

  Mimi drew her knees up and – adjusting her iPad on her lap – re-read the dialogue.

  ‘Am I adopted?’ she asked her mother.

  Her mother’s eyes shifted to the left. ‘Of course you’re not, Christiana. Whatever made you think such a thing?’

  ‘You don’t like me. You never give me a cuddle.’

  ‘You know I don’t like cuddling.’

  ‘Yes, you do. You cuddle Rufus.’

  ‘Well, he’s not naughty, is he?’

  ‘Yes, he is. He poos on the lawn and chews the cushions…’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake. He’s a dog.’

  Mimi stopped and considered the name: Rufus. It was ridiculous, just the sort of clichéd name her mother would choose for a dog. As for Christiana: well chosen. Pretentious, just like her own name, Imogen.

  A shadow moved somewhere outside her iPad and she looked up. She’d seen a few apes wandering nonchalantly along the balcony railings, mainly mothers with babies clamped to their backs or hanging from their underbellies, but this fucker could win prizes. He was huge and, without so much as a by-your-leave, pressed his nose against the glass door. She stared back at him, as much transfixed by him as he was by her. There was something vaguely sexual about his stance, the provocative way his gaze slowly moved down her body and back to her face. She shuddered.

  The phone rang. She reached for it without taking her eyes off the animal.

  ‘Imogen’s room.’

  ‘Hey Mimi,’ said her brother in that annoying put-on cheerful voice he’d adopted to try and jolly her along. ‘How’s the writing going?’

  ‘You know what I’m looking at? This massive ape on my balcony. It’s just sitting there, staring me out.’

  ‘Whatever you do, don’t open the door or feed it or anything.’

  ‘What’re you like?’

  ‘Look, I’d like your input. I’m going to see an apartment… sounds different to what we’ve seen so far and…’

  ‘My input?’ What about her?’

  ‘Eva’s out.’ He softened his voice even more. ‘Sweetheart, come on, it’ll be fun. I’m tired of living out of a suitcase.’

  She studied the ape. The eye contact did not waver and a smear of slobber streaked the glass. How was she supposed to go out and smoke? The apes even nicked the ashtrays off the tables.

  ‘Yeah, okay,’ she said with a sigh.

  ‘Great! See you in reception in five.’

  She set down her tablet and got out of bed. So much for her disciplined writing schedule. Sebastian pretended to take her ambition seriously, but kept asking if she would like to enrol in the local college for September. Or perhaps get some work experience. He was so bloody transparent. Perhaps he just wanted her out during the day so he could have wild sex with his new woman.

  But no-one was going to tell her how to live her life. She’d been gritting her teeth in Surrey, waitressing at Burger King, waiting for Sebastian to say she could join him in Gibraltar. Now was her time. She was going to climb out of her mind-pit and reinvent herself, leaving the past in her novel.

  Sebastian

  Mr. Stagnetto led the way. They walked down Main Street, and at Bishop Rapallos Ramp they turned away from the throng of shoppers and beer drinkers heading up through a warren of narrow streets and pedestrian alleys.

  The facade of tacky commerce and hedonism which gave Gibraltar its unfortunate reputation instantly evaporated as they left Main Street. It was like passing through a time-warp and entering a fortified Medieval city. They climbed stepped passageways and ducked through tapering corridors between oddly constructed buildings. Quaint
dereliction and neglected elegance jostled for space in the tightly packed Upper Town. Walls were crumbling and vegetation had taken hold in every crack and fissure. Clothes lines and electrical wires hung willy-nilly.

  ‘Would I be expected to climb this mountain every day?’ said Mimi, panting in the heat.

  ‘You could get a scooter, Miss Luna,’ said the rental agent. ‘All kids here have one.’

  The property was up a dead-end passage called DiMoretti’s Ramp. The buildings on either side of the passage were precipitously high and seemed to lean into each other, so that a mere strip of sunlight illuminated the tiled walkway below. It looked as if the whole quarter had been long abandoned, though between two shuttered windows hung a line of frayed underwear, like prayer flags worn ragged by the wind.

  The ramp narrowed further and ended abruptly at a door. Within was a long arched vestibule and a cavernous stairwell. The walls and stairs were lined waist high with patterned indigo tiles that had fallen away in patches, and high on a wall hung a wooden carving of Jesus on the Cross. The floor was so worn it had a groove in the flagstones that led to the stairs.