by Anne Weale
‘No, that would suit me too. I expect we can find out what the formalities are on the Web. But won’t your parents expect to be present?’
‘They may expect to be invited but I don’t particularly want them there. Had my grandparents been alive, that would have been different.’ He paused. ‘I’m not suggesting you shouldn’t invite your mother if you would like to have her there.’
‘I couldn’t invite her without asking my aunt and she’d want my cousins included. I think it would be much better not to have anyone. I can always put the blame on you. They’ll be too excited at having you in the family to stay in a huff for long,’ said Liz.
‘We had better fix a trip to the UK and break the news in person to both our families,’ he said. ‘What I particularly want to avoid is any press coverage. As far as I’m concerned my private life is private.’
‘My friend Deborah takes Hola!, the Spanish version of Hello, and I admit to reading the copies she passes on, but I wouldn’t want to be in it, however huge a fee was offered me.’
‘Good, because there is no possibility that La Higuera will ever be featured in it,’ said Cam. ‘Working on the assumption that you were going to say yes, I was thinking last night that—unless you want to sell your house and invest the capital—it might be a good idea to have a door in the wall connecting the two courtyards and use your house as a visitors’ cottage. That way you could use one of the present guest bedrooms as your studio and the other one, hopefully, we shall need as a nursery.’
‘Cam, what if I can’t give you children? Have you considered that possibility?’
‘Having children is always the luck of the draw. If we can’t, we can’t,’ he said shrugging.
‘But children are one of your reasons for getting married,’ she reminded him. ‘When people are in love it’s different. If their plans go awry, they have their love to fall back on. Ours is a practical marriage…a matter of mutual convenience.’
‘And that means that, unlike couples who marry with their heads in a cloud of illusion, we aren’t expecting perfection. If it doesn’t pan out exactly as we hope, we’ll adjust to that more easily than people who feel they’re entitled to everything life has to offer. Maybe my experiences in Africa and other third world countries have made me overly impatient with some aspects of first world culture. I haven’t a lot of time for the woman so obsessed with her right to motherhood that she spends thousands of pounds trying to get pregnant—money that would spare hundreds of African women the drudgery of walking miles to fetch water, or restore the sight of thousands of blind people in India.’
It was the first time Liz had heard this note of passionate intensity in his voice.
‘I think it’s hard for a man to understand how deeply some women long for children,’ she answered. ‘I wouldn’t go to those lengths myself. Like you, I feel that if getting pregnant doesn’t happen easily, then one should just accept it and get on with other things. But it has to be said,’ she added, ‘that a lot of people would be more supportive of the kinds of good causes you’ve mentioned if they didn’t have an uneasy feeling that their donations were being siphoned off by corrupt officials rather than benefiting the people they would like to help.’
‘I’m afraid you’re right about that…and, from what I’ve seen, their fears are often justified. It’s a mad world we live in…which is all the more reason for establishing our own pocket of sanity. We have a lifetime to discuss and argue the serious issues. Today let’s just enjoy ourselves. To celebrate, I thought we’d drive into the mountains and have lunch at a hotel that I’m told has a spectacular view. We can drop off our shopping on the way through Valdecarrasca.’
As they drove back to the village, Liz was conscious of a huge sense of relief that her indecision was over and the die was cast.
‘Rather than going to both houses, let’s put all the stuff in my fridge and you can retrieve yours when we come back,’ Cam suggested.
‘OK…whatever you say.’
He gave her a smiling glance. ‘I wonder if you’ll say that to all my suggestions? Somehow I suspect not.’
‘You don’t want a doormat wife, do you?’
‘Absolutely not. But when we cross swords, I’d rather we did it in private, not like some couples I know who fire broadsides at each other across other people’s dinner tables.’
‘I’ve known people like that too. It’s always horribly embarrassing for the onlookers. Hopefully we won’t need to cross swords.’
‘I think we’re bound to occasionally. No two people ever see eye to eye on everything.’
While he unloaded their shopping, Liz pulled down the passenger’s sun-screen and found, as she had expected, that it had a mirror attached to it. Quickly she retouched her lipstick, remembering what he had said, at the market, about wanting to kiss her. When would he kiss her? she wondered. Perhaps this afternoon, when they returned from their outing.
She remembered his previous kisses and their effect on her. Even the memory set up a tremor inside her. She forced herself to think about something else.
They had left the village behind them and were driving west towards the far end of the valley and the more isolated valleys beyond it when Cam said, ‘Do you mind if I play some music?’
‘Not at all.’ She wondered what kind of music he liked to listen to while driving. Her guess would be classical orchestral stuff, or jazz.
Moments later, to her complete surprise, she recognised the voice of Michael Crawford singing ‘The Music of the Night’ from Phantom of the Opera. This was followed by the beautiful duet ‘All I Ask of You’, a song that expressed her deepest beliefs about the nature of love.
Liz leaned her head against the backrest, closed her eyes and let Crawford’s magical tenor and the equally lovely soprano voice of his leading lady sweep her away into a romantic dreamworld.
As usual, the tender lyrics brought a lump to her throat and the prickle of tears to her eyes.
Expecting to have the rest of the disc to recover herself, she was startled when, as the last notes of the song died away, there was a click and she felt the brakes being applied.
Opening eyes that were bright with emotion, she saw they were now on a straight stretch of road where stopping would not impede any other vehicles that might come along.
‘Liz, I’m sorry if that music brings back painful memories. It’s one of my favourite shows and I should have realised you probably saw it with your husband.’
‘Actually I didn’t. I saw it with a girlfriend,’ she said, blinking, her voice husky.
‘But you’re upset,’ he said, frowning.
‘Not for the reason you thought. I’m afraid I’m just a sucker for schmaltz,’ she admitted.
‘Are you? I wouldn’t have guessed it.’
‘It’s not something people advertise. Please…do play the rest. It’s one of my favourite shows too.’
‘All right…if you’re sure.’
She smiled at him. ‘I’m sure.’
Although it was not yet the height of the almond blossom season and some trees still had bare branches, in the more sheltered folds of the foothills there were almond groves where all the trees had their branches clustered with white and pink blossoms. The pink flowers came in two shades, one darker than the other. Here and there, bends in the road brought orange groves into view, the bright fruit hanging among the glossy dark foliage like baubles on Christmas trees. Always, when Liz saw oranges growing, her spirits lifted and she felt privileged to be here instead of trapped in the rat race.
The hotel that was their destination was built close to the crest of a hill, not far from a deep ravine and facing towards the distant coastal plain. The main building was faced with stone to blend into the landscape and all around it had been planted the thyme and lavender that thrived in this type of terrain.
They had a drink in the bar before being shown to their table in a dining room with many brick-edged arches.
‘This area is suppos
ed to have been the last stronghold of the Moors, who fought to stay here after the decree expelling them,’ said Cam, as they waited for their first course. ‘One can imagine how they felt. They had been in Spain for seven hundred years. They’d worked miracles making it fertile, and suddenly—out!’ He made a sweeping gesture with his hand.
They discussed the expulsion of the Jews and Moors, who had done so much to enrich Spain’s culture, through most of lunch. Liz enjoyed the meal, but Cam was critical of the food and the service.
‘I make allowances for the shortcomings of small country restaurants,’ he said. ‘But this place is setting out to be first class and has to be judged by more exacting standards. We won’t be coming here for our honeymoon.’
She had not thought that far ahead, but evidently he had.
‘We’ll have to pick out a parador…unless you would rather we spent the time outside Spain. If there’s somewhere you’d like to go, you have only to say so.’
Guessing that travelling abroad would be no treat for him, she said, ‘A parador sounds fine to me. Have you stayed at a lot of them?’
‘Only three. The modern one by the sea in Jávea, the one near the top of the Sierra Nevada, which is also modern and mostly used by skiers, and one in the restored castle at Tortosa on the river Ebro. I stayed there with my grandparents when they drove me back to school in England after a summer holiday with them. There are plenty of others to choose from.’
When they left the hotel, Liz assumed they would go home the way they had come. But Cam said there was another route he wanted to show her. It turned out to be a narrow byroad, with many twists and turns, and views that were some of the loveliest she had ever seen. Here, in wilder country than they had passed through on the way, the slopes surrounding the road were bright with yellow gorse.
‘Could we stop for a minute?’ she asked. For, though Cam was driving very slowly, she longed to get out and gaze at the colours and shapes of the mountains on the far side of the valley.
He stopped the car and they got out and stood at the edge of the track in companionable silence.
‘I wish I’d brought the camera,’ she said. ‘I’d love to have a shot of this on my website…though I think it would take a professional photographer to do it justice.’
When Cam didn’t answer, she glanced at him. He was standing with folded arms. As she looked at him, he unfolded them and beckoned her to him with both hands.
Her insides leaping about like a parcel of frogs, Liz moved towards him. A yard away she stopped.
‘I think it’s time I kissed you,’ he said.
‘You already have.’
‘But in different circumstances. Now we are an item, as they say.’
He reached out and, placing his hands on the sides of her waist, drew her closer until there were only inches between them. Liz put her hands on his chest, feeling its warmth and solidity against her palms.
She wanted to say, I love you, but knew that she couldn’t. Love, unless it was mutual, could only be a burden to the person who did not feel the same way. All she could do was to close her eyes and tilt her face up to him.
The touch of his lips sent the frogs into a frenzy. He gathered her into his arms and held her possessively close, his mouth persuading hers to open.
The kiss might have gone on indefinitely but for the sound of a tractor on the track above them. Cam did not let her go, but he lifted his head and relaxed his hold so that, though still embraced, they were no longer locked together when the tractor driver came by and shouted a greeting above the noise of the motor.
As the tractor trundled downhill, Cam said, ‘If this were a hot afternoon in England, we could find a grassy spot and make love in the sun. But in Spain the ground doesn’t lend itself to such pleasures.’
By ‘making love’ did he mean kissing, or more? she wondered. Had he changed his mind about not going to bed with her until they were married?
‘Let’s move on,’ said Cam, keeping his right arm round her until he had opened the passenger door.
At the bottom of the hill they had to rumble and bounce over a dry riverbed and then up a short stony slope that brought them back to a road. On the way back he played the lovely ‘Concierto de Aranjuez’, a concerto for guitar and orchestra by the famous Spanish composer Joaquin Rodrigo.
She had heard part of the concerto on her first visit to Spain and later discovered the romantic story behind it. Rodrigo, who had died at the age of ninety-seven in 1999, had been seriously ill with diphtheria as a child of three. It had left him almost totally blind, but he had trained as a musician and, aided by Braille and his Turkish wife, also a professional musician, had become a successful composer, his most famous work—the one they were listening to now—being known all over the world
Back in Valdecarrasca, Cam didn’t drive to his house as she’d expected but stopped the car outside hers. ‘I’ll bring your stuff down in a few minutes,’ he said.
Liz wondered if that meant he was planning to stay with her for the rest of the day and where that might lead. Was she ready for it? For more kisses, yes. But the rest…? She wasn’t sure.
It was half an hour before Cam reappeared with her shopping.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting. As I was unlocking the door, the phone started ringing. I’ve only just got off the line.’
Although she was still very nervous of what he might have in mind—the effect of the wine with lunch had long since worn off—she felt she had to offer him a cup of tea.
‘Tea would be great.’
‘Was your phone call something interesting?’ she asked, thinking it might have to do with his work.
‘Not very. It was from a guy who needs a shrink to sort out his problems but doesn’t want to pay the fees so he unloads them on me. He’s his own worst enemy, and a bore, but I don’t like to be too short with him. We go back a long way. Do you have girlfriends like that?’
‘I knew one unloader in London, but we aren’t in touch any more. What used to irritate me was that she talked for hours about her life but never showed the smallest interest in mine. Not that I had anything to unload—’ or nothing that I would talk about, was her thought ‘—but I think, if I had, she would have switched off.’
‘Most people are pretty self-centred,’ said Cam. ‘From a journalist’s point of view, that’s good. On a personal level it’s a turn-off.’
At her suggestion, they had tea on her flat roof. As they chatted and had second cups, there was nothing in the least amorous in his manner. She began to think she had panicked unnecessarily. Well, not panicked precisely, she corrected herself. But she had been in more of a flap than most women of thirty-six confronted with the possibility that, before the day was out, they might find themselves in bed with a highly desirable man whom they loved and were going to marry.
In England alone, not counting the rest of the world, there must be thousands of thirty-something singletons who would count themselves lucky to have sex with someone like Cam—even without marriage being on the agenda.
It was just that—
Cam interrupted her train of thought. ‘What I must get down to, before long, is some intensive work on the stuff for my website.’
He discussed some more thoughts he had had since their last conversation on the subject. Then he rose from his deck-chair. ‘No time like the present. I’ll go and do some work now. Let me carry this down—’ replacing his cup on the tray. ‘You stay here and relax.’
On impulse, Liz said, ‘After a large lunch, we won’t need much supper. Would you like to come back about seven and share a pomegranate salad?’
‘Sounds good. See you later.’ He picked up the tray and went down the outside staircase, leaving Liz to wonder if she needed her brains tested.
Wouldn’t any man, invited to supper, assume that it was an invitation to stay the night?
CHAPTER SEVEN
Amor, tos y dinero llevan cencerro
Love, a cough and money cannot be k
ept secret
LIZ stayed on the roof for some time after he had gone. She had only to close her eyes to be back among the golden gorse of the mountainside with Cam’s strong arms around her and her lips parting under his. She could remember the taste of his mouth, the pleasant male smell of his skin and the warm rock-like feel of his shoulders as she slid her hands higher. Before the tractor came by, she had been on the point of slipping her arms round his neck.
The memory of those moments made her long to repeat the experience. If only it could stop at kisses…hours of rapturous kissing that was an end in itself without leading on to…
Her mind flinched from thoughts she did not want to recall. If only she could be certain that this time it would be different.
From the window of his workroom Cam saw her stand up, take a long look round at the sunlit vineyards, and then go slowly down the stairs.
She would never know how difficult it had been for him to force their conversation into a businesslike channel that would give him a pretext for leaving instead of staying on the roof and resuming the embrace interrupted by the tractor.
Surrounded by a waist-high wall, the roof was not totally private, although a sunbather lying on cushions on the tiled floor would not be seen. But the chances of anyone observing them, had he kissed her, were slight. It had not been that possibility that had restrained him—their relationship was probably the subject of speculation already—but rather an instinctive sense that making love to Liz was not going to be as straightforward and uncomplicated as his previous relationships with women.
For one thing it was four years since she had made love. For another she had only been to bed with one person in her life. And thirdly she was not in love with him which normally, for a woman like Liz, would be essential before she could let her hair down.
All told, getting it right was going to be extremely tricky. Getting it wrong disastrous.
He had no experience of women who were not experienced. Or of women who had been through the trauma of shock and grief she had suffered. He wanted her; had wanted her for some time. But, if they were going to spend the rest of their lives together, it was important, at this stage, to keep his own feelings under control and put her needs before his.
