The Spanish Promise

by Karen Swan

  Charlotte mused on it. She would have been forty-one back then – that was pretty late in the day to decide to go for a professional qualification. Why the new direction? Was Mendoza trying to ‘better’ her, playing Professor Higgins to her Eliza Dolittle? And if he was the one encouraging her, paying for the course, then why was she still, four years later, waitressing in a tourists’ cafe?

  She went back to the report, trying to rein in her questions: Marina owned an apartment in a down-at- heel pocket of town – it wasn’t rough as such, just not polished. She had credit card debt of 23,600 euros and had defaulted several times on her monthly credit card payments in the last year.

  Charlotte let the papers fall in her lap as she tilted her head back and digested what she had read: so, her client was a beautiful divorcee with practically no assets, financially insolvent and insecurely employed; she had an extended family that may or may not need supporting; she was unmanicured and exhausted-looking – all of which suggested Mendoza wasn’t bankrolling her; her bank records also showed there was no drip-feed of payments, no top-ups or handouts.

  But that made no sense. Why else would she be with him? This wasn’t a love story, clearly, how could it be? The man was ninety-eight! He might be infatuated with her but no one would believe that her interest in him could be anything more than financially motivated; a mutually beneficial arrangement. And yet she clearly wasn’t taking his money.

  A theory occurred to her: if Marina was refusing to accept his help, living by her ‘principles’, making him watch on as she slaved long hours at the cafe and slept in an un-air- conditioned room at night . . . Charlotte nodded her head, seeing the game: she could well imagine that would be torture to an infatuated Mendoza – he was used to his money solving problems, sanitizing his landscape, buying things and people. But if she wouldn’t let him merely ‘help out’ then she was forcing him into something bigger, something bolder; he would have to give her everything to save her completely, rescue her from this plight.

  It was one theory, anyway.

  Her eyes flickered up to the windows: Madrid was glowing, the old stone buildings looking aflame in the sunset. Lights stippled the baroque facades, silhouettes beginning to pass in front of windows, the rush-hour roar settling into a background thrum. She felt the city fade away as she cradled the wine glass in her palm and thought back to how she too had tried to rescue someone once. And how someone had in turn tried to rescue her. How they had all failed. And how Life had beat on anyway, regardless . . .

  She woke up frowning, the blue light flashing like a beacon in the still-dark room. Her hand reaching blindly for the phone, she then recoiled as the white screen glared back at her angrily: one missed call from Lucy Santos. One from her mother, from Stephen, from Milton, her sister. Why on earth were they all calling her so early? What could possibly have happened? What time was it?

  Eleven twenty—

  Eleven twenty-five? How was that possible? She couldn’t sleep past the dawn chorus in London! She glanced across at the interlined Armani Casa curtains, only a thin blade of light peeping through at the furthest edge. It was their fault.

  She swung her legs out of bed, knocking over the wine bottle she’d left on the floor. It was empty, thankfully – or perhaps not, her hand flying to her head as the dull thud began to impress itself upon her. Okay, so maybe it was the rosé’s fault too.

  She staggered into the shower, feeling light-headed with panic. It was too late to reset her morning to its usual determinedly mindful state via the yoga flows and green juice Stephen always found so baffling, and she grabbed an espresso on her way out instead, leaving the building an impressively quick fifteen minutes later with her ponytail ribbon tied in damp hair, the blue light still flashing on her phone.

  She crossed the street, her new Celine shades on and her earbuds in as she joined the busy-busy crowds already halfway through their mornings, intermingling and becoming one of them and trying to get back on track again. She walked quickly, pressed voicemail and listened to her messages, desperate to catch up with her morning. She felt rattled and edgy. How could she have let this happen? Why had she allowed herself to wallow in the past like that last night? She was usually so disciplined.

  ‘Charlotte? It’s Lucy. Listen, I’ve been thinking about what we talked about yesterday, and I reckon you’re right, maybe I should do more of what I love. So I’ve done a bit of a search and uh, there’s an exhibition on at the Prado at the minute that I’d love to see. But . . .’ She cleared her voice, sounding embarrassed. ‘Well, thing is, I’ve not got anyone to go with. I don’t suppose you’d be up for it? Just an hour or so? Call me.’

  She pressed to listen to the next.

  ‘Darling, it’s Mama. Have you left already or are you back? I can’t keep up. Anyway, we really must thrash out the menus as they need to go to print this afternoon. It was just the font we were sticking on – I know you felt the Kunstler was tricky to read but really we’re all grown-ups, aren’t we, and I do think the Bookman is just too . . . dull.’ She drew a breath. ‘Anyway, ring me back, darling. But not before two. I’m in with Dr Faroodh for some more plumping—’

  The timer ran out, cutting off her mother mid-flow, which always happened when she left a message. Charlotte was convinced her mother clean forgot she was talking to a machine and not a live person on the other end of the line. She pressed delete and waited for the next message.

  ‘It’s me, are you in meetings already? Call me back.’

  Delete.

  She crossed at an intersection, looking for a cab. Madrid was already sizzling in the midday sun, dust kicking up on the streets and a heat haze coming off the bonnets of the cars waiting at the lights.

  ‘Charlotte, it’s Milton. Look, call me when you get this. I know it’s not strictly your remit but we need to talk before you go in to see Mendoza. Latest is we’ve managed to shore up a hundred mill but I don’t think there’s hope for much more. I’ll send through the charts so you can show him the detail; he’ll be pissed but just remind him that’s a significant chunk now tied up for ten years – more than enough time for the lawyers to get things dragging on in the courts. This is a good news story, get that across to him but, sorry – I can only block so much, the rest will be down to you after all.’

  A cab came into view, its light on, and she shot her arm up, watching with her hand to her ear as it rolled to a stop at her feet. ‘Club de Campo,’ she said to the driver, not needing to give him the address; everyone knew it, it was the most exclusive country club in Madrid.

  ‘Lotts, it’s Mouse.’ Her little sister’s trademark husky voice made her smile. Her sister Antonia had been called Mouse since they were toddlers, although no one was quite sure why any more; the original reason had long since been consigned to history and the name seemed to have become a fond misnomer, for her sister had the loudest mouth and dirtiest laugh of anyone she knew. ‘. . . I’ve just seen the underwear Ma’s had sent through for the bridesmaid dresses. She’s fucking joking, right? Granny Banana wouldn’t have worn knickers as big as those! You could parachute with them, I’m not even joking! Call me straight back, I mean it.’

  Charlotte sat back in the seat, the sound of her sister’s panic allowing her own to subside. No major emergencies then? The world was continuing to turn? Her errant ‘morning after the night before’ was already slipping out of sight below the radar, no harm done.

  In fact, a small smile began to spread on her lips as she ruminated on these cameos from the people she loved, all of them in her life – and it was a good life, wasn’t it? It was busy and focused and diverting.

  Yes, this was enough. She was happy enough.

  She watched the city roll past the windows, feeling the caffeine kick in, her headache gradually recede, her hair beginning to dry. Minute by minute, life was becoming ordered again; the mask was back on and the night’s grasping shadows were already receding in the bright July light.

  ‘Señor Mendoza? Charlot
te Fairfax,’ she said, holding out her hand.

  ‘Mateo, please.’ The man’s grip was strong, his black-eyed gaze direct. ‘Shall we sit?’ he asked in faultless English. He pointed to the club chairs – bleached wicker with ivory cushions, a giant coral on the table between them. They settled themselves comfortably in the shade and looked out across the undulating greens. Beyond the veranda could be heard the distant sounds of tennis balls being volleyed, electric golf carts zipping between trees that were casting stubby shadows on the perfect ground. ‘Thank you for agreeing to meet with me here.’

  Charlotte indicated the pastoral scene. ‘The pleasure is all mine.’ She looked back, taking in his attire: white breeches, tan boots, a pale-blue shirt with a white saltire cross. ‘You keep horses at the club?’

  ‘My polo ponies, yes. We have a full season coming up.’ He had thrown one stocky leg over the opposite knee, fingers loosely interlaced as he took her in, and she knew he was assessing her as the person upon whom his fate seemed to rest. ‘Do you like horses?’

  ‘I do,’ she replied, examining him back. His hair was salt and peppered, with thick sideburns and equally impressive eyebrows, his face dominated by a bulbous nose. He was not a handsome man but there was something compelling about him: an intensity, an innate sense of confidence. Charlotte knew he was approaching his sixty-sixth birthday and was seven years into a second marriage with a former Miss Spain that had produced a longed-for son; his first wife had given him ‘only’ three daughters.

  ‘Do you ride?’ he enquired.

  ‘I did as a child. Not so much these days. I travel a lot and my work keeps me too busy for hobbies.’

  ‘Nonsense. What is life without hobbies? Just drudge surely?’

  Drudge. Yes, that was the word. She smiled. ‘I get by okay. A yoga mat is a lot more transportable than a horse.’

  He chuckled. ‘Come as my guest this weekend, I insist. We have a match against our fiercest rivals, Real Sociedad. That will revive your love of these magnificent beasts, I guarantee it.’

  ‘Thank you but much will depend on whether I’m still here and what happens in the next few days.’ There didn’t seem to be any point in mentioning the small issue of dinner for a hundred at the Savoy with her as the guest of honour.

  The waiter came over and Mateo gestured for her to order.

  ‘Sparkling water, please,’ she murmured.

  ‘And for me, Miguel, but add my usual.’ He patted his midriff lightly, looking back at her. ‘Chilli flakes, good for the metabolism.’

  They waited for the waiter to leave before picking up the thread of the conversation they were both here for. ‘Yes, as you were saying . . . shall you still be here by the weekend? Will the nightmare be ongoing? It is the question we all want the answer to, is it not?’ He looked over at her with a hooked eyebrow. ‘You have seen the report I commissioned?’

  ‘Yes. I went through it last night.’ That and the rosé.

  He leaned forward in the chair. ‘And from what you read, do you think she will take an offer and go quietly into the night?’

  Charlotte didn’t hesitate. ‘No.’

  ‘No?’ It was not the answer he had wanted to hear. He slumped back again, agitated and displeased.

  ‘Assuming she is your father’s mistress, or that he’s in love with her at least, then there’s a lot that’s not adding up here. Looking at her current financial situation, place of employment, where she lives . . . all of this would suggest she should be an easy target; she’s in a vulnerable position. And yet the fact that your father has made seemingly no impact on her circumstances suggests to me she is playing a long game and holding out for more.’ She looked directly at him. ‘I assume your father would usually provide an apartment for his lady friends, somewhere discreet they could meet?’

  ‘Of course.’ Mateo looked pained, as though this was a point of honour when cheating on one’s wife.

  ‘Well, the fact that Ms Quincy hasn’t accepted that offer would suggest she won’t settle for the usual titbits.’

  ‘So then you think she does know of my father’s intentions to hand it all over to her?’

  ‘Quite possibly, yes. She might even have been carefully navigating him to that position herself.’

  Mateo pushed himself back into the cushions, muttering something under his breath in Spanish which suggested he assumed she couldn’t understand. Charlotte decided not to dissuade him from that idea. He looked back at her again. ‘You will have to excuse my anger but this is hard to take. Who does she think she is to come in and rob us, his family, of everything that is ours, everything we have all worked for and striven to protect?’

  ‘I agree. It’s a terrible predicament to be in, but also –’ She wondered how to phrase it delicately – ‘highly unusual in this instance, on account of your father’s age I mean. Do you recall when his health started to decline?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Mateo looked flummoxed by the question.

  ‘There weren’t any specific medical incidents or concerns before the cancer diagnosis? Was he in generally good health before that?’

  ‘Why yes, the best! He was as strong as a bull. Nothing could topple him, no one could ever believe he was in his nineties. He swam every morning until he was ninety-two!’

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘Yes. He always said we Mendozas are as strong as our bulls.’

  Charlotte nodded. ‘And understand you’ve never met Ms Quincy?’

  His lip curled. ‘I’d never even heard of her until last week!’

  ‘And you never had suspicions he was keeping a mistress?’

  ‘No. Well, not after Carmen—’

  Carmen? Charlotte hooked an eyebrow, waiting for more.

  ‘They were together privately for many years, he was very fond of her; my mother was too.’ Charlotte kept her face neutral. ‘But after she died – several years ago now – even for a man like my papa, I did not think he was still . . . that it would be . . . possible to be . . . active.’ His voice faded out as he struggled and failed to find the right euphemisms.

  She nodded. ‘I thought the same thing: this can’t possibly be a sexual relationship,’ she said, getting straight to the point. ‘Which is why I’m wondering if Ms Quincy has been around for quite a while – before your father’s health declined, even before Carmen died. She could well have been; she’s forty-five now but this relationship makes a lot more sense – in fact, it only makes sense if it started ten, fifteen, even twenty years ago. If he was still swimming every morning at ninety-two, I imagine he would have been a “robust” man at seventy-eight.’

  ‘Of course. But Carmen only died seven years ago.’

  Charlotte watched him. ‘So you don’t think he would cheat on his mistress?’ Was that really the pertinent point?

  Mateo looked dumbfounded by the thought. ‘I . . . I didn’t think so.’

  ‘Well I think we must consider all possibilities,’ she said as Miguel came back with their drinks, iced towels rolled on individual trays. ‘Thank you.’

  She watched as Mateo pressed the towel to the back of his neck before shaking it open and pressing it over his face for a moment. The heat was blistering today, even in the shade, and suddenly London’s gentle grey rendition of summer didn’t seem so bad. ‘What is the latest from your lawyers? Are there any loopholes to work with?’

  ‘None so far. The law is agonizingly clear – he can give what he likes to whoever he wishes during his life. Of course, I have a trust, my own investments, shares in the company and so forth. I shan’t be left destitute. But in terms of the bulk of the estate, I am still merely the heir; everything else is in my father’s name.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  He glanced over at her, distracted, despondent. ‘It is ironic – all my life, money has been something I have never had to even think about. And now, as I approach old age, I must start counting pennies?’ He looked genuinely pained. ‘Papa and I are close, there has never been a feud or a problem
between us. Why is he doing this?’

  Charlotte shook her head sadly. ‘Love and money have always been uneasy bedfellows.’

  ‘But this is not love! He does not love her.’

  ‘No. An infatuation is more likely, but to him perhaps, I don’t know . . .’ She shrugged, trying to imagine what on earth his father might be feeling. ‘Maybe it makes him feel alive. Young again.’

  ‘He is making a fool of himself. Out of all of us. Once this gets out, the family will be disgraced. A laughing stock. For generations, the Mendoza name has meant something. Now we will be known for the tawdry headlines—’

  ‘That’s not going to happen. Firstly, this is all strictly confidential. The only people who know about this issue are your lawyers and banking team, all of whom are bound by secrecy agreements.’

  He nodded, looking like a boy wanting comfort from his mother.

  ‘Secondly, some of the money has already been put out of reach. Not all, not by a long stretch, but I’ve just been told by Dan Milton, who’s the head of private banking for continental Europe, that they’ve managed to lock down almost a hundred million euros; it’s been moved into long-term investments that if Marina Quincy did try to get her hands on, she’d be forced through the courts – which I don’t think is something she’d want.’

  Mateo looked at her with a concerned expression. ‘Legally, how defensible is that? Can the bank hide my father’s money, knowing he was intending to give it away?’

  ‘Well, obviously this is outside my remit, I’m not a banker per se. But my understanding is it would be a matter of what could be proved, if necessary. Steed’s line is that, officially, they know nothing about the intended gift. This information has come to the bank’s attention only through private conversations with you, not your father himself. Now, as their client of many years standing and chairman of the Mendoza Corporation, you are authorized to make trades on your father’s behalf and they haven’t received any official or formal directive from your father rescinding that authority or asking them to change or cease their trading patterns for him. Clearly, he must have been intending to inform and involve the bank in the disbursement of the gift – there’s no way he couldn’t – but the stroke has obviously prevented that from happening, for the time being anyway. So as things stand, it’s business as usual and the bank’s position – if challenged – would be that they’ve simply looked to protect his investments from a particularly volatile market: Brexit, trade wars with the US and China . . . They’d say they’ve been conservative, nothing more.’ She gave a hapless shrug.