by Karen Swan
A crowd of Japanese tourists, all wearing matching navy caps, were standing with a guide before what at first glance was the Mona Lisa.
‘Eh? I thought she was in the Louvre?’ Lucy mused, wandering over distractedly. Charlotte already knew it was the anonymous copy by one of Da Vinci’s own pupils which had been painted at the same time as the master version, but she stood by patiently as Lucy stopped walking to listen in on the talk. She checked her messages on her phone: another two missed calls from Stephen and one from Rosie asking her to call back when she could. Seeing Lucy was engrossed, she rang the office.
‘Hello, Charlotte Fairfax’s office.’
‘Rosie, it’s me,’ she said in a low voice, turning and beginning to pace lightly in small figures of eight.
‘Oh, Charlotte, hi.’ Her PA’s voice inflected with relief. ‘There’s been a couple of calls. Dr Ferrante rang back from Carlos III University; he’s available and very interested.’
‘That’s great. Send him the preliminary Mendoza family profiles so that he can get started and arrange lunch for as soon as possible – tomorrow ideally. I want him to meet Mateo and hopefully settle his nerves. Warn him we’ve got a very jumpy client right now.’
‘Okay, I’ll pass that on. And Hugh Farrer’s office called, requesting an update. Specifically . . .’
But Charlotte didn’t hear what she said next. Her eyes had fastened onto a small still life further along the gallery. There was no crowd loitering in front of this one, everyone instead making their way to the headline pieces, but her feet took her there soundlessly and she stood before it, her hand falling slightly, taking the phone away from her ear.
She didn’t need to read the placard beside it to know it was by Chardin and titled Basket with Strawberries. Her eyes took in the familiar image: a low round basket piled high with a pyramid of strawberries, two white flowers laid before it, a glass of water to one side and to the other, some cherries and a peach. She absorbed the moody background light, the richly textured wooden tabletop, the succulent gloss and rich, ripe colours of the fruit. She knew it so well it was like looking at an old family photograph, memories of a long-ago time stirring within her. She felt deeply buried emotions begin to vibrate and hum in the pit of her stomach, a sudden longing of piercing intensity smashing through the smooth crystalline shroud that had become her protection.
Her mind was whirring. Why was it here? How could it be here? This couldn’t be right—
‘Charlotte?’
The voice sounded far away and it was a moment before she remembered Rosie on the other end of the line. ‘I’ll have to call you back,’ she mumbled, hanging up before she’d even finished the sentence.
‘Charlotte?’ She looked up at the echo of her name again, bewildered and disoriented as Lucy came over, her curious expression changing to one of concern. ‘Hey, are you okay? What’s wrong?’
Charlotte pulled herself back from the past, forcing a smile that felt more like a rictus. ‘Nothing. Just . . . work stuff.’
Lucy looked across at the painting that had elicited such a strong reaction from her. ‘Wow, that’s gorgeous. Do you like it?’
Charlotte nodded dumbly, daring herself to look back at it again – but the memories snapped at her from it like crocodile jaws. Beauty in the small things.
She stepped back abruptly, drawing herself taller and forcing a smile. ‘Lucy, I’m so sorry but I’m afraid I have to go. Something’s come up and I need to get back to the office.’
Lucy’s face fell. ‘But the Fortuny exhibits . . .’
‘I know. I feel terrible. Can we regroup?’ she asked, hearing the urgency in her own voice. She just had to get out of here.
Lucy shrugged helplessly, disappointment beginning to swim in her eyes. ‘There’s nothing in my diary,’ she said flatly. ‘Whenever you want.’
‘Great. So then I’ll call you when I’m back at my desk and we’ll get another time in.’ She was walking quickly backwards now, Lucy growing ever smaller in her frame of vision.
‘Okay.’
‘I’m really sorry,’ she called, beginning to turn away and hide her face; the mask was falling off again and she was nearly exposed. She couldn’t afford for anyone to see what was really there: absolutely nothing at all.
She walked without thinking, travelled without seeing, her feet pounding the street and the hot air drying her eyes. She felt scorched inside, desiccated, as the facts and the questions rebounded within her, chasing one after the other. Seeing the painting again, seeing it there. How could it be hanging on those walls? And how long had it been there: one week? Eight months? Four years? And what did that mean?
But in her gut, she already knew.
Her hands pulled into fists, her breath coming fast as she wove down the street. Her phone rang and she reached for it almost in relief. To have something to distract her . . .
‘Hey,’ she said, forcing brightness into her voice as she saw Stephen’s name.
‘Where have you been? I’ve been trying you all day.’ He sounded irked.
‘Sorry, frantic day.’
She could hear his frown. He hated not being able to reach her. ‘Where are you?’
‘Between meetings,’ she panted lightly. ‘I was just with a client at the Prado and now I’m . . .’ Where was she? She looked around, getting her bearings and remembering herself. She was across from the Puerta del Sol, not far from the cafe where Marina Quincy worked. She had planned on coming over here after leaving Lucy. ‘I’m just en route to see another.’
‘Well I’ve had your mother on the phone. She can’t get hold of you either and she’s going ape wanting a decision on the bloody napkins: scalloped or . . . Christ, I’ve forgotten what the other thing was.’
She rolled her eyes. She’d wanted distraction, hadn’t she? ‘Can’t you deal with it? I’m busy.’
‘Right. Because I’ve got an opinion on napkins.’
‘And you think I have?’ she snapped, feeling fraught. ‘Look, I don’t care either. They’re napkins. Tell her to choose whichever she thinks looks best.’
‘You tell her. She’s your mother.’
‘Ugh, Stephen, I’m up against it right now. I’m not over here for fun. I’m trying to get things sorted quickly so I can get back in time. This is your wedding too. Just deal with it, can’t you?’ Her voice had risen an octave and she realized she had stopped walking, that her hands were pulled into little fists. She was ostensibly a toddler having a tantrum in the middle of the street. She covered her eyes with her hand. What was wrong with her at the moment?
There was a frustrated silence. ‘. . . Fine.’ They were both tetchy and irritable. Did he have a hangover too? Had he just been punched in the stomach by his own past? ‘So any idea yet when you are coming back?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know, I’ve only been here a day and a half. I’ll be back by the weekend latest, don’t worry.’
‘I’m not worried. I just don’t want your mother on my case.’
‘You’re the one who invited her to stay for dinner on Monday night.’
‘I was being polite.’
She suppressed a sigh; they could do this all day. ‘Look, I’ve got to go. I’m at my next appointment. I’ll call you tonight.’
‘Fine.’
‘. . . Love you.’
‘Yes, yes. Speak later.’
He hung up without ceremony, and she stared into space momentarily, feeling her past, present and future all colliding around her. She felt strangely unrooted from the ground, off-balance and unsteady as though the world kept spinning first one way, then the other. She was getting married next week but suddenly fragments of her past were bubbling up like secrets sunken in a lake.
She tossed her head determinedly, banishing them from her mind again; she had a ‘strong mental game’ as Stephen had once said – one of his more romantic compliments – and she resumed walking, rounding the corner into a golden-glowing narrow street and catching sight of the d
istinctive green and gold doors of San Ginés, the red chocolatería sign already lit on the corner wall; there was a queue of people waiting to order through the hole-in- the-wall. It was just gone four but still too hot for her to sit outside, even in the shade, and she slipped into the cool interior, the scent of caramelized sugar acting as immediate anaesthetic on her raw emotions.
After scanning the space for a moment, she chose a small table in the corner, just near the kitchen door. She picked up the menu but the repertoire was both well known and justifiably restricted: churros and chocolate with a side order of espresso was the combination that had made this place famous, and frankly it was exactly what she needed. In the rush of oversleeping this morning and running straight to her meeting with Mateo Mendoza and then on to Lucy, she had straight-up forgotten to eat.
Letting the menu drop again, she took in the surroundings. The cafe had been going for a hundred years, and the art deco interior felt both dated and yet still elegant – diners perched on dainty green-seated chairs at white marble-topped tables, their reflections repeated infinitely in the mirrored panelling on the walls. Cups and saucers were stacked in neat towers on the counters and the white-tuniced, black-trousered staff moved about with efficient briskness.
Charlotte looked around for the striking woman from the photographs in the file, but she couldn’t see her. There was a younger girl clearing the outdoor tables and two guys behind the tills unloading a dishwasher, another coming through from the kitchen with a tray. Charlotte leaned forward, hoping to sneak a glimpse, but the door swung too quickly on its hinges, betraying nothing more than a brushed-steel preparation table and black aprons hanging from a hook. Perhaps she wasn’t working a shift today?
One of the guys from behind the counter spotted her and came over, and she placed an order for the porras (a chunkier version of the churros – she needed the carbs), chocolate and an espresso. She carried on watching and waiting for Marina; her heart wasn’t in it but Hugh Farrer’s PA had called. He wanted an update and she needed to give him something, she had to make contact at least.
‘Hi, is Marina Quincy working today?’ she forced herself to ask as the waiter came back with her order a few minutes later. Perhaps she’d been on an earlier shift, she thought. Working as Charlotte overslept . . .
‘Marina? Sure, she is upstairs.’ He jerked his chin towards a staircase.
There was an upstairs? ‘Oh. Well is it okay if I take this up there then?’
The waiter looked irritated but merely shrugged. ‘As you like. You can pay your bill there.’
‘Thanks.’
Trying not to spill the chocolate cup, she climbed the stairs and found another spot to sit at. It was emptier up here – only one other table was taken – and she could instantly tell why, for it was stuffier too. Taking the nearest seat, she scanned the room and immediately found her target. It wasn’t hard, she was standing by the clearing station in the far corner, her back to the room as she wiped down some menus. Charlotte ate, watching as she shuffled the menus into a straight pile, boredom in the movement even from behind.
Finally Marina turned back to the room, tucking a tendril of hair behind her ear and tugging on her too-tight shirt. Watching from beneath lowered lashes, Charlotte could see she was every bit as striking in the flesh as her photographs had suggested, although it was easier to gauge her age in the sunlight; those strong looks that looked so dynamic on film were rather more hard-bitten in the flesh.
Catching sight of Charlotte, she came over wearily before she saw, too late, that Charlotte already had a full order before her. ‘Oh—’ she started, looking a little baffled, for no one else was serving up here.
‘Sorry, I ordered downstairs and then decided to come up here,’ Charlotte said in faultless Spanish, trying not to scrutinize her too obviously. She noticed she had three piercings in her left ear and that her ring finger on her left hand was still narrow at the base from her old wedding ring. There was a pale tracheotomy scar at her throat too and it struck her that Marina’s body had collected battle scars on her journey through life; Charlotte had the distinct impression it hadn’t been a smooth one thus far – all of which made for a powerful motive to come by easy money.
‘Okay.’ Marina gave a careless shrug and turned to leave again.
‘But I wondered—’ Charlotte said hurriedly.
‘Yes?’ She turned back, bored.
‘Are you Marina Quincy?’
Marina’s eyes narrowed, serving to make her look even more impressive somehow. ‘Who is asking?’
‘My name’s Charlotte Fairfax. I’m a freelance consultant for Steed Bank in London.’
Marina turned to face her fully but the name clearly meant nothing to her. It meant nothing to most people. Theirs wasn’t a high street offering. Ten million was the minimum investment with them. ‘Okay,’ she shrugged.
Charlotte decided to go in hard and see what she came back with. Her immediate response would be the most revealing. ‘I’ve come to offer my services to you. I’m a wealth counsellor.’
‘A what?’ Marina squinted, folding her arms over her chest now.
‘I help people adjust when they come into vast sums of money.’
Marina laughed out loud at that, dropping her arms down. ‘That must be a nice problem to have but I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong person. Vast sums of money are not a problem for me.’
‘Not yet maybe. But soon perhaps – in the next few weeks?’ She watched Marina’s features closely, looking for a narrowing at the eyes, a tightening sinew in the neck, a flattening of the mouth as she realized the game was up, her masterplan exposed . . . ‘Ms Quincy, do you know Carlos Mendoza?’
Marina was still for a moment, bafflement followed by recognition. ‘. . . You mean the Carlos Mendoza?’
‘I do.’
Marina shrugged, giving a dry little laugh. ‘No.’
‘Are you quite sure?’ Charlotte watched her closely, scanning her body language for clues she was lying. ‘I appreciate your connection with Mr Mendoza might be considered “sensitive”, but I assure you I’m here to act in your best interest.’
‘Connection . . . ?’ There was a long pause as Marina weighted her words. Finally, she shifted her stance. ‘I think I would know if I had bumped into a billionaire recently.’
‘He’s not quite that, actually. Not far off but not quite,’ Charlotte said levelly, still gauging her responses in microscopic detail.
The two women fell quiet, both weighing each other up, assessing, scrutinizing.
‘So you’re quite certain you don’t know him?’ Charlotte asked after another pause, making to sound weary herself as she pulled a fifty-euro note from her purse and laid it on the table, beneath the espresso cup. Regretfully, having had only one bite of her snack and a mere sip of her coffee, she stood up.
‘Yes. Like I said.’ Marina’s eyes looked down quizzically at the note before looking back at Charlotte again. The bill was for twelve euros.
Charlotte nodded. ‘Okay. Well that’s a shame, sorry to have bothered you. I must have the wrong person,’ she said, deliberately keeping things oblique. ‘Thank you for your time.’
She took her bag from the back of the chair and walked past the woman, sensing the weight of her stare on her back, almost able to read her questions hanging unspoken in the air.
‘Wait – your change!’ Marina called after her.
Charlotte looked back casually, almost lazily and smiled. ‘It’s fine,’ she said with a shrug. ‘You keep it.’
Chapter Five
Ronda, June 1936, four years later
Indigo carried his head well during the pirouette, his neck arched and staying on the bit, and he maintained his cadence through the move, but Nene felt her legs and back aching from the unnatural position, the pommel between her thighs beginning to bruise the tired muscles.
‘Sit up, up. Straighter,’ the instructor barked, the long training whip trailing in the sand as he walked in ti
ght circles in the centre of the ring, his eyes narrowed into thin slits as he scrutinized her and the horse’s forms – their silhouettes, comportments; they had to flow as one to succeed together. She was nothing without the horse and he nothing without her; they were truly the sum of their parts and sometimes she felt she was only important, visible even, when she was on his back, as though he was a base lifting her up into her father’s line of sight.
For Nene, it had been love at first look, un coup de foudre as the French said, and she had all but begged for her father to buy him when chance brought them into each other’s orbits. The magnificent blue-black stallion had originally been a birthday present for the daughter of one of the most powerful men in the land – Don Bartolome de Palencia, who was a personal friend of exiled King Alfonso; Don Bartolome had dreamed his daughter Pepita would make him proud and become an Amazona on Indigo, but the weakly girl was terrified of the beast and had humiliated herself and her father when, at the fiesta at the de Palencia latifundio, she had screamed in fright trying to feed him a carrot. A carrot!
Nene had no such fear, forever clasping her hands around his muscular neck and whispering into his ear as she fed him barley sweets and sugar cubes, laughing as the prickly hairs on his soft muzzle tickled her palm; sometimes, she could even forget Santi had left and that her best friend was on the other side of the country from here. Most mornings, if her father was out with Señor Martin, she was able to bribe the grooms into letting her comb his mane and pick out his hooves herself. At 15.2 hands, he was as big a horse as she could physically manage; her mother had been opposed to the purchase, worrying he would run off with her or throw her from his back like a rag doll but Nene knew he would never do such a thing – she had looked into his deep chocolatey eyes that day at the fiesta as she ran to ‘rescue’ Pepita and she had felt their souls connect. Don Bartolome’s fearful daughter would never have been able to handle him; he was a king of a horse – majestic and noble – and he needed a mistress who understood his might and magnificence. He could not be wasted on a girl who whimpered every time he whinnied or pawed a hoof on the ground; he deserved a rider who understood him. Even this – dressage – although a noble art, was a parody of his immense dignity, and the happiest moments of both their lives were when they went galloping bareback over the far fields, out of sight of the hacienda, her hair streaming behind her as his heart hammered against his ribs, the side-saddle on which she rode out of the stables unstrapped and left hidden in the long grass.
