by Karen Swan
Slowly, Vale looked back from her to Montez. He indicated for his brother to lower the gun. ‘We will show mercy – for you, sister.’ He looked back at the men who were warily beginning to pull themselves up, their bodies still hunched, weapons on the ground as they held their hands up. ‘Let this be a warning to you,’ Vale called out. ‘Those who threaten this family – this estate – will be dealt with swiftly and without mercy. We will not tolerate revolutionaries here.’ He cast his gaze down and around, eyeballing each and every man, as though committing their faces to memory. ‘Now go. And take him with you.’
There was a pulse of inactivity – a moment which hovered between defiance and acceptance. Were they going to take it? Several of the men looked across at her with a black hatred, as though her betrayal had been the greatest of all, before four of them gathered round the body and taking a limb each, lifted Juan Esperanza from the ground like a hunted hind, his head hanging down. Silently, they beat a retreat, their feet shuffling on the ground, heads dipped low as they headed back on the three-mile journey home.
Tears streamed down Nene’s face as she watched them go, her body still trembling from the violence she had just witnessed and which supposedly had been done in her name. She had betrayed them to save them but she knew the tale of her treachery would hit even harder perhaps than her brother’s brutality, for better had been expected of her.
Santi would never forgive her, she knew that absolutely. She had seen the hatred settle on the men’s faces as she switched sides and she was their enemy now – condemned by birth, constrained by a name that spoke for her even when it went against her.
‘Get these horses untacked and washed down. Then get that mess cleaned up,’ Vale commanded the terrified-looking groom who was still holding his horse. ‘It’s making this place look untidy.’
The poor groom nodded mutely, as Montez dismounted too and handed over his steed wordlessly. There was still a cartridge in the barrel and he lifted the muzzle into the air, waving it in figures of eight, scanning for a passing bird. He caught sight of a pigeon heading home to roost and took aim and fired, quite unable to help himself, the gunshot ringing out mockingly and no doubt making the campesinos run. Nene watched as the bird spun and tumbled to the ground, landing heavily a few yards away.
‘Nene?’ Vale enquired, but it was really a command. She was to return to the house with them.
Dumbfounded and in shock, she stared down at the twitching bird, its wings flapping desperately in its death throes; she looked at the dropped, abandoned implements – spades and hoes and spindly-fingered rakes that would have been all but useless in a battle – at the pool of arterial blood already blackening on the ground, seeping like tar into the hard-baked earth. The scene was like an old master’s still life, telling a story: a bird that had been shot for no other reason than to use up a wasted cartridge; a man killed because he dared to speak up.
And she understood then that the sanctity of life meant nothing to her family, only money and power and influence. And God help anyone who tried to stand in their way.
Chapter Six
Charlotte stared into the fridge. Carton of almond milk. Jar of pimiento olives. Slab of gouda. Pack of serrano. Two avocados. Bottle of Mirabeau rosé. She grabbed the wine and closed the door again. On the counter was a bag of sourdough and a bunch of asparagus.
Deciding to have a drink first, eat later – and she would eat tonight, she promised herself – she poured herself a glass and slumped against the kitchen cabinets. The apartment door was locked and she was done with today. It had started badly and limped along from there. She raked her mind over her meetings with Mateo, Lucy, Marina, her scratchy call with Stephen . . . All frustrating and draining in various ways. Had there been any positives? She forced herself to think. Dr Ferrante was available; that, at least, was helpful. Anything else?
But it was hopeless trying to pretend. Hangover or not, her day had never had a chance of recovering from the sight of the Chardin in the Prado. She had felt winded by it, blown off her path by the abrupt reappearance of this memento from another life, as though her past was knocking at the door and demanding to be let in.
Throwing her head back, she drained the glass and poured another, walking through the kitchen, past her woven leather Loewe bag strewn over the dining table with the purse about to slip out, her shoes kicked off and lying on their sides in the middle of the floor. Already she was making the place look untidy, her messy life beginning to disrupt.
Standing at the balcony, she looked down over the city as she had the night before. Ostensibly, nothing had changed: the sun still shone at the same oblique angle, dazzling her as it sliced around the grand neo-classical buildings on the opposite side of the street; the traffic still flowed below her feet up the wide boulevards and out of sight. But she had – only by a few degrees, but her past had come back into her life today as surely as light through an open door. The painting hanging there was an ending thrown at her like a stick, and it hurt. Still. After all this time.
Her phone rang and she answered listlessly. ‘Hello?’
‘Lotts, it’s me,’ her sister drawled. ‘What the actual fuck? Ma says you’re in Madrid.’
‘That’s right. Something came up at work.’
‘So what about our dinner then? That’s just off is it?’
‘Huh?’ Charlotte frowned, before suddenly remembering. ‘Oh God! I’m so sorry!’
‘For standing me up in the bloody Ritz? Yes, I should hope you are. I’m sitting here right now, on my own, looking like a complete fucking numpty.’
Charlotte sincerely doubted that. Her sister had an innate ability to look completely at home wherever she went, and right now the concierge would be wondering if he’d made a wrong turn to work this morning and was in fact standing in the middle of her house.
‘I just completely forgot. I rearranged the dress fitting for Friday night and . . . ugh, it totally slipped my mind about dinner.’
‘Charming. I’ve been looking forward to seeing you all week.’
‘Me too!’
‘Liar.’
‘Look, it’s all just gone a bit crazy, that’s all. This project came up last minute for a client and there’s been back-to-back meetings since getting here, blah-blah-blah. I just haven’t been able to give anything else the mental space. I’m so sorry.’
‘Mental space? This is your wedding we’re talking about Lotts. You can’t leave your final fitting to the weekend. You’re getting married in eight days, fuck’s sake. What if something happens? You’ve already got the shrinks.’
‘Oh, come on, they’ve measured me twenty times already. We all know they can just send the dress as it is. These fittings are just fluff to justify their prices. It’ll be fine.’
‘And fine’s good enough for your wedding day, is it?’
‘Yes, it really is. It’s one dress for one day! I really don’t . . .’ She sighed, almost collapsing in on herself.
‘Care?’ There was a long pause as Charlotte realized she didn’t have the strength to argue back. Was that really what she’d been about to say? She didn’t even know herself.‘Look, sis, I’m worried about you.’
‘I’m telling you I’m fine! I wish everyone would stop trying to pick me apart.’
‘But you haven’t been yourself lately. You’re . . . distant, all limp.’
Charlotte closed her eyes, feeling her heart begin to thump. ‘I told you, work’s crazy, that’s all.’
‘Yeah you said, I just don’t believe you. I spoke to Rosie earlier and asked if you’d booked any time off next week and she said you’ve got a meeting booked in the morning of.’
‘I agree, it’s not ideal, but they just quickly need me—’
‘Oh, drop the bollocks, Lotts!’ Mouse said, losing patience now. ‘If you’re having second thoughts about the wedding, just tell me. There’s still time to call it off.’
Charlotte gave a shocked bark of scorn. ‘Why would I be having second
thoughts? I love Stephen. He’s great. We’re a great team.’ There was another long silence down the line. ‘. . . Mouse? You still there?’
‘. . . Yeah. Yeah, I’m here.’ She gave a heavy sigh, a distinctly un-Mouselike sound. ‘I just don’t want you to make a mistake, that’s all. You do know that if you need to talk face to face, I can catch the next flight?’
‘You’re sweet.’
This time it was Mouse’s turn to bark with scorn. ‘No I’m not. I’m the bad sister who kisses too many boys and stays out too late. You’re the sweet one – and that’s why I’m worried. We all know I wouldn’t marry a man I didn’t really love.’
Charlotte felt like she’d been shot, the words physically pushing her back from the balcony and into the apartment. ‘. . . You can’t say that,’ she said in a quiet voice, squeezing her eyes shut.
‘I know,’ Mouse replied, just as quietly, just as sadly. ‘So how come I just did?’
‘You’re back!’ Marina greeted Charlotte in surprise as she stepped through the cafe door the next morning.
‘You do good coffee,’ Charlotte said simply, lapsing easily into her accented Spanish.
‘You’d like a coffee?’
God yes, she needed coffee. ‘Along with a plate of churros and chocolate, yes please.’
Marina nodded in affirmation but she was regarding Charlotte quizzically, no doubt still mulling over their oblique conversation yesterday and the overly large tip. ‘Sure.’
Charlotte watched her go, feeling pleased as she caught Marina glance back at her before she pushed into the kitchen. The casting hooks had attached.
‘There you are.’ Marina returned a few minutes later with the order, an extra churro spiralled on the plate. Charlotte smiled, even more pleased to see that her generosity yesterday had pierced the skin of this new acquaintance.
‘Thanks. I could get used to Spanish breakfasts.’
‘. . . Are you in Madrid for long?’ Marina asked, loitering awkwardly, her fingertips pressing against the tabletop.
‘I was supposed to be but . . .’ She shrugged. ‘Things haven’t panned out the way we expected so I’ve just got a couple of meetings later and then it’s back home again.’ She took a sip of coffee and closed her eyes momentarily. ‘Which is a shame because I’d been looking forward to a bit more of the Spanish summer. It’s raining in London of course.’
But Marina didn’t seem to have heard – or at least to care about the English rain. She bit her lip. ‘I . . . I’ve been thinking about what you said yesterday.’
Of course she had. How could she not have done? ‘Oh yes?’ Charlotte kept her tone light as she dipped the churro into the chocolate pot and began to eat; she could well imagine Marina had done nothing but think about what she had said yesterday.
‘Just say I was the Marina Quincy you are looking for, why would I need your services? Why have they sent you?’
Charlotte drew in a deep breath as though the question was surprising to her, when in fact she’d been anticipating it. ‘Well, because the level of money involved in this instance is very significant. Daunting, even.’
‘Daunting?’
‘Scary. Wealth at this level isn’t a walk in the park. Frankly, it really should come with a health warnings. I’ve got many – way too many – clients who have buckled under the pressure of it.’
Without waiting to be invited to join her, Marina pulled out the opposite chair and sank down into it, her concentration wholly focused on Charlotte alone. ‘Buckled how? What happens to them?’
Charlotte kept her tone conversational, chatty, generalized. ‘Well, people always make a fundamental mistake with money. They think it makes things easier – easier to pay the bills, buy the car, go on holidays – and when you’ve got just enough, it does. The trouble starts when the zeros begin to stack up and the money itself becomes another responsibility. You need a financial adviser or even a team to make the money work for you – and that can be complicated and stressful; it’s important to get in place people you can trust.’
Marina was staring at her intently, her hand cupped in her chin. It was the closest proximity they had been in to one another and Charlotte saw the focus in her eyes. She was concentrating, learning. Caught, not taught.
‘That in itself can be easier said than done. You have to find the right synergy between you and your advisers, match up your risk profiles: some people want to grow their capital aggressively and take risks; others want to play it safe and go for the long-term bets.’
‘So that’s what you do? Matching clients to investors?’
‘No, that’s the bank’s job. What I do is help with the emotional side of wealth.’
Marina looked bemused. ‘Emotional side? Does it have one?’
‘Actually, that’s the biggest side to it. I help my clients discover the non-financial assets of wealth.’
‘I still don’t get how being rich can be stressful?’ Marina asked sceptically. Close-up, Charlotte could see those angled cheekbones that photographed so well were amplified by the hollowness of her cheeks. She had known hunger, a battle to get enough food on the table – real problems, not the first-world stresses of an elite.
‘Okay, well you basically end up with money one of three ways, right?’ She counted off her fingers. ‘You earn it, inherit or gain it. And however you come by it, each way comes with its own particular sets of issues. Now unfortunately, because of how the rest of the world regards money – i.e. as something good and desirable – it’s a loaded subject. People who can’t afford to buy their kids new shoes have no sympathy for a rich person with depression for instance, and that perpetuates a sense of shame amongst these wealthy individuals for being privileged and yet still not happy. People who inherit fortunes, for example, can really struggle to accept that a lottery of birth has left them with so much and everyone else so little.’
‘But they could do something about that,’ Marina said dismissively. ‘Just give it away.’
‘Yes possibly. Philanthropy can be a saving grace when done wisely, but it still has its own complications – to whom do you give it and how much? And can you be sure the money’s going to be used properly, to get through to the people or causes you’re trying to help? There are people in need everywhere you turn and it can be a huge burden if my clients start to feel they are personally responsible for getting rid of these issues, solving all the problems. Money doesn’t resolve as much as people would like to think; very often, education is the better tool.’
‘They’re still in a position to choose, though.’
‘Absolutely. And it works both ways – giving feels good, plus philanthropy can really help give them a purpose, which is vital. Can you imagine waking up every day and not having a reason to get out of bed?’
Marina cracked a wry grin. ‘Ha. I’d like to try.’
‘I know it sounds tempting when you’re working shifts and struggling to pay the rent, but believe me, hard though it is, it actually gives you an advantage over the rich man: work forces you into a routine and that routine gives your days, weeks, months and years a shape. It gives you colleagues, another world outside your home. But when your life is stretching ahead of you with absolutely nothing on the horizon, when you don’t even need to leave the house because you have staff to buy the food, walk the dog, take the kids to school . . . it’s actually terrifying. What’s the point in that existence? Everyone needs to have a purpose, a passion; without it, people become depressed, reclusive; they start drinking or taking drugs – anything to shake up the days, change the landscape.’
‘So that’s why they’re all druggies,’ Marina said pithily.
Charlotte nodded. ‘And that is precisely what I mean. Socially, there is very little sympathy for rich people’s problems because we tend to think of a successful life in material terms, not emotional ones, so their very human feelings of guilt, purposelessness, depression, shame just spiral . . .’ She shrugged. ‘They don’t feel they can admit to th
ese issues, so it just gets worse. There was a survey done in the States recently and it showed that depression and anxiety rates in rich teenagers are double the national average. I know it’s easy to scoff from the outside looking in, but life on the other side of the glass can be suffocating.’
‘I think I’d still rather be on that side, thanks.’
Charlotte shrugged, easing off the pedal a little. She didn’t need to do a hard sell, she had to draw Marina in to her. She dipped another churro into the chocolate. The sugar rush was exactly what she needed, reviving her beleaguered body; she resolved to get to a soul cycle class that evening and to have only a juice before bed. No more wine. No more mulling on the past.
Marina watched her. ‘But you’re saying these are the people who are born into money?’
‘Inheritors? Sure. That’s largely their big issue – guilt, shame, lack of purpose, low self-esteem – how can they compete with their super-successful father or grandfather etc? But they only make up a small percentage of my clients – maybe thirty per cent. Most of my clients have earned their money, and that brings different sets of issues.’
‘Like what?’
‘Well, perhaps in their heads they’d been striving for so long for life to be a certain way once they’d “made it”, and that doesn’t necessarily happen – materially, yes, but they can feel disillusioned if some sort of emotional reward or expectation isn’t met once they achieve their goals. Equally, the drive and focus that got them to the top of their games can also be detrimental to their personal lives. I see a fair few families in crisis because the breadwinner, be it the mother or father, applies the same aggression and rigour to their domestic lives as their business one – and families don’t work like that. A person considered a leader in business can be a tyrant in the home, so they need to learn to relinquish control.’ She gave Marina a wry look. ‘Much easier said than done. It all comes down to appreciating meaningful relationships and articulating and finding a way of living a purposeful life – independent of money. That’s what I mean by the non-financial assets of wealth.’
