There is such a sense of history here – not only in the surrounding buildings and landscape, but also in the air, particles of distant memories swept up by the persistent wind and chased around this beautiful old town in a never-ending dance of then and now. Perhaps it is this element that makes Mojácar such an unmistakably magical place.
There is all of a sudden a delicious scent of limes, and I turn to find Theo approaching. He’s looking at the view instead of me, thank God, because I’m pretty sure my jaw just dropped low enough to leave a clear mark in the dusty blue and white tiles beneath my feet.
It’s a warm evening, but there’s a pleasant breeze easing its fingers across the bare skin of my arms and legs and through my still-damp hair. Theo must have showered, too, because his dark locks are free from the earlier gel and he’s swapped his white shirt for a plain grey T-shirt. Like me, he seems to have instantly relaxed into the sleepy atmosphere of the place, and looking at his contented expression as he gazes out towards the flat top of the Old Mojácar hill fills me with pleasure.
‘Is it just as you remember it?’ he asks, turning to meet my eyes for the first time since he walked over.
‘Exactly.’ I smile at him. ‘I was worried that I’d get here and find a Pizza Hut in the middle of the square, but thankfully that wasn’t the case.’
‘I have been exploring the village up here,’ he tells me, that gorgeous half-smile still playing around his mouth. I make a concerted effort not to stare at his lips, but it’s not easy. I have never wanted to kiss anything more in my entire life.
‘You were right, Hannah – it is a very special place.’
He looks almost thoughtful as he says this last part, and I wonder what he’s thinking. There is so much depth and wisdom in those dark brown eyes of his. They more than rival the view spread out below us.
Just as I open my mouth to offer a penny for his thoughts, Tom bounds towards us, a still-irritable Claudette scuttling along behind him like a grumpy Chihuahua.
‘I had no idea where you’d gone,’ she admonishes, wagging her finger in my direction.
‘You’ve found me now,’ I shrug, keeping my eyes firmly on the floor rather than Theo. Tom is wearing the same hilariously bad shorts that he rolls out every time there’s a bit of sunshine, which are black with big orange flowers on them. I make a mental note to show him the shopping centre down by the beach. Still, at least he’s shaved off that grotty beard.
Theo tells us he’s booked a table at a pizza place about ten minutes’ walk away, so we head off through the labyrinthine cobbled streets, Tom and I falling into step beside each other as the other two stride ahead. I notice with a certain amount of disgruntlement that Claudette seems to have recovered from her earlier leg pains and is now skipping along next to Theo, chatting shop with him. The sun is very slowly starting its descent, and as we make our way through the heart of the town, golden ribbons of light appear around corners and across the curved roof tiles of the buildings. Shop owners smile a greeting from their doorways as we pass, and I notice that Tom has again been uncharacteristically wowed into silence by the surroundings.
‘I feel like a marble in a marble run,’ he whispers, as we turn a sharp corner to find yet another steep cobbled path ahead.
‘There’s nothing remotely marble-like about you,’ I whisper back.
‘But if I was a marble, I’d have a lot of fun rolling around these streets,’ he hisses.
I shake my head at him, the loon. If anyone ever overheard some of the bizarre conversations Tom and I have, they’d be calling the men in white coats to come and cart us off. Thank God we’re both as odd as each other, though. It would be very boring if I couldn’t be myself around him.
Theo leads us round three more corners and finally, at the top of a set of steps steep enough to render even him slightly out of breath, we reach our destination.
‘I know this place!’ I blurt in surprise, my mouth reaching the finish line before my brain.
It may be a pizza restaurant now, but these decorative metal gates in front of us used to lead into a bar. And not just any bar, the bar where Rachel and I spent almost every night of our last holiday, lusting over the Spanish owner and drinking endless glasses of Coke topped up with our stolen vodka. It would be fair to say that I may have embarrassed myself in here a few times.
Perhaps more than a few.
‘Was this one of your hangouts?’ guesses Claudette in delight.
‘No. I mean, I thought it was, but I must be mistaken.’ I give her a look that I hope is suitably convincing, but she’s not falling for it.
‘Whatever you say,’ she replies, stepping over the threshold. Theo has gone on ahead and is now beckoning to us from across the open courtyard. There are several wooden tables and chairs arranged out here, each one adorned with a red umbrella, and as I pass the open doorway of what used to be the bar, I sneak a quick glance inside. In contrast to everywhere else in this town, this place actually has changed, but only from a bar into a restaurant – the layout is the same as I remember, and a rush of lovely nostalgia flows through me.
God only knows what that poor barman thought of us back then. He was far older than Rachel and me and barely spoke any English, but that didn’t deter either of us in our pursuit. We’d spend literally hours getting ready down in the apartment, dismissing every single item of clothing we’d packed in our suitcases until teetering piles of dresses, miniskirts and boob tubes covered the floor. What little horrors we were. I like to think I’m much more sophisticated these days.
‘Hannah, are you going to sit down?’
Theo is standing up at the table, his hand on the back of my vacant chair and an expectant look on his face. Rushing forwards from my spot by the gate, I promptly trip over my own feet and stagger into him sideways. Like I said, sophisticated.
‘Shit! I mean, sorry.’
‘Have you two been drinking?’ Tom asks Claudette, as Theo steers me carefully into my seat.
Claudette is peering at me and totally ignoring Tom, while Theo is oblivious to all of us, consulting the wine list. We all nod along with his suggestion of a fruity red.
The courtyard of the restaurant looks out over yet another stunning view, and I watch as a pair of birds wind their way gracefully through the treetops. I had forgotten just how deafening the crickets and cicadas can be here – especially at this time of day. The chirping coming from the prickly undergrowth is constant, shrill and insistent, but it’s also a comforting reminder that we’re a very long way from boring old England. I still can’t quite believe that I’m here, back in Mojácar. And it still feels as special as it always did. I’m so glad that I’m getting to share it with Theo. And Tom, too, of course.
We all order pizza except for Claudette, who asks the waiter to list all the salad ingredients they have on offer before designing her very own creation, much to his gratification, I’m sure. Anyone else would be embarrassed, but Claudette gets away with it. She should bottle that confidence of hers and sell it – she’d make an absolute killing, and I’d be her best customer.
I’m not sure whether we’re all simply tired from the travelling we’ve done today or if it’s more to do with the strange ambience of this place, but there isn’t much chatter going on at our table. It occurs to me then that this is the first time the four of us have ever had dinner together. Obviously there’s the work Christmas lunch and the odd leaving party down at the local pub, but those involve everyone. I’m not used to spending so much time with Theo, and my nervous jitters are increasing every time I look up and find him staring at me. I’m fine when we’re at work, because I’m confident that I can do my job, but it’s very different being in a social setting with him. It’s as if I’m getting to know a whole new version of him that I never knew existed.
By the time the food arrives, I’ve wound myself up about it all so much that I can barely chew my cheesy topping. Of course, I want Theo to notice me, but not when there’s a serious chance that I�
��ll either choke to death on a strand of melted mozzarella or dribble tomato sauce down my chin. I want him to think of me as demure, not demented.
‘They have forgotten my avocado,’ grumbles Claudette, pushing her collection of leaves around with her fork.
I look up just in time to catch Theo rolling his eyes at her, and then he sees me, and smiles.
‘Hola, amigos.’
A man has joined us at the table and is standing right behind me, his hands on the back of my chair in the typically over-familiar manner that I learned to associate with the Spanish a long time ago. Before I crane my head around to look at him, I notice a flush of colour wash across Claudette’s cheeks and feel a tiptoe of foreboding creep through me.
‘Hola!’ Tom replies cheerily, reaching over to shake the man’s hand. Typically, he’s not remotely fussed about the fact that he’s a complete stranger.
The man’s hairy arm is right by my face now, but I’m still too scared to turn around. If this is who I think it is, then someone had better have a bulldozer handy, because I’m going to require the ground to swallow me whole.
Theo is chatting away to the man now in fluent Spanish, which, despite my feeling of sudden dread, is pretty damn sexy to behold – is there nothing that man can’t do?
‘Ah, you are making a film.’
The newcomer has reverted into broken English, presumably in an attempt to include the rest of us in the conversation, and again I feel his knuckles against the bare skin of my back.
Oh hell, now Theo is introducing each of us in turn.
‘This is Hannah,’ he says, coming to me last, and finally I take a deep breath and force my eyes upwards.
‘Diego.’ The man smiles at me.
Of course it’s Diego. The very same Diego that I used to daydream about on a daily basis, possibly with added drool; the man that Rachel and I were both convinced we would one day marry and have babies with; the man who turned a blind eye to our illicit vodka consumption and pretended not to notice when we took photos of him on our disposable cameras. That Diego.
‘Hola,’ I manage, inwardly cursing my Anthea Turner crop yet again. I should have kept my overgrown fringe – it would have been perfect to hide behind.
Diego is now looking at me with a mixture of mild bemusement and recognition. He can’t remember me, can he? It’s been over ten years since I last saw the guy – a whole solid decade that I’ve been tossing shovelfuls of dirt into the very deep hole where I buried my pride after that fateful night.
‘You have been here before, I think,’ Diego says now.
‘Yes, she has!’ Tom exclaims happily, just as I shake my head to disagree.
Please don’t let him remember what I did. Please, please, please.
‘It was a very long time ago,’ I mumble, wondering seriously if there’s enough topping on my pizza to drown me if I shove my face into it.
Diego has crouched down on his haunches now and is staring right at me. Back when I was seventeen, I would have happily swapped my signed Take That poster for the chance to get this close to him. Now, however, I wish I had the poster just so I could tear it into tiny pieces and build a fire as a distraction.
Just as I think Diego is going to admit defeat, he leans back on his heels and starts laughing.
‘Hannah!’ he says, slapping his meaty Spanish thigh in delight.
‘Have you two met before?’ Theo asks, putting down his fork.
Oh no. Oh shit. Oh help.
I turn to look at Diego now properly for the first time. He’s still got the same almond-shaped eyes, dark and brooding and sparkling with mischief. His black hair is peppered with grey now, but the exquisite bone structure of his face and that generous mouth are still just as heavenly a combination as they ever were. My only option is to stare back at him so beseechingly that my yearning to keep the past a secret transcends the language barrier and somehow penetrates his brain. It’s a long shot, but it’s all I’ve got.
There’s a small beat of silence interrupted only by the sound of Claudette’s cutlery scraping against her plate, and then Diego stands up.
‘It is nice to see you again,’ he says, patting me on the back.
Oh my God – my mind trick actually worked. I must be a Jedi.
‘You too,’ I mutter, downing about half a glass of wine in a single gulp.
‘Good luck with the film.’ He addresses this to the whole table, and then tells us that we must come back and eat here at his restaurant again.
You can dream on, I think, but smile at him politely.
‘He is gorgeous,’ Claudette says loudly when Diego is less than a metre away. ‘So many Spanish men are small, but that one is like a delicious man mountain.’
Theo, who is a very delectable – in my mind – five foot nine or so, shifts in his seat.
‘How do you know him?’ Claudette demands, craning her head around so she can watch Diego saunter back inside.
‘He used to work here when it was a bar,’ I inform them. ‘I don’t know him that well at all.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ says Claudette, and I feel rather than see Tom look at me.
‘He is gorgeous,’ she repeats, her salad long ago abandoned. Without waiting for the rest of us to finish eating, she has extracted a thin cigarette from a silver packet and is now fishing in her bag for a lighter.
For a second, I picture my seventeen-year-old self, stumbling across this very courtyard in the high-heeled sandals that Rachel’s dad used to compare to a North Sea oil rig, patches of sunburn decorating my legs and a complicated sculpture made from twisted plastic straws stuck in my hair. Diego is in the memory, too, leaning against the outer wall smoking and regarding me with amusement. What happened next is too humiliating to relive, and I smother the image with a fistful of pizza.
‘You’ve gone a very strange colour,’ Tom tells me.
‘We must all leave the poor girl alone,’ says Theo, smiling at me as I chew on my dinner forlornly. ‘If a lady has secrets that she does not want to share, then who are we to question her?’
Claudette has the grace to look mildly sheepish at Theo’s words, but they almost cause me to splutter in surprise. I don’t even care that Theo now assumes I have embarrassing secrets – all I can think is that he stuck up for me. He defended my honour, and he wouldn’t do that unless he cared about me, would he?
I brave a look at the man in question to find that disappointingly he’s looking not at me, but at the stunning view that fills one side of the open courtyard. The earlier chorus of cicadas has been replaced by the distant ringing of church bells, and the persistent breeze of the day has eased, its gentle fingers lifting only the very tips of my hair. In this moment, everything suddenly feels peaceful and calm again, as if the drama of bumping into Diego has been wiped away like chalk off a board.
Claudette blows a smoke ring up and the four of us watch transfixed as it breaks slowly into pieces before vanishing into the dusty air. I feel my eyelids sag under the weight of the day, and stifle a yawn at the exact same moment as Tom.
Theo must have noticed it, too, because after a beat he stands up and drops a heap of euro notes on to the table.
‘Come on, team,’ he says, meeting my eyes for less than a split second before glancing away. ‘I think we must all call it a night.’
5
I’ve always been an early riser. Back when I was a child, our family dog used to wake me up by licking first my feet and then, if I didn’t stir at that, my face. He was a Border collie called Chewy – named not after the Star Wars character as most people assumed, but solely because of his love of chewing up anything and everything he could get his grubby little muzzle around – and I loved him with every fibre of my innocent soul. I say innocent, but in actual fact, Chewy and I used to get up to all sorts of mischief during those early morning jaunts we’d go on together. There was the time I tried to teach Chewy to climb a tree, only to fall over Mr Harding’s garden fence and destroy his prize-winning patch
of strawberries. Then there was the time Chewy decided that an old lady’s bag of knitting was a toilet. That one was definitely worse.
When Chewy died very suddenly from prostate cancer when he was only eight, I roared my miserable head off for days on end. I still miss that dog.
I grew up eventually, of course, and moved to London, where the mighty volume of the capital city’s traffic replaced my licking-dog alarm clock. Everything is louder in London, and as much as I love living there, I also hate being shaken awake by a vibrating bedframe – not least because it’s a passing lorry causing it to quiver, as opposed to the naked and randy Theo from my dreams.
Here in Mojácar, however, I am pleasantly surprised to be woken by the sound of birdsong. I closed the wooden shutters across the window just before crashing out last night, but there’s still a trickle of sunlight seeping into the room around its edges. Feeling not unlike Snow White when she conjures up an entire woodland population just by whistling a mediocre song, I kick off my tangled sheet and skip happily through into the kitchen, where I decant water from the bottle in the fridge into the kettle and ready a mug for tea.
Being careful to stir in my sugar quietly so as not to disturb Claudette, I pad silently across to the balcony doors and slide them open, immediately smiling a greeting to the sun which has started to warm the terracotta tiles beneath my feet. This time of day feels so bewitching, when possibilities seem endless and my enthusiasm has been recharged, ready to fire out at full throttle. This is the best time, before anyone else has had a chance to puncture my serenity with their worries or complaints. It’s taken me twenty-eight years to know for certain, but I can say with full confidence now that I’m definitely a morning person.
Then. Now. Always. Page 4
