‘Sorry.’ Tom turns to me once they’re out of sight. ‘I know you would probably rather have gone in the car. I just needed a break from Claudette.’
I nod, sympathetic. Our French friend is such an angelic presence on screen that you’d never guess at her behaviour once the camera is switched off. Tom has been barked at and needled all morning, and by the look of resigned dismay on his face, this is something that happens to him on every shoot.
‘She doesn’t mean to be so stroppy,’ I tell him, as we nip into a local shop to buy a bottle of water each for the walk. ‘She’s just a perfectionist. And my mum always tells me that overly confident people are usually just hiding the fact they’re insecure.’
‘Claudette, insecure?’ Tom almost coughs his sip of water all over me. ‘Fat chance!’
We’ve made our way up from La Fuente to the main road, and Tom points as a small black and white cat picks its way daintily across the roasting hot tarmac in front of us. The wide pavement leading down the hill is paved in caramel-coloured stone, and metal railings separate the path from a mess of tangled undergrowth. Every few metres, there’s a large Indalo Man symbol set into the fence, each one casting a warped shadow against the ground.
‘You weren’t wrong about the Indalo,’ Tom says, gesturing downwards. ‘It’s everywhere around here.’
Like me, he’s wearing red today, but unlike my dress, his T-shirt has been washed about ten times too often, and it’s clashing with his bright pink neck.
‘Have you put any sun cream on?’ I ask him, tutting affectionately when he shakes his head. ‘Here, squat.’
Tom does as he’s told and hunkers down in front of me. Rooting through my bag, I find a tube of factor thirty and squeeze a dollop on to his exposed skin. I notice that the tops of his sticking-out ears are starting to turn red, too, so I smear a bit on them as well.
‘Thanks, Mum,’ he quips, standing back up.
I ask him about Elaine as we walk, and Tom assures me that his small camera will be the perfect thing to use. It’s portable and has a good battery life, so I shouldn’t have to worry about plugs and wires and all that nonsense. He even has a foldaway tripod that he can give me.
‘If you go bowling in there with bags of equipment, you’ll only scare her off,’ he tells me. ‘Trust me, when it’s a one-on-one situation, it’s better to keep things intimate.’
I can’t hear the word ‘intimate’ without my mind conjuring up images of Theo, but I keep my mouth tightly shut.
It takes us about twenty minutes to make our leisurely way down the hill, both of us enjoying the feel of the sun against our London-weary joints and the incessant cacophony of cicadas, grasshoppers and crickets coming from the surrounding trees and scrub. Someone has gone to the trouble of planting roses in the flower beds next to the road, and every so often a gust of particularly determined breeze will shower little heaps of petals on to the soil. Everywhere I look there is vibrant colour, from the impenetrable cobalt sky to the pale gold stone of the distant buildings and the pinks, reds, yellows and peaches of the flowers. There are no shades of grey here, nothing that looks tired or washed out, and again I feel a rush of energy, as if my senses are on a dial that has been switched around as far as it can go.
Tom is nattering away about his plans to record a montage of shots up in the Old Town at sunset, when he’s interrupted by the sound of my phone ringing. Pulling it out and glancing at the screen, I pull a face.
‘Who is it?’ Tom leans across to get a look.
‘My horrible half-sister,’ I grunt, switching off the ringer and putting the phone resolutely back in my bag.
‘It might be important,’ Tom protests.
‘It won’t be,’ I reply, immediately irritated as I always am whenever I’m forced to talk about Nancy. ‘It will just be her calling to boast about something. That’s all she knows how to do.’
‘That’s a bit harsh,’ Tom argues, but I notice that he’s careful to keep any judgement he might feel out of his voice. He’s only met Nancy twice before – once at our graduation ceremony and again at my dad’s fiftieth birthday party – and he may have fancied her on sight, but he clearly doesn’t know her well enough to see through her act yet. The reverse is true in my case.
‘You’re one of the kindest people I know, Han. I guess it just jars to hear you talk about your own sister like she’s an enemy.’
‘Half-sister,’ I parrot automatically.
He frowns, coming to a halt on the warm pavement.
‘You know she never says anything bad about you.’
‘You’ve spoken to her all of twice,’ I point out, and Tom looks down, avoiding my eyes.
‘Well, she’s always liking your Facebook photos – and those ridiculous videos of dogs on trampolines that you post all the time,’ he mutters into the collar of his T-shirt.
It’s true, and it irks me that he’s noticed. The fact is, I actually spend a lot of time online looking at Nancy’s profile and photos, too – but only late at night when nobody can see me. And I’ve certainly never liked anything that she’s posted. I don’t even know why I do it – call it a morbid fascination.
‘We may share genes,’ I inform Tom grumpily, ‘but that’s where the similarities end. We’re never going to be friends, so there’s no point in making the effort.’
Tom looks as if he’s going to open his mouth and disagree again, but then he just sighs instead, which is only marginally less annoying. To him it might seem as if I’m being unreasonable, but he doesn’t know what it feels like to look at a person and be reminded so acutely of so much misery. Nancy represents the final nail in the coffin of my parents’ marriage, and for that I’m unable to forgive her. And anyway, she is all the things I’m always telling Tom that she is: selfish, spoilt and self-involved. Everything has always been about her, for as far back as I can remember, and I don’t want to be around someone like that, even if they do happen to be family.
We carry on walking, and when my phone starts ringing again a few minutes later, silently this time but with just enough vibration for me to feel it through the canvas shell of my bag, I resolutely decline to mention it.
Mojácar Playa consists of seventeen kilometres of wide, clean, sandy beach, an array of bars, restaurants, shops and tavernas, and an eclectic variety of plant-life. Majestic palm trees peer down at us, their sun-shrivelled leaves cracking noisily as they are buffeted by the wind, while down at ground level, cactus sit heavily in their beds, their bulbous, elongated bodies so distinctive yet alien in appearance.
Theo’s villa is a short walk from the roundabout where the main road down from the Old Town comes to an end, and I point out its bright blue door to Tom as we hurry towards the restaurant. If only I was staying in there, too, I can’t help but think. Being the one that booked it for him, I know just how beautiful it is inside, with its wooden decking complete with plunge pool and a bedroom window looking out over the water. A girl can dream, right?
We spot Theo sitting alone at an outdoor table and he stands up to greet us. After more than half an hour of walking in this heat, both Tom and I collapse gratefully into the two chairs that are in the shade, while Theo sits down comfortably in direct sunlight, his heavenly Greek complexion turning darker by the minute.
‘Claudette is over there,’ he informs us, pointing down at the beach to where our French friend has indeed stretched herself out on a sun lounger, her eyes closed and her bikini top tossed aside like a discarded sweet wrapper.
‘Ooh la la,’ Tom can’t help but joke, and I quickly avert my gaze and study the menu.
‘I would recommend the grilled sardines,’ Theo says. He’s leaning back in his seat now, the sleeves of his pale blue shirt rolled up and his fingers laced behind his head. He looks so gorgeous that I almost sob tears of lust into the pint of lemonade that’s just arrived.
‘Okay!’ I trill, chuffed to have the decision taken out of my hands while also making him happy at the same time.
Tom is still studying the menu, and I take advantage of his attention being elsewhere by sneaking a more lingering look at Theo, who is busy reading something in a tatty old book that had been face down on the table. The spine is faded yellow and the Sellotape holding the pages together has turned amber with age. There’s no cover, but I can see the word ‘Mojácar’ on the first page. Theo’s brow is knotted in concentration as his eyes skim from side to side, and I watch as his fingers caress the fragile paper.
‘Should we order for Claudette?’ Tom asks as a waitress approaches.
Theo puts the book down. ‘She’ll come and join us if she’s hungry.’
The sardines, as it turns out, are grilled outside on a barbecue that has been built inside the shell of an old fishing boat. You’re even invited to go over and choose which ones you’d like for your lunch, and I’m thrilled when Theo puts me in charge of the selection. When I return, the bread has arrived, along with what looks suspiciously like a ramekin full of mayonnaise. Suddenly ravenous, I break open a roll and stick my knife straight into the sauce.
‘Bloody hell!’
It’s garlic mayonnaise. Of course it is.
‘Fragrant, isn’t it?’ Tom announces, amused by my mortification. It’s not that I dislike garlic mayonnaise. I mean, who does? But Theo is sitting right here. He’s close enough to smell my breath. Close enough to recoil and die if I breathe on him. To make matters worse, he isn’t even eating any of it himself.
A short while later, the fish arrives, along with a tomato and onion salad thoughtfully ordered by Tom. So, to recap, that’s garlic, fish and onion breath. The only thing I’ll be snogging tonight is my toothbrush.
‘What are you reading, boss?’ asks Tom between mouthfuls. He opted for lasagne, and has already managed to drop stringy cheese into his lap.
‘A history of Mojácar,’ Theo says, holding up the book to show us. ‘I found it on the shelf in my villa, and it’s very interesting.’
I know from my own research that there aren’t many books in existence about Mojácar, and I feel a rush of irrational jealousy towards the villa bookcase for providing something for Theo that I couldn’t.
‘I had no idea how many legends are associated with the place,’ he adds, frowning slightly as he flicks through to find the right page. ‘The Indalo is just one of many.’
I use the time while he’s searching to subtly remove a sardine bone from between my teeth.
‘Ah, here we are,’ Theo says, shifting to get comfortable in his plastic chair and clearing his throat. ‘Just before you reach the Plaza Nueva in the Old Town, you will see the cave of Mariquita the Betrothed.’
‘I don’t remember any caves,’ says Tom, but I shush him.
‘The legend says that the fairy godmother of Mojácar lives in this cave,’ Theo continues, his rich, self-assured voice running over me like warm honey. ‘Once upon a time, many years ago, there was a plague in the village that had killed hundreds of local people. One day, an old wizard declared that he had found a cure for this disease, but that he would only share it on the condition that he was permitted to marry one of the beautiful young virgins in the village.’
‘Brilliant,’ says Tom, just as I mutter the word ‘pervert’.
Theo raises an eyebrow and continues reading.
‘Mariquita offered her hand to the wizard, but once he had her up in his cave, he refused to relinquish the cure, thinking that if he did, she would leave him. In order to save everyone from certain death, Mariquita waited until the wizard was asleep, then stole the jar containing the cure and healed the sick.’
‘Bravo!’ Tom cheers, tomato sauce on his chin.
‘Alas.’ Theo looks at us solemnly. ‘Mariquita was desperate to leave the wizard after what he had done, so she opened another jar of his spells and tried to kill him by pouring them into his open mouth. In her haste, she spilled some on her own hand, burning a hole right through the flesh and unleashing magic which meant she was cursed to stay up in that cave for eternity. According to this book, she’s still up there with her wizard even today.’
I put my knife and fork together and toss down my napkin.
‘That’s a creepy story,’ says Tom. ‘Do you reckon the wizard had experience of dating in London, so knew he had to take desperate measures?’
Theo chuckles at this, then turns to me.
‘How about you, Hannah?’ he asks.
I smile nervously. ‘How about me what?’
‘How do you find dating in London?’
‘Oh, you know, it’s a bit hit-and-miss,’ I tell him nonchalantly, but I can feel myself turning redder than the bowl of tomato and onion salad. Tom isn’t saying anything, perhaps because he knows full well that dating is something I haven’t done for a long time.
‘I think finding someone to date is the easy bit,’ Theo admits. ‘But finding someone who has the same mindset as you, that is far more difficult.’
I think about that shared moment between the two of us up in the square yesterday evening, and how for the first time since I met Theo, I felt like we were thinking and feeling the same thing. Do I have the right mindset for Theo? If not, I must find a way to get it.
‘I’m just very fussy,’ I say slowly, watching his eyes skate over me. If I was more like Claudette, I’d say something suggestive now and flick my hair, something to leave Theo in no doubt of how I feel about him. But I’m not, so instead I look away towards the sea.
Theo is silent until the plates have been cleared away and Tom has gone down to the beach to rouse Claudette. She’s fallen asleep and has been snoring like an idle bus for the past ten minutes.
‘I think it is good to be fussy,’ Theo says, casually picking the conversation back up.
‘You do?’ I ask.
He regards me through his sunglasses.
‘I think too often women settle for something comfortable – and men do, too. It is better to be happy alone than with the wrong person, no?’
He’s never once asked me about my love life. Not once. What the hell should I say? I don’t want him to think that I’m a prude, but then I’m not sure I agree with what he’s saying. My dad left my mum because he didn’t think she was the right person, and that decision has caused so much unhappiness.
‘Um …’ I begin, attempting to speak but only managing to gargle like a patient in a dentist’s chair.
‘The first English woman I dated was older than me,’ Theo goes on, smiling as he dredges up a no doubt pleasing memory.
I squirm, uncomfortable with where the conversation is going but equally thrilled that he’s sharing something so personal with me.
‘I was a young man of twenty-three, still living in Greece at the time. She was older, in her forties, I think, and very determined to teach me exactly what it is that a woman enjoys.’
I can’t help it; I think about my own limited sexual experience. A few casual boyfriends that never hung around more than a couple of months, a single, paltry one-night stand at university, and barely so much as a sniff since. Not for the first time since I met and fell for him, I find myself intimidated by Theo. He’s studying me closely now, my obvious unease so at odds with his easy confidence. If only I could learn to be one of those women who reduce men to jelly with just a few teasing phrases. That is never going to happen, though. Not to me, not to Hannah Hodges: celibate beanpole.
I never get to find out what Theo was about to say next, because Claudette arrives back at the table and immediately starts bemoaning the fact that she’s burnt her nipples while we’ve been eating.
‘Put some ice on them,’ Theo instructs, standing up and slipping his tattered paperback into his pocket. ‘We’ve got work to do.’
7
Elaine’s house is nestled at the very top of the Old Town, along a cobbled street decorated with trailing bougainvillea and jacaranda trees, their respective pink and lilac petals carpeting the pathway like confetti. Her front door is painted a bright, cheerful yellow, while the
shutters on each of the front windows are a deep turquoise, with flowers painted around the edges on the white stone.
‘Did you do these?’ I ask, enchanted, as she readies her keys.
Elaine smiles. ‘I did. I do new ones at the beginning of each summer.’
‘They’re beautiful,’ I tell her. ‘You have a real talent.’
Once we’ve crossed the threshold, I realise that the painted flowers outside were merely a cherry on Elaine’s huge trifle of talent. There’s barely a space between all the exquisite landscapes cluttering the walls, and she’s covered the entire back door leading out to a small courtyard garden with an intricate image of twisted foliage. Taking a step closer to examine it in more detail, I can see the individual brush strokes where she’s added veins to the leaves.
‘This is amazing,’ I murmur, genuinely at a loss for anything more articulate to say. ‘It looks so real that I can almost smell it.’
Elaine, who is busying herself preparing a large glass jug of iced tea for the two of us to share, merely nods some thanks at me over her shoulder. Trying to look like the professional camerawoman that I most definitely am not, I unfold Tom’s tripod and start fiddling with the bag containing the camera.
‘I thought we could sit outside, if that’s okay?’ Elaine says, opening her beautiful painted door. There’s a small table and chairs in the yard, along with a number of flowerpots of various shapes and sizes. A strip of sunlight bunting is stretched across the outer wall, and a large blue-and-white clay Indalo Man hangs by the kitchen window.
‘I spend a lot of time out here,’ Elaine explains, bending down to remove a weed from one of her many pots and dropping it over the wall. ‘It’s a great place to paint or read, or simply sit and listen to the birds singing.’
‘The birds in Mojácar really do like a song,’ I reply, thinking back to the wake-up call of my first morning here.
‘I like to think it’s because they’re happy,’ she says, smiling at me as she sits down. She’s wearing a long green dress today and her hair is once again pulled back off her face. The bangles are still in situ on her wrist, and I notice that she’s added a hint of rouge to her lips.
Then. Now. Always. Page 6
