Then. Now. Always.

by Isabelle Broom

  Last night when I arrived at the villa, he wasn’t slow and measured with me like he’s being now. He’d barely opened the door before grabbing my shoulders and pinning me against the wall with hot, passionate kisses. I’d responded with enthusiasm, lifting up my legs and wrapping them around his waist as he pulled my underwear to one side. This time he was prepared, and within a few minutes our bodies came together and connected with a unified cry of pleasure. For a man of medium height and build, Theo is a lot stronger than he looks, and when we’d finished in the kitchen he had no trouble scooping me up and carrying me through here, to the bedroom, where we started all over again.

  I didn’t have time to feel embarrassed about the whiteness of my untanned boobs, all I had room for was Theo – his mouth, his hands, his need for me. My dreams were coming true, and I was relishing every little taste of it.

  If anything, though, this morning is better. I like that he’s taking his time to kiss every inch of me, that I have time to process what I’m feeling and savour the solidness of him as we move together. He never closes his eyes, either, but he’s not smiling. His expression is far weightier as he looks down at me, as if he’s trying to work out a puzzle. I grin at him in an attempt to lighten the mood and get him to laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of it all – of us together in this way – but Theo pulls me up and kisses me until I start to see black spots. I can hear my breaths growing shorter and shallower, and then finally, deliciously, I give in to the waves that are flooding over me.

  Theo mutters something in Greek as he eases backwards on the mattress and wipes the sweat from his face. He looks flushed and serious, and I find that I can’t quite meet his eyes. My body is still tingling and I want him to lie down again and hold me; I want him to kiss me deeply and with feeling, but instead he takes a deep breath and swings his feet around to the tiled floor. Strolling naked to the corner of the room, he picks up a towel and gives me a brief smile, before heading towards the bathroom.

  Should I follow him? I wonder, pulling the sheet up and across my naked body as I hear the shower begin to run. Or should I get up and make us coffee, fetch some water? It feels so surreal to be here with him, to have shared myself with him so entirely, and now that my heart rate is slowing and the metaphorical dust is settling, I find myself anchored to the bed with indecision.

  I should get up and make the bed at least, put some clothes on. Maybe one of his shirts? That’s what girls do, right? Men love that. But what if he’s annoyed? What if he’d rather I didn’t put my sweaty beanpole limbs into his no-doubt expensive shirt sleeves?

  The shower has stopped.

  Rearing up out of the bed at speed, I’ve only just managed to yank my little black dress back on when Theo reappears, dripping water and looking good enough to eat off a cracker.

  ‘Help yourself to a shower,’ he says, bending over and picking up my bra from the floor.

  ‘Thanks.’ I snatch it out of his hand and ball it up with my pants. ‘But it’s okay. I’ll grab one back at the apartment before I go to meet Elaine.’

  ‘Whatever you prefer,’ Theo says, turning his back on me to rummage in his drawers for some clothes.

  ‘I should leave you to … I mean, I’ll make us coffee. If that’s okay? Shall I? Or should I go?’

  He pauses and eyes me with amusement.

  ‘Hannah,’ he says, beckoning me to him with a finger.

  I cross the room shyly, and he strokes my cheek with one hand.

  ‘You don’t have to be nervous. I am not, how do you say it, going to eat your head.’

  I giggle at that.

  ‘Now,’ he instructs, giving me a quick peck on the lips. ‘Run along and do your interview. I will see you later, yes?’

  I nod. ‘Of course.’

  As soon as I’m a safe distance from the villa, I switch on my phone and predictably find two missed calls and a text from Tom. Understandably, he’s pretty pissed off with me for ditching our plan to have a drink last night – not least because I didn’t even tell him that I was. I thought about it, I really did, but I didn’t know what to say. All I could think when I got that message from Theo was how best and how fast I could get down to the villa. In my excitement, poor Tom became an afterthought – and now I do feel genuinely guilty. But what choice did I have? I’ve been waiting years for Theo to summon me over for sex, whereas Tom and I can go for a drink anytime.

  I send him a quick message now apologising, explaining that I fell asleep on the sofa and failed to hear the phone. It’s utterly lame, but I don’t want to share the Theo news via text. If I do decide to tell Tom what’s just happened, I want it to be face-to-face.

  It’s still early, but the sky is a solid sweep of blue, and the red pavement tiles feel warm beneath my shoes. I cross the road and stroll past the immaculate lawns outside the shopping centre, enjoying the feel of the mellow breeze against my skin and the scent of pine in the air. Everything here is so clean and well cared for – there is no litter or graffiti, and the colours seem to sing. I think of Acton High Street back in London, with its muted palette of greys and browns, its overflowing bins and complicated pattern of black chewing gum trodden into the paving slabs. The faces of the people I pass here are sun-warmed and open, which is such a contrast to the downcast and occasionally even hostile locals back home. If only London had a beach, or sunshine, or the sea. If only people could learn to love their city again and respect their neighbours. I must try to be a better citizen, I think to myself, as I start the long trudge up the hill. I need to remember this Mojácar feeling and take it with me when I leave. I don’t ever want to forget how it feels to be here.

  My buoyant post-coital mood lasts right up until I reach the apartment door, only to have it yanked open by Claudette before I’ve even had time to get the key in.

  ‘There you are!’ she cries. ‘About time.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ I ask, utterly mystified by her sudden concern for my whereabouts.

  ‘We didn’t know where you were,’ she exclaims, leading me through into the main living space where Nancy, Carlos and – oh, wow – Ignacio are all waiting. My sister is obviously feeling better, because she’s snuggled so tightly against her Spanish admirer that she’s in danger of being swallowed whole.

  Poor Tom, I think fleetingly.

  ‘I was out,’ I say, trying not to think about the underwear in my handbag and the trace of Theo all over my skin.

  ‘So, it’s not okay if Nancy wants a night out, but when you bugger off it’s fine?’

  I frown at Claudette. She’s clearly just repeating what Nancy has said to her. So much for a sisterly truce.

  ‘And we know you weren’t with Tom,’ Claudette interrupts as I open my mouth. ‘He’s been just as worried as we were.’

  ‘You’re all being silly,’ I say, laughing gently to try and lift the mood. I look first at Nancy and then back to Claudette. ‘As you can see, I’m absolutely fine.’

  I’m acting as if all this third-degree nonsense isn’t bothering me, but it is. Claudette must have been the one who let Ignacio into the apartment, and I don’t like the way he’s pawing at Nancy, even if right now she appears not to mind.

  ‘It looks as if you’ve all been enjoying your own cosy sleepover anyway,’ I mutter, going to the fridge and extracting a cold bottle of water.

  I think I see Nancy wince at my words, but I don’t care. I don’t see why I’m the one in the wrong all of a sudden. I left her tucked up asleep in my bed – it’s not as if she was in any danger.

  ‘Who were you with?’ Claudette asks then, her tone ultra-casual.

  I pause on my way to the bedroom.

  ‘Nobody you know.’

  I shuffle my feet against the tiles. She’s seen straight through my lie as if it’s made of glass.

  ‘You’re making a mistake getting involved with him,’ she replies, giving me a look that has more sharp edges than the contents of a toolbox. Carlos reaches up from his seat to hold her hand, but
she bats him away.

  ‘I’m not saying this to be unkind, Hannah. I think you need to be careful.’

  ‘I have no idea what you’re on about,’ I tell her honestly. She’s being absolutely mental – more insane than usual, which is really saying something. And as for Nancy, she can forget about that phone call I was going to make to Dad today to help smooth things over between them. If she’s going to sit there and let Claudette moan at me without saying a word, well then, I don’t see why I should go out of my way for her.

  ‘Listen, I’m sorry that you were worried about me,’ I tell the four of them. ‘But I’m fine, really. I can look after myself.’

  I see Nancy sit up and open her mouth as if she’s going to say something, but before she has a chance I turn away and go into the bedroom, closing the door firmly behind me.

  24

  I’m still feeling mildly indignant forty minutes later when I knock tentatively on Elaine’s front door, but as soon as she opens it and welcomes me inside, some of the tension leaves my rigid body. I love this place, filled as it is with trinkets and paintings – the colourful clutter of a lifetime spent in Mojácar. Elaine herself is decorated today, too, in a beige smock covered in paint splatters.

  ‘I lost track of time,’ she explains, crossing to the kitchen sink to wash her hands. Peering through the window into the little courtyard garden, I see the beginnings of a painting propped up on an easel.

  ‘Is that La Fuente?’ I ask, accepting a glass of fresh orange juice.

  ‘Very good.’ She looks pleased, and I return her smile.

  ‘Are you painting it from memory?’

  ‘I am,’ she admits, dropping her eyes bashfully. ‘I can see it in my head whenever I close my eyes, so why go to the trouble of carrying my canvas all the way down there?’

  ‘Why indeed?’ I agree with a smile.

  Elaine pops upstairs to get changed while I set up the camera and tripod, this time choosing an angle that will capture plenty of her artwork in the background. If she’s going to appear in the documentary, she may as well use it as an opportunity to advertise her talent. When she reappears, I reach into my bag and extract the print that Theo bought for me in San José, of Mojácar with the double rainbow.

  ‘Is this one of yours?’ I ask, holding it up, and her eyes widen in surprise.

  ‘Yes! How did you know?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ I admit. ‘I was just drawn to it, and then the more I looked at it, the more I thought you must have painted it. Plus, it has the rainbows.’

  Elaine has arranged herself on a small red sofa while we’ve been talking, her bangles clinking together as she tucks away a loose strand of hair.

  ‘You know how much I love those,’ she tells me, and I switch on the camera.

  ‘Why two rainbows?’ I ask. ‘You don’t see two like that very often, do you?’

  ‘Hardly ever,’ she agrees, crossing and then uncrossing her legs. ‘In fact, I’ve only ever seen it happen once in my life.’

  ‘Was it here?’ I guess, but she shakes her head.

  ‘It was in London, actually – not long before I left for the last time.’

  I remember what Theo said, about pushing Elaine to tell me the reason why she ended up here, and the beginning is as good a place as any to start.

  ‘Why did you leave?’ I ask quietly, and I see her tense up a fraction. I’m just about to apologise for being nosy and move the conversation on, when she starts to talk.

  ‘As I told you before,’ she begins, glancing at the camera and then back at me, ‘I never knew my father. I was brought up by my mother in a huge house on the outskirts of the city. She always told me that a rich friend had left it to her in their will, but I realised years later that it was more likely to be a squat.’

  I risk a sip of juice, not taking my eyes off Elaine as she continues to speak.

  ‘She had an open-door policy, and as long as people donated food, then they were welcome to stay.’

  ‘What about school?’ I enquire, but Elaine shakes her head.

  ‘My mother didn’t really believe in modern education. She wanted to raise me in her own way, and it was far easier to slip through the system in those days.’

  ‘You poor thing,’ I murmur, but Elaine disagrees.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry. I thought it was the greatest. I was free to do whatever I wanted, and the older I got, the less my mum kept tabs on me. She was very loving towards people, my mother, just not to me.’

  ‘Is that why you left?’ I want to know.

  Elaine pauses before answering, a faraway look on her face.

  ‘In the end, I had no reason to stay,’ she says simply, but we both know there’s more to the story than she’s letting on.

  ‘One of the women who passed through and stayed with us at the house for a time was Spanish. She had fallen in love with an Englishman and come back to the UK with him, but their relationship hadn’t worked out and she was so sad, so broken. He had left her with very little, and so my mother took her in and held her hand while she cried for this great lost love. Eventually Bonita started to talk about her home, about a village hidden in the mountains where fresh water runs out of the fountains and all of your wishes come true.’

  ‘Mojácar?’ I whisper, and her eyes gleam.

  ‘Yes. Mojácar.’

  ‘What happened to her, Bonita?’ I ask, half-wondering if she’s in a house around the corner even as we speak.

  ‘She died.’ Elaine looks almost apologetic. ‘Took an overdose while she was living with us. My mum was so angry about it. I remember her saying that she’d ruined everything, and that now the police would be sniffing around.’

  She doesn’t mention drugs, but it’s obvious that there must have been some in that house. I try to picture the scene inside, of human bodies slumped against ragged sofas, ashtrays overflowing with joint stubs and peace signs daubed on the walls. It doesn’t seem like a very safe place for a child to be.

  ‘Love can be a dangerous thing,’ Elaine says now. ‘When you have it and can feel it in return, it’s the most wonderful, precious thing in the world, but if you lose it … Well, it can be so destructive.’

  ‘Have you ever been in love?’ I ask boldly, glancing down at the Indalo Man tattoo on my wrist. Elaine sees me do it and smiles at me with affection.

  ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘But not in the way in which you are thinking.’

  ‘Are there more ways than one?’ I wonder aloud, but I already know the answer. I know because I love my mum, and I love Tom, I guess, but then I think what I feel for Theo is a kind of love, too.

  ‘Each love is different,’ Elaine says. ‘People talk of great love, but sometimes that is the most precarious of all. When love makes you unsteady and unsure, it can be more of an enemy than something to treasure. Love needs to be strong, to prop you up and make you happy.’

  ‘You seem to know so much about it,’ I tell her. ‘You must have had a great love to know what it is.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ She gives me a sideways look. ‘Or perhaps I just notice things. Like you, for example.’

  ‘Me?’ I can feel myself starting to blush. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Something has happened since I saw you last,’ she remarks. ‘You can’t sit still, and there is a new colour in your cheeks.’

  ‘That’s probably sunburn,’ I joke, but I can feel myself squirming as she gazes at me.

  ‘How are you getting along with your sister?’ she asks now, thankfully changing the subject.

  ‘Not much better,’ I reply, filling her in briefly on what happened this morning at the apartment.

  ‘Why do you really think she came here?’ Elaine asks when I finish, and I find I have no idea how to answer her.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I tell her honestly. ‘She says it’s because she wanted a holiday, but then she refuses to sunbathe. And she didn’t even tell our dad that she was coming, which is really odd because she’s always been his little pet.’


  ‘Perhaps things have changed,’ Elaine suggests, and I have to agree.

  ‘It still doesn’t make sense for her to come here, though,’ I say, realising that until this moment I clearly haven’t given the matter enough consideration. ‘Even if she has had a row with my dad, she and I aren’t exactly best friends.’

  ‘Did you ever get on?’ Elaine wants to know.

  ‘I was excited when she was born,’ I say, recounting what my mum has told me about that time of my life. ‘But she was a clingy baby and hated it when I held her. She’s wailing her head off in all the photos of the two of us.’

  ‘Babies do that,’ Elaine remarks.

  ‘Well, Nancy did it until she was at least six,’ I reply. ‘And then she was never fun to play with. She would scream if I didn’t let her win at everything, and she would cheat at games, then blame it on me. When we were both teenagers, I was over at my dad’s for the weekend and I heard her saying awful things about me to her mum, all this stuff about how I looked like a boy, and that she was embarrassed to be related to me.’

  ‘That’s cruel,’ Elaine allows. ‘But she was still young. Teenagers say lots of things they don’t mean.’

  ‘She did mean it,’ I argue. ‘I know she did. I refused to go back there after that. I told my dad that if he wanted to see me, then he’d have to take me out for the day. Then, of course, Nancy got jealous. She thought I was getting special treatment, but she didn’t understand that she got to see my dad every day, she got to live in his house with him. I didn’t have that any more because of her and her mother. I had one single day with him every two weeks, and still she wanted more.’

  There’s a silence as I catch my breath.

  ‘Sorry,’ I mutter, taking another sip of juice. ‘I shouldn’t be ranting at you like this. It’s very unprofessional and unreasonable of me.’