‘Go to sofa place near Arrivals.’
‘Have. On third latte.’
‘Careful, not good idea before exercise. Or is he happy to do all the work?’
‘Shut up.’
Another buzz. ‘Estoy aquí!’
I dashed off, wanting to be there before he came out and cursing Jeremy’s stupid texts for distracting me from the board.
He was wearing a brown leather jacket and dark jeans; it looked like he’d been shopping. He was all at once flamenco hunk and sweet, vulnerable displaced person; I needed to get my arms round him and take him home immediately.
‘Javi!’
He looked over, his face breaking into a big smile. Then we were in each other’s arms and squeezing away the nerves and doubts, all that sea and mountain between our homes.
‘Yoli! No llores!’
‘I can’t help it,’ I said, wiping under each eye, ‘and I thought you’d never get here.’
‘I know, the aeroplane had problems. But come now, we take the metro.’
‘No, the train.’
‘But the metro is faster?’
‘If there was one, maybe.’ He looked puzzled. ‘Didn’t you look out of the window? You’re in the countryside, el campo.’
‘Then why it is called London Gatwick?’
‘Good question. But it’s just half an hour on the train and—’
‘So we go here,’ he said, turning us towards the monorail.
‘No, that’s a… train to the other half of the airport.’
‘Dios mío.’
I got in the ticket office queue but he went over to a machine and took some notes out of a plastic envelope.
‘Which station?’ he asked.
‘Well… we need travelcards for zone—’
‘Qué?’
We’d just have to get bus tickets later. ‘London Bridge.’
‘Vale.’
He tapped away; I half expected him to make it produce a hot chocolate. He pulled out the tickets with a triumphant grin and we went down to the platform.
‘Ay qué frio!’ He shivered.
‘What’s it like in Granada?’
‘We have some warm days now,’ he said, and under the harsh lighting I could see a sprinkle of un-Spanish freckles over his nose.
We cuddled up in the train. I told him about the tour bus but he wasn’t interested; he was here to see me, he said, not London, although he liked the idea of walking along the canal. Perhaps he thought it would be like the Darro and make him feel at home.
We stood in front of the house, looking up at the facade.
‘Beautiful. Very old building?’
‘Yes, but the flats inside are modern.’
‘Is a shame.’
‘Yes. But we can’t blame Jeremy, they were like this before he bought the house.’
I quickly searched my bag for the keys; I didn’t want Jeremy - probably hearing every word of this - breaking his word and accidentally-on-purpose coming out into the hall to give him a full explanation.
‘Very nice, Yoli,’ he said, as I opened the door. ‘And warm too. You leave heat on while you are away?’ He took off his jacket.
‘No, Jeremy must have put it on for us earlier.’
‘Ah, kind.’ He went over to the mantelpiece and looked at my photos. I’d put the two of Jeremy and me in a drawer, but the little sod must have noticed and put them back - including the one of us riding an airbed in the sea, my arms around his bronzed chest.
‘David?’
‘No! Why would I have one of him? Jeremy.’
‘Qué quapo. Tell me again that he is completely gay.’
‘He is completely gay.’
‘But he likes to hug you.’
‘Sometimes.’
‘And kiss you.’ He pointed to the bookshelf. A new photo: the one Emma had taken of us down by the canal. What the hell was Jeremy doing?
‘Just friendly, that’s all. Come on, we’ve been through this.’ I opened the fridge: paper-thin ham, Spanish omelette and tomato salad from the deli. A bottle of wine - I hadn’t told Jeremy about Javi’s problem with it - and some juice. ‘Want a drink? Something to eat?’
‘No, just you,’ he said, and I giggled as his arms came round me and he nibbled my neck. ‘Ah. You have six messages - look.’
The phone’s red light was flashing.
‘It’ll just be Helen telling me what we’re wearing on Wednesday.’
‘Six times?’
‘I wouldn’t put it past her.’
‘What?’
‘She doesn’t give up easily,’ I explained.
He was fixing me with those big eyes. I looked at the phone. I looked back at him. I didn’t want to stand there listening to a gushy have-a-great-time-together from Charlotte, a burst of crudity from Emma. But I also didn’t want to look like I had something to hide.
My alto flute was repaired and ready for collection.
Helen wanted us in our burgundy dresses.
Helen wanted my hair up please, not just in a plait.
Javi laughed and started winding my hair up into a mad bun, while clicking noises suggested that she had indeed not given up easily, but decided she needed to speak to me rather than leave any more messages.
And then David wanted me to know how much he’d loved seeing me, did I like the photo, and was the first of May okay for the show.
The crazy hairdo landed back on my shoulders. I stared at the phone in disbelief; it felt like a prank.
‘Maybe he has sent in e-mail,’ Javi said quietly.
‘I don’t know what he means.’
He folded his arms and looked at the floor. ‘But you have much more idea than me,’ he said. If I were him, I thought, I’d want to know what the hell was going on and be saying so with both volume and tears. But he just stood there, waiting patiently. But then not so patiently. ‘Are you going to tell me about this?’ He picked a glass off the drainer and filled it with tap water, downed the lot.
‘I bumped into him in Foy… where I buy music. A few weeks ago. We went to the coffee shop and he said sorry for… what he did. We talked about you, his new girlfriend…’
‘But he wants to take you to a show.’
‘Yes. I thought he’d forget about that.’
‘But he can’t forget. Perhaps he—’
‘No! It’s not like that.’ I breathed out heavily. ‘Look, he just wants to be friends. Probably coz he feels bad. And the photo - I don’t know what he’s on about.’
‘Maybe he made one on his mobile, when you were in the shop.’
‘Then it’ll just be me gazing at something. Oh - I think I know…’
I grabbed his arm and took him through to the computer. Yes, me gazing lovingly at the Javi and Yoli on the front cover of Salut d’Amour. He’d taken it without me noticing.
He smiled. ‘You buy this?’
‘Yes, and a couple of others too. You don’t have to play it, I just—’
But he’d pulled me up from the chair and started kissing me. Then led me into the bedroom without bothering with the light, and started to undo his jeans. No first clearing up and getting ready for bed tonight then, I thought, a flutter of excitement shooting through me. But when he pushed me down onto the bed before I could take my top off I realised there wasn’t going to be much else first either. Then he yanked down my jeans and knickers and was on top of me, pushing in hard then just lying there, silent, his face in darkness.
‘Javi?’ I put my arms round him, stroked his t-shirted back and waited for the Javi I knew to come back. I could hardly breathe. I wriggled underneath him.
He put a hand to my cheek. ‘Is where I want to be. Te quiero tanto.’ He wanted or loved me so much. Perhaps both. ‘Es problema.’
‘No es problema.’
A shard of light. A burst of conversation. Spanish conversation. What? I opened my eyes. Javi was on the balcony discussing - as far as I could tell - the winter wrapping of the banana plants. I imagined Jeremy out on
his balcony the minute he’d heard the door of mine open. Something was planned for half an hour’s time. I heard my name followed by laughter.
Javi came back into the room and sat on the bed, combing my hair with his fingers. I tried to pull him in next to me.
‘No,’ he said with a grin, getting up and picking up the breakfast tray. ‘Greedy girl. And you would sleep again. We are going to take coffee with Jeremy. Ven. Bath.’
I waited until Javi was in the kitchen and then grabbed my phone.
‘No inquisition please,’ I texted.
‘The Spanish like inquisitions.’
‘Don’t or you in big trouble.’
It had been his idea for me to do the Compás class (Javi thanked him); did he know La Encima in Almería’s Plaza Vieja, one of Jeremy’s all-time favourite restaurants? (he didn’t); why had Javi chosen Granada instead of Sevilla or Madrid (a discussion that ended rather flatly in geographical convenience). All this even before the coffee was ready.
We sat down on the sofa, Jeremy opposite us like an earnest interviewer. Pavlova scrutinized each of us and decided that the lap of least tension was Javi’s.
Then Jeremy moved on to Granada and they lost me, but judging from the awkwardness of the exchanges he was discussing his difficulties there when researching for After Lorca. Then Javi watched Jeremy’s hand patting my thigh as he described how I’d gone with him once and kept dragging him off to the Tetería Kasbah for exotic tea and crepes.
‘Yes! She has taken me there too,’ Javi replied in English. ‘And the book, the English are interested in Lorca?’
‘Well, the novel’s as much about the researcher and what he learns about himself while he’s there.’
‘So… it’s about you?’
Jeremy hesitated. ‘Partly. As for any writer.’
‘He’s got a copy in Spanish, if you’d like to read it,’ I said.
‘Oh yes, thank you.’ Jeremy pulled one from the shelf. ‘And thank you for the tickets for the ballet show tomorrow also. Can I—?’
‘Oh no. My treat,’ Jeremy said. ‘If you’ve only ever seen a touring company’s Swan Lake, you’re in for a surprise. And the Royal Opera House is a beautiful place. But we don’t go there very often, being patrons of Sadler’s Wells - the dance theatre round the corner.’
‘Patrones?’
I wondered if patrones was the right word in Spanish. How it was translating into his financially modest granadino life.
‘So… you have paid to help…?’
‘Each year. We get priority tickets, rehearsals. And first night parties where we can talk to choreographers and dancers.’
‘Jeremy does. I just eat up all the puddings…’ I sipped my coffee. ‘Haven’t you got any biscuits, Jeremy?’
Jeremy seemed to be ignoring my glares. ‘It’s a great theatre - they put on all kinds of different dance. Including an annual flamenco festival.’
‘Ah yes, Yoli has told me of this.’
Jeremy pulled the festival programme out of the shelf and handed it to Javi.
I watched him flick through. ‘Oh - María Pagés… you met her at theatre party?’
‘No, I was in Spain. Yol went.’
I shrugged as if there was no way I was going to recognise or talk to anybody there, gave Javi back his arm and got up. ‘I’m sure I got you some Ginger Thins.’
I went to the cupboard, but even from there I could see that Javi had turned over to Nando and Toni’s double spread, the two of them moodily standing there on opposite pages.
‘Molino y Morales. Of course,’ he said.
‘You’ve seen them?’ asked Jeremy.
‘No. Is not my kind of flamenco. But sometimes they are interviewed on television - very nice men, and funny.’
‘Would you agree with that, Yol?’
I was moving jars and packets around in the cupboard, including the Green and Black for Nando’s chocolate, for God’s sake. I pretended I hadn’t heard, hoping the conversation would somehow go away. Wondered if I could go away, suggest looking in my kitchen…
‘Yol? What do you think - are Molino and Morales nice, funny men?’ He turned to Javi. ‘It’s true, she mostly just eats the puddings there, but on this occasion she shared one with Fernando Morales. Then went for dinner with him the next evening! Very intelligent, agreeable chap, I liked him. Where are you going, Yol? We don’t need biscuits, sit down.’
‘Where did he take you?’ Javi asked, smiling but with wide, serious eyes.
‘The Spanish place on the corner,’ I said, sinking down next to him and resting my hand on a tense shoulder. ‘It was no big deal, they were all going there.’
Jeremy said something in Spanish about me not realising something about myself, leaning forward and stroking my knee.
Javi pushed Pavolva off his lap, thanked Jeremy for the coffee and said we better let him get on with his writing, perhaps we’d see him later.
Back in my flat he clapped Jeremy’s novel down on the table.
‘So this is why you take flamenco.’
‘What?’
‘You meet Fernando Morales then you decide to come to Granada for flamenco. Or for flamencos.’
‘No! I told you, I booked my course and started flamenco lessons in January.’
‘Why you didn’t tell me that you met him? You told me of the festival, so why not this? I don’t understand.’
‘I suppose I thought you might get the wrong idea,’ I said. He was scowling. ‘And it looks like I was right,’ I added, trying to smile.
He picked up his jacket from the chair and put it on.
‘Where are we going?’
‘I forget the cream for shaving.’
‘Oh don’t bother - Jeremy can give you some.’
‘Already I have enough from Jeremy,’ he said. ‘And also I need to go out.’ I went to unhook my fleece. ‘Solo.’
Before I could think what to say he was out of the flat and through the front door. I grabbed my keys and stood in the hallway, wondering whether I should dash out after him. But that could have meant having a scene right in front of Jeremy’s window.
Jeremy. I unlocked his door and barged in.
‘What the fuck are you doing? He’s gone off! Happy?’
He turned round from his computer, leaned back in his chair. ‘Well go after him then, what are you doing here?’
‘I’m here because you’re the problem! It’s got to stop!’
An irritating sigh. ‘What are you on about? This is your life Yol, if he can’t cope with it, that’s the problem.’
‘No it’s you - the photos on the mantelpiece—’
‘What—?’
‘And then you have to bring up Nando. How the hell d’you think that looks?’
‘I thought you would have told him. You said you had no secrets, were sublimely confortable together.’
‘We were, until you messed it up!’
‘Now look, calm down.’ He stood up and came towards me. ‘Come on, it’ll be fine, he’ll be back soon - as long as he doesn’t get lost out there…’
I considered falling into his arms, but it was suddenly more gratifying to give that pitying and impenitent face a hard slap.
‘Ow!’ He put a hand to his cheek. ‘What’s that for? I’m on your side, you stupid girl!’ He examined his fingers. ‘And next time trim your claws, you’ve drawn blood.’
‘Good!’ I slammed the door behind me, just getting to my bed in time for the tears.
He had it coming, served him bloody well right. And yes, Javi would be back soon, it would be okay. But I’d never again be quite so much his sweet, trustworthy Yoli. Nor the fellow money-strapped music teacher, now Jeremy had painted us as a couple of spoilt, wealthy benefactors. Hell! Why hadn’t I told Jeremy off about that too? But then talking about Sadler’s was just stupid, compared to the deliberately inciting bit about Nando.
Nando. Suddenly it all came back to me: lying here crying the morning after… Oh why did I have
to go and let him… So wrong. Desperate. Just be grateful nobody will ever know. Including Jeremy: proud of his good-girl Yol being asked out to dinner by such a talented and beautiful man. Oh God, perhaps I’d been a bit unfair: he didn’t know.
A faint doorbell: Jeremy’s. Spanish. Javi must have pressed Jeremy’s by mistake. Then Jeremy was letting him into the flat.
‘Where are you?’ Javi was saying. He came through to the bedroom.
‘Oh no,’ he said, sitting me back on the bed with his arm round me. ‘I’m sorry. But you have to understand - David, Jeremy, Fernando Morales…’
‘You’ve got absolutely nothing to worry about. Surely you can see that.’
He put his finger under my chin and searched my eyes. Then smiled. ‘Okay. But living so far, we need to have much confianza in each other. I always tell you the truth, even from before we were novios, and you must do the same. Dame la verdad, like they say in flamenco.’
‘Yes, I promise.’
He pushed me back onto the bed and cuddled me. ‘I’m sorry I went out like that. It was… everything too much. But I found your river… your canal. Let’s have lunch there.’
I smiled and nodded: lunch at the Darro-substitute. He stroked my cheek and I fought down guilty feelings about Jeremy’s.
‘After we are completely mend…’
‘That’s beautiful. Can I come and listen?’ Jeremy texted.
‘Tomorrow, when ready.’
‘When concert is ready, or you are ready to forgive me?’
‘Both.’
A few minutes passed.
‘LU,’ I read.
‘LU2 and sorry.’
‘Helen?’ Javi asked.
‘Jeremy. He wants a concert. I said tomorrow, when we’ve got a full programme for him.’
‘Yes, because still we need more flamenco.’
‘What d’you mean, we’ve already got—’
‘Of course, but also together.’
‘Oh no, I really can’t, come on.’
‘Maybe if we take something you know, some flamenco fusion… Ah yes, like the instrumental por tangos, you know, on your Ketama CD. You could play the part for the violin on the flute.’
We listened to the track. The melody was easy enough, but even though I’d heard it many times the form still seemed to obey an ancient code; as usual, flamenco bewitched me but kept its secrets out of my reach.
FLAMENCO BABY Page 14
