Seducing the Spaniard: She wanted revenge any way she could get it

by Clare Connelly

  “No, I’m serious, babes. A real problem.”

  Carrie rolled her eyes. “What?”

  “Um, well, I answered your phone, and, um, I think Gael is planning to come here. To see you.”

  “What?” Carrie stared at her best friend in total surprise. “When?”

  “He said within an hour.”

  “No, no, no,” she said angrily, throwing her shoes across her bedroom. “Why won’t he just get lost?”

  Juanita nodded, a sympathetic grimace on her face. Then, an idea occurred to her. “Hey, why don’t we?” She whispered conspiratorially. “Pack some stuff; let’s go to a hotel. He’ll never find us.”

  Carrie stared at Juanita long and hard, and finally nodded. The small part of her that wanted to see Gael was noisily drowned out by the fear she felt at meeting him again. “Where will we go?”

  Juanita laughed. “Let’s go to the Ritz and book their best available room. Let’s spoil ourselves.”

  Carrie joined in the laughter, though inside she was dying. “Yes, let’s.”

  She pulled items from her wardrobe – just enough for a night or two. Some silk pyjamas, underwear, a few dresses, jeans, and her make up bag. She grabbed it defiantly, though she knew she’d never feel the same about it after Gael had made her confront her addiction head on.

  She stuffed it all into her suitcase and then dragged it bumpily down the stairs.

  “Oh, shoot!” She said at the bottom. “Call a cab. I’ll just be a moment.”

  She ran back upstairs and surveyed her reflection in the mirror. She’d met with a potential investor earlier that day. Despite the copious amounts of champagne she’d consumed, her appearance was still fine. Glamorous, she could even have said. Maybe they’d go for drinks once they checked in? She smiled as she ran back down the stairs and lifted the handle on her bag. “You ready, slow coach?”

  “Yeah! Just getting Tom to bring me some things.”

  “You can borrow my stuff. Let’s go!”

  “Hang on!”

  Carrie rolled her eyes, then leaned against the door. It knocked almost instantly. “The cab’s here, Win,” she shouted.

  Juanita appeared as Carrie wrenched the door inwards. “But I didn’t order a cab yet,” she giggled.

  Gael was a dark, ominous presence as he took in the scene. His expression was a barely contained emotion; his hair dark, his eyes glittering, his clothes black. His eyes lingered for a second longer than was necessary on Carrie’s slender frame, before moving past her to Juanita.

  In different circumstances, he might have been amused by the way the equally waif-like best friend clamoured to protect Carrie, moving her body between the two of them, with green eyes that blistered with indignation. “You’re not welcome here,” she said furiously.

  Gael spoke slowly. “As I said earlier, I’m willing to discuss just how badly I behaved at another time. Right now, I need Carrie.”

  “Tough,” Juanita snapped, putting an arm around Carrie’s waist reassuringly. “She doesn’t want to see you.”

  Gael waited for Carrie to contradict her friend, but she stayed silent.

  “Carrie…”

  “Don’t you get it? You two are O-V-E-R. You’re acting like a loser, chasing her like this.”

  Carrie sent Juanita a sidelong glance. She was obviously warming to the theme of valiant protector.

  “Carrie…”

  “Don’t speak to her!” Juanita shouted, pushing at his chest now.

  Gael didn’t budge. He was like a boulder; firm and intractable.

  “Carrie…”

  “What kind of thick, stupid …”

  “Diego is dead, Carrie.”

  Carrie opened her mouth, then shut it again. She opened her mouth, then closed it, over and over, like a fish, struggling for food. She clutched for Juanita, and grabbed her shirt, but it was not enough. She fell to the floor, rendered unconscious by the shocking delivery of such news.

  She came to almost instantly, her eyes clouded with confusion. Gael crouched beside her, his hands confident at her back.

  She shook her head, and when she spoke, her mouth was thick. “I thought you just said …”

  “He’s dead.”

  Carrie, who had been fighting tears almost constantly for a week, didn’t cry now. She pushed up off the floor and brushed her dress of any invisible flecks of dust. “Let’s go.”

  Juanita was silent. She didn’t look at Gael. “Do you need me to do anything, Care-Bear?”

  Carrie turned around, and the sight of Juanita’s gentle face finally brought tears to her eyes. Her lower lip quivered. “I … I don’t know,” she whispered.

  Juanita wrapped her arms around her best friend’s shoulders and pulled her close. “Be brave, beautiful.”

  Carrie nodded, trying to bring her tears in check. “I’ll call you.”

  Gael must have stowed Carrie’s suitcase, because it was gone. She slid into his car and stared at the mews street. It looked different somehow.

  It wasn’t until they were clear of London that Carrie heard herself say, “When?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “Yesterday?” She squeezed her eyes shut. “Why didn’t anyone …?”

  “Your mother tried to call you last night. Your phone was off.”

  Carrie looked in his direction out of habit, not because she wanted to see him. She’d left it at home and the battery had run flat. She’d wanted to escape from everyone and everything for a while.

  “But today?”

  His fingers were white on the steering wheel. “We’ve been busy.”

  She felt like a chastened child. She also felt excluded. As though the big people had been occupied, taking care of things, while she, Carrie, had been left aside. An irrelevancy that had to be ‘dealt’ with when there was time. “How is my mother?”

  Gael’s glance flicked to her momentarily and Carrie felt a charge of angry electricity. “How do you think?”

  Carrie would not have answered that question confidently in a thousand years; not if her life depended upon it.

  “Was he …” She swallowed, thinking of Diego. Her voice broke. “Was he comfortable?”

  He shook his head. “He’s dead, Carrie.”

  Her heart turned over. A need to comfort Gael bubbled through her. She discarded it as childish.

  * * *

  Being at Forest View without Diego was entirely strange. How used to his presence Carrie had become! Initially, it had felt like an invasion, and now it was as much a part of life in the estate as the birds and the lake.

  The grass was wet beneath her bottom. She didn’t care. She stared out at the early morning fog, watching as a diligent little sparrow dug his beak into the grass and lifted out a worm. The worm was tough though, and did not come easily. The sparrow made a warble of disapproval and tugged again, until it had the entire squiggling beast in its captivity. Away it flew, satisfied with the morning’s hunt.

  Carrie’s fingers rubbed against the rose petals; they were soft like a peach, reminding her of the frangipani on Gael’s island.

  Gael. Her body physically clenched at the memories.

  The morning was cool – too cool for August. It was as if the summer had decided to mourn Diego’s passing, along with the rest of the estate. Carrie, unable to sleep, had been sitting on the grass since three o’clock in the morning. The darkness had comforted her, and the singing of the dawn birds had rewarded her. She pressed her palms into the damp ground, ready to stand, when a dark figure captured her attention.

  Gael.

  It was not yet six o’clock. His pace was even, his steps strong, his stride confident. He ran as though he was trying to pound his thoughts into the earth. He ran angrily. He ran furiously. Her mournful blue eyes tracked him, confident that the fog would keep her concealed from him.

  Except he was looking for her. Or perhaps it just seemed that way. His eyes scanned the grounds, and sure enough, he changed his path as he neared her loc
ation, running for her quickly now.

  Gael slowed a short distance from Carrie. She was shivering, her face pale, her eyes huge, her hair a mess.

  “Carrie?” He crouched down on his haunches. “You’re frozen.” He unzipped his running jacket and slipped it around her shoulders. It smelled of him. She pushed it away.

  “Am I?” She asked, her eyes holding his for the briefest of moments.

  “How long have you been sitting here?”

  She shrugged. “Does it matter?”

  He made a sound of impatience. “Come inside with me.”

  She shook her head. She tried to smile. She thought it was appropriate. But her lips wouldn’t cooperate. “I’ll be in soon.”

  He hadn’t seen her since the previous night, when they’d arrived on the estate. He’d been busy with Alexandra, but his mind had been singularly focussed on Carrie. She’d barely spoken, the entire trip out to the countryside.

  “How are you?”

  She swallowed. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

  He was hurting from not touching her. He ached to put an arm around her shoulders and hold her against his chest. “He was my father by birth, but yours more so at the end.”

  Carrie closed her eyes. Tears slid out from the corners of her eyes, hot and heavy on her cheek. She didn’t bother to check them. Gael watched her cry andhe sat perfectly still.

  “He was well, when I saw him last. He was laughing.”

  Gael nodded. “He caught a flu.”

  Carrie shook her head. “Who from?”

  “Who knows?” Gael shrugged. “He was weakened from his chemotherapy.”

  “When?”

  “When?” He repeated quizzically.

  “When did he get sick? When did you know? When did you come here?”

  Gael nodded. “Alexandra called me Monday.”

  “Monday?” She shook her head angrily. “Why didn’t she call me?”

  “I told her not to,” he responded heavily. “It was just a flu. Diego said he’d be fine. He didn’t want to bother you. I agreed with him ...”

  If it would have served a purpose, Carrie might have allowed herself to feel anger. But it didn’t. She wouldn’t.

  “You’ve been here a week?”

  He nodded.

  Carrie pulled her knees to her chin, and rested her head on them. “We were halfway through Moby Dick. I can’t believe he didn’t wait to hear how it ended.”

  Gael picked up a stick and tossed it far off into the distance. “He waited longer than I believed he would.”

  “Really?” She pressed her cold cheek against her knee, so that she could see him. His face was pale.

  He made a sound of agreement. “I thought he was about to die. Six years ago, when I came here. I was certain it was the end.”

  Carrie let out an uneven breath. “That feels like a lifetime ago.”

  “It is,” he agreed stonily. “So much has changed since.”

  “Yes. We’re the same cast, but different characters.”

  “Carrie?”

  She heard the serious note in his voice and stood abruptly. “I should go in. There must be something I can do.”

  Gael followed her lead, though he wanted to stay there more than anything. Where it was just the two of them, alone in the world. “Yes, you’re right.”

  The funeral took place two days later, in the grounds of Forest View. It was the second man Carrie had loved who was brought to rest in amongst the ancient elms of the West Garden. She clung to Juanita and Tom, immaculate in a black Prada dress with dark sunglasses pulled low over her face. Only the translucent shade of her skin communicated her inner-torment.

  Alexandra was stoic and stunning; poised in a designer suit, her blonde hair brushed long and straight. She spoke eloquently, and brought most of the crowd to tears.

  Carrie was beyond tears. Even when Gael delivered a eulogy and quoted from Moby Dick, she didn’t react.

  She just wanted it all to be over, so that she could go back to her townhouse and stare at a white wall in silence.

  “Carrie?” A voice, familiar yet not, caught her attention. She turned, realising that everyone else had gone. She was alone, amongst the elms and some forgotten tissues. “Carrie?” She angled her face, and startled when she saw Gabriella.

  “Oh!” The watery smile felt tight on her face. “Hello, Gabriella.”

  The older woman extended her arms, and Carrie sobbed, finally, as she fell into them. She shook her head against her shoulder, straightening swiftly. “I’m sorry. I stayed away from everyone else because I didn’t want to seem maudlin.”

  “You are not maudlin. You are sad. Your sadness is an honour to Diego’s life.”

  Carrie nodded. “I’m pleased to see you. I’m glad you’re here.”

  She nodded. “I came for Gael.”

  Carrie swallowed. “I’m sure he’s grateful.”

  Gabriella put an arm around Carrie’s waist, not sure if it was to take or give support.

  Carrie felt her warmth, and for the first time in days, she felt a small part of herself warming. “Would you like to go inside? We can get a quiet cup of tea away from the crowd?”

  Gabriella shook her head. “Surely it is a time for wine, darling.”

  Carrie’s laugh was frail. “Yes. For Diego, I can do that.”

  The house was deserted; the mourners were gathered in the courtyard. Carrie slipped her glasses and coat off and discarded them carelessly on the hallstand. “Let’s go to the study upstairs. It’s more private.”

  Gabriella winced. “I’ll admit, I’d prefer not to have to speak to anyone today.”

  “I know how you feel. Wait here.”

  Carrie returned a moment later with an ancient bottle of Shiraz, a corkscrew and two fine glasses. “Desperate times,” she said, lifting the assortment in front of her.

  The study had been her father’s retreat. When he’d died, it had been sealed. Alexandra’s third husband had made a brief incursion, but Carrie had wiped away all traces of him since then. The vulgar monster truck memorabilia he’d displayed had long ago been relegated to the trash.

  She settled herself into the green leather wingback armchair, curling her knees beneath her like she had done as a girl. Gabriella took the opposite chair and set to unscrewing the cork and pouring wines.

  “Here, dear.” She handed a very full glass over.

  “Thank you.” Carrie took it, but settled back into the chair. She was still recovering from champagne she’d imbibed days earlier with Juanita.

  “Diego was a bastard to me,” Gabriella said after a long silence.

  Carrie nodded. She knew as much from Gael. “And yet you loved him.”

  “Yes, I loved him.”

  Carrie sipped the wine. It was excellent. Rich and robust, like syrup in her mouth. “Why?”

  Gabriella spluttered on her wine, and sat up straight. “Why?” Her eyes, so like Gael’s pierced Carrie’s. “Why is the sky blue? The grass green? The water cold? Why is the Earth round and the sun hot? I loved him because I did. It is because it is.”

  Carrie’s heart squeezed in her chest. She ignored it. She did not love Gael. She desired him, hugely, but love was something else. Something soft and pleasant. Comfortable, like old moccasins or hot chocolate by the fire. It was not this burning angst that captured her chest.

  “How did you live without him?”

  Gabriella’s smile was stretched. “I couldn’t live with him. Nor he with me. Our love didn’t work. Love is often not enough, no matter how much you wish it were.” She shrugged, as though it no longer mattered. “I was happy to know he ended his days in a better place.”

  Carrie sipped the wine far faster than she intended. But it was so delicious and she was so exhausted. It sent a heavenly calm through her body, and she sank into it.

  “My son is suffering.”

  Carrie’s brows lifted, and her heart began to race. “I … suppose it is better if we don’t speak of
Gael,” she said, finally, hiding a grimace.

  “Ah. Easier said than done, I think,” Gabriella observed with a gentle smile.

  Carrie sipped her wine, and stared out the window. The sun had set, and the sky was darkening.

  They finished the bottle, conversation sparse, understanding great.

  “Are you staying…?”

  “No,” Gabriella demurred gently. “Gael’s driver will take me to London. I fly to the island tomorrow.” She kissed Carrie on both cheeks, and walked down the corridor. “Come and see me again, Carrie. You are far happier in the sun than here.”

  Carrie watched her go, and then leaned against the doors of the study.

  Half a bottle of strong wine and barely any sleep had taken their toll on her. She felt light-headed as she moved through the ancient home.

  Weariness was a force wrapped around her, but her feet carried her away from the upstairs bedrooms. She walked, instead, back outside.

  It was cool now, as English Summer evenings tended to be. Carrie stuffed her hands into her pockets and moved further into the garden.

  The roses were as beautiful as ever.

  That was his doing.

  Diego’s.

  He’d made sure they were well-tended. He told her it was because he had a view of them from his Convalescent’s Chair, as he’d called it. Carrie knew better. He did it because she had loved them once. She’d told him, the day before the wedding, the importance of the garden to her.

  She climbed down the wall and began to skirt the blooms, her blue eyes shimmering in the moonlight as she sought out her favourite variety and paused at its base.

  “Hello, old friend,” she murmured quietly. “You’ve gone and got enormous.” She ran a finger along its thick, smooth trunk, up to the base of the knotted branches that spread out in a neat circle. A perfect bud on a long stem reached down to her and Carrie itched to pick it.

  But she didn’t do that anymore.

  She stuffed her hands deep into her pockets and stepped away.

  From high above Gael watched her, the same expression on his face that had been there all week.

  Confusion.

  Desperation.

  But overriding everything, loss.

  He tried to summon her face to his mind, as she’d looked at him in Spain. Her face when she’d woken from their nap, sweet and trusting, happy and relaxed. But it was elusive, like a ghost of the past that he now doubted ever existed.