‘And do you still have the villa in Antibes, Jeananne?’ Tara asked demurely.
‘Tara how are you? We do indeed,’ Jeananne beamed, completely oblivious to the sarcasm. ‘I believe you had to have an emergency Caesar. Now I had an emergency Caesar with Zach and it nearly killed me. I hope you weren’t butchered like I was, the scar was hideous and—’
‘Oh don’t start on about that,’ Roger griped. ‘That’s women’s talk, I’m going to the bar.’ He lurched away and Jeananne frowned. ‘I’d better go after him, he does like to indulge at weddings,’ she trilled, but behind the gay façade, she was furious. It was always the same now when they went anywhere. Roger had turned into an obnoxious lush, and she was the one who had to take the flack for his bad behaviour. It was just too mortifying for words.
‘Of course he indulges, when it’s free drink,’ Anna retorted watching Jeananne totter after him. ‘God, he has some nerve. I wanted to give him a puck in the jaw.’
‘He’s hammered, no point in talking to him,’ Austen said. ‘Forget it.’
‘I detest that man, and her as well,’ Tara fumed.
‘Well they won’t be coming to your hand-fastening ceremony,’ Anna assured her.
Tara laughed. ‘You can say that again, my wedding will be a hell of a lot different to this one, I promise you.’
‘Music to my ears, my dear.’ Austen patted her arm. ‘Music to my ears.’
‘After all the fuss and hassle it’s finally over, well done, Anna. You did a magnificent job,’ Austen complimented his wife as they lay exhausted, snuggled together in the enormous four-poster bed in their tower room.
‘So did you,’ she yawned. ‘It did all go really well, didn’t it, apart from the Mangans and their antics? No class, either of them, for all their designer gear, big Merc, and villa in Antibes.’
‘Don’t give them a second thought, they won’t be coming to any other parties we give,’ Austen assured her.
‘That’s if we can afford to give parties,’ Anna said drily. ‘We don’t have any dough stashed offshore.’
‘Let’s not go there,’ Austen said drowsily as his arm tightened around her. ‘The wedding’s over, the grandchild’s thriving, it’s our turn now. Let’s get to Spain and enjoy our retirement like we’d always planned.’
‘Sounds good to me,’ Anna agreed, but her husband was already asleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
January 2008
AUSTEN
Austen pressed his fob and waited for the gates to La Joya to open. Under a sapphire sky he could see the sea, incandescent in the morning sun. Geraniums, blossoming lantana and passionflower filled the grounds with glorious bursts of colour. Normally this welcome sight never failed to lift Austen’s spirits, and it did to an extent, but it wasn’t the same when Anna wasn’t here to share it.
She’d insisted on staying in Dublin for a week so that Tara wouldn’t feel too isolated, seeing as Chloe was away on her honeymoon. Baby Michael was poorly, running a temperature and Tara, naturally, was worried about him. But that was part and parcel of motherhood, Austen thought irritably, parking the car and unloading his luggage. Anna’s mother hadn’t come running every time Tara had got temperatures when she was a baby. In those days you just got on with it. This generation was so dependent, he thought glumly, opening the door to his block.
Anna knew he was annoyed with her. He’d been curt when he’d snapped, ‘For God’s sake, Anna, they have to cut the apron strings at some stage in their lives. What’s the point in having a place abroad if you’re going to cancel trips every time someone sneezes?’
‘Don’t be mean, Austen. It’s only for a week. I’ll be with you for three more of them. Being a first-time mother is hard going,’ she’d protested heatedly.
‘You had to get on with it. Your mother lived in Wicklow and couldn’t come haring up to Dublin every time one of the kids got sick. Can’t her mother-in-law muck in?’
‘Austen, just stop, I’ll be out on the tenth, and that’s the end of it.’ Their goodbyes had been cool, when she’d dropped him to the airport. She’d proffered her cheek rather than her lips for his farewell kiss and he hadn’t looked back to wave at her.
He’d been childish, he admitted, letting himself into the penthouse and heading straight to the fridge for a beer. Jutta’s people had been in to do an arrival clean and the penthouse was sparkling, smelling of lavender. The fridge had been stocked with all the basics; he’d do a shop tomorrow.
Half an hour later he sat at their favourite table, under the orange blossom, in the restaurant that now felt so familiar. He’d been greeted warmly, presented with a glass of wine, a dish of olives, and a basket of bread rolls while he perused the menu.
He slid his phone out of his jeans pocket and scrolled for her number. ‘Hi, I’m in the restaurant,’ he said when she answered. ‘And I miss you and I’m sorry for being grumpy.’
‘I miss you too, Austen; I wish I was there with you but I’m glad I stayed because Tara had to bring the baby in to Temple Street and he’s on an antibiotic drip.’
‘Is it serious?’ he asked, alarmed, hot coals of guilt burning him.
‘He has an ear and throat infection, the poor little dote, but he’ll be alright,’ she assured him.
‘Sorry, Anna.’
‘It’s OK; I know you were looking forward to us going out together. You enjoy your golf and relax and then you can make a big fuss of me when I arrive.’ He could tell she was smiling.
‘I love you,’ he murmured, lowering his voice, embarrassed that anyone might hear him.
‘I love you too, enjoy your lunch and afternoon nap.’
‘I will,’ he smiled.
‘Bye love,’ she said and hung up. Austen put his phone away and absentmindedly nibbled on a piece of crusty bread. Much as he loved his children, they needed to realize that he and Anna had their own lives to lead, and his dear wife needed to recognize that too.
‘What’s wrong with our poor little baba? My little darling, aren’t you? I couldn’t go off to Spain and leave you when you’re not well,’ Anna crooned, rocking her grandson gently in her arms. She’d packed Tara and James off to bed the minute they’d arrived back home from their twelve-hour stint at the hospital and told them she’d keep the baby in her room for the night. They didn’t need much persuading, and looking at their pale, exhausted faces she wondered how Austen had forgotten the sleepless nights and anxious days they had gone through with Tara.
Sometimes Austen was very black and white. ‘We paid our dues, we’ve done our bit, it’s time for us. You’re worn out after that wedding,’ he’d argued impatiently when she’d told him she wasn’t going with him for the first week of their holidays.
‘It’s a one-off,’ she’d snapped. ‘I wouldn’t enjoy a second of it if I was there because I’d be worrying about them. God Almighty, Austen, you’re getting hard in your old age.’
‘And you’re getting soft in the head,’ he’d shot back before slamming the door as he went off to have a round of golf.
It was good that he’d phoned earlier, she smiled, kissing the baby’s downy head. And his conscience must have been at him because he’d told her he loved her. He was probably snoring now, after his early start, limbs flung to the four winds in their big bed in La Joya.
Anna yawned and the baby stirred in her arms. ‘Shusshh,’ she murmured soothingly. If all went well she’d be with her husband this time next week. They should make the most of it, little family dramas notwithstanding.
The excruciating pain hit Anna that night like a bolt from the blue as she lay in bed twisting and turning, unable to sleep. She felt feverish and nauseous and the pain became more intense, moving from her chest like a knife in her back and shoulder blade.
Oh Jesus am I having a heart attack? she thought frantically, struggling into a sitting position and switching on the lamp in her daughter’s guest room. She tried to breathe deeply but the pain was so severe she groaned. ‘Tara,�
� she called out weakly as a wave of nausea overtook her. ‘Tara.’
Her daughter appeared at the door, bleary eyed, hair dishevelled. ‘What is it Mum?’ she asked, her sleepiness turning to anxiety when she saw her mother’s pinched white face. ‘God you look awful,’ she exclaimed as Anna gave another groan.
James appeared, stubbly faced, his black hair sticking up over his head, rubbing his eyes. ‘Mum’s not well,’ Tara exclaimed, terrified as Anna doubled over in agony. ‘Ring an ambulance quick.’
‘Oh no, not an ambulance, not A&E,’ Anna gasped. She’d prefer to have a heart attack than endure a night on a trolley in A&E. Tara placed some pillows behind her back and she lay against them giving short shallow breaths as she heard James talking to the emergency services, her anxiety mounting as the pain increased.
When the ambulance crew arrived she relaxed somewhat, feeling safer knowing that they could assist her. Calmly, expertly, they carried out a cardiogram as she lay, convinced that she was having a heart attack, and feeling like death.
The paramedic studied the read-out. ‘It seems normal, but let’s get you into hospital and run an echocardiogram—’
‘What’s that?’ she asked weakly. ‘Is that the balloon thing?’
‘No, no,’ he reassured her, ‘that’s an angioplasty. An echocardiogram is an ultrasound. Doesn’t hurt a bit. Now we’ll get you into the chair and have you in hospital in no time.’
‘Will I ring Dad?’ Tara asked anxiously.
‘Under no circumstances, Tara. Do you hear me?’ Anna instructed. The last thing she needed was Austen flying home and doing a jig in A&E.
‘OK, I’ll get dressed and come with you.’
‘Please don’t. Stay and mind Michael.’
‘He’ll be fine for a couple of hours with James. I’m coming with you,’ Tara said firmly, hurrying to her bedroom to throw on some clothes.
Why did this have to happen? Anna fretted a couple of hours later, lying on a narrow, hard, uncomfortable trolley in a curtained-off cubicle in the emergency department. The ultrasound had confirmed that she wasn’t having a heart attack and when she’d heard that, she’d insisted that her daughter take a taxi home.
‘Look, they’ve to do blood tests and more scans so I’m going to be in until the morning at least. I’ll ring you as soon as I know anything and not a word to your father, or Chloe if she rings,’ Anna ordered, in as firm a tone as she could manage. There was no point in both of them having a sleepless night. ‘Don’t worry,’ she mustered a faint grin. ‘I’m not going to kick the bucket.’
It was a long, painful, sleepless night before she saw, through a small window, the faint rays of daylight lighten up the eastern sky and heard the clatter of the breakfast trolleys and was utterly relieved that morning had finally dawned.
‘Will I come in?’ Yvonne asked her a couple of hours later, having being alerted by Tara; as Anna lay against her pillows with a drip in her arm feeding her fluids, having earlier been injected with intravenous antibiotics.
‘No you will not,’ Anna declared down the phone. ‘It’s not my heart, it’s my bloody gall bladder.’
‘Your gall bladder!’
‘How friggin’ middle aged is that?’ Anna made a face. ‘And so it begins . . . the slippery slope to decrepitude.’
‘Don’t say that. I’m the same age as you.’
‘No more fry-ups, or cheese, rich sauces and oily foods and I’ve to cut down on drinking.’
‘Nooooooo!’
‘Yep. What a fantastic start to the year.’
‘Take lashings of bread soda,’ Yvonne advised.
‘Yes, Doctor,’ grinned Anna. ‘Thank God I wouldn’t let Tara ring Austen. Imagine if he’d flown home to find out it was only a gall bladder attack.’
‘It sounds as though it was pretty painful,’ Yvonne said.
‘It was horrendous. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. Or even Jeananne,’ she added with a touch of humour.
‘Wow! That bad. You take it easy, missus, and let me know if I can bring you in anything,’ her friend said sympathetically.
‘I will,’ promised Anna, holding out her arm as yet another phlebotomy technician came to take more blood.
‘Anna, I’ll never forgive you for not letting Tara ring me,’ Austen admonished her, shocked when she’d told him what had happened to her the previous week. They were sitting in El Capricho, waiting for Svetlana to bring their drinks. A tonic water for her . . . no gin, much to the lovely Russian’s dismay. ‘No drink? Catastrophe!’ she exclaimed and Anna had laughed.
‘Look I’m fine, I just have to watch my diet,’ she reassured him. ‘It was bloody painful, but the antibiotics have cleared up the infection and here I am. If I get any pain I’ve to go to A&E here.’
‘It’s stress—’
‘It’s middle age. What do they say? Fat, fair and over forty, a prime candidate for gallstones,’ she deadpanned.
‘You’re not fat!’ Austen protested.
‘Well curvy then,’ she said lightly.
‘Anna, it’s time to start looking after yourself. If anything happened to you I don’t know what I’d do,’ Austen said seriously.
‘Nothing’s going to happen to me, so relax,’ Anna sighed, wishing she could indulge in a large G&T and a juicy steak with pepper sauce.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
August
EDUARDO / CONSUELA
‘Should I be elected to the office of president, my main focus will be to deal with the increasing debt to the community because of the unacceptable number of owners in arrears. I will propose to name and shame these owners. And with the cooperation of the governing board I’ll work to regularize the debt and file legal claims if necessary.’ Eduardo paused and stared sternly over his bifocals to the audience in front of him. ‘It is imperative, ladies and gentlemen,’ he resumed after letting his words sink in for a moment or two, ‘that we build up a substantial reserve fund. That too will be my aim.
‘I’ll also seek to upgrade the general maintenance of the urbanization, which in the past year has become unsatisfactory and slipshod’ – a small dig at the outgoing president. ‘Thank you for your kind attention.’
Eduardo gave a little bow to his audience, noting Tía Beatriz applauding him and looking uncharacteristically delighted. A barb of bitterness laced with anger lacerated his heart. Consuela should be here to have listened to his speech, and to offer her support during the AGM. But no, he thought, indignantly. She preferred to be gadding off with Catalina somewhere in the north of the country, to listen to some ex-nun give a talk on Mary Magdalene and feminine energy or some such nonsense. Had Catalina actually mentioned ‘Goddess energy’? Or had he been daydreaming? Consuela’s cousin was for the birds and a pagan as well, with her outlandish beliefs. Eduardo scowled, slipping his cue cards into his jacket pocket and walking down to resume his seat beside Beatriz.
Every year at the AGM he’d stood up and put himself forward for the position he’d coveted from the beginning. This time he’d kept his list of proposals short. He hoped that his words would strike a chord and lead to his election.
‘Excelente discurso, Eduardo,’ murmured his aunt.
‘Gracias,’ he said, giving her a smile. Ever-loyal Beatriz, giving him some rare words of praise. It was a balm of sorts for his wife’s most hurtful act of indifference.
The moderator – a fellow Spaniard who was favourable to his campaign – thanked him and called upon the assembled owners to vote for each candidate. The proxies were already converted and Eduardo sat ruler straight, not touching the back of his chair, flicking a pink blossom from the sleeve of his immaculate cream linen suit. Only the muscle jerking in the side of his jaw gave any indication as to how tense he was. Being rejected previously had been humiliating. An affront to his professional dignity. Hopefully this year the imbeciles would realize that a firm hand was needed on the tiller.
The first candidate, a Swede, Sven Olsson, received about two do
zen votes, Eduardo calculated swiftly. Not nearly enough. He’d expected that.
Now it was either him or his implacable enemy Pablo Moralez. Eduardo’s palms became damp as a forest of hands rose to support his opponent. The secretary counted row by row, and Eduardo felt the familiar sinking feeling of rejection. If Moralez became president he might even sell up, he thought belligerently.
He felt the way he’d felt when he was a young boy at school and, having plucked up all the courage he could muster, he’d asked two other boys of his age if he could be their friend. ‘We have enough friends,’ the bigger of the two said cuttingly and Eduardo had felt his heart shrivel and sting the sting of a thousand wasps and had watched them walk away, and tried hard not to cry.
‘Your votes please for Señor Eduardo De La Fuente,’ called the secretary. A slew of hands raised in the air. Most of his fellow Madrileños, surprisingly several Dutch, and an Irish owner; his best ever result, he thought, heart racing. It would be the proxies that would determine the vote.
Would it be third time lucky, he wondered? If Consuela was here she would be soothing his anxiety . . . or perhaps not, he thought gloomily. His wife had changed, become almost hard in her attitude, he would say. Just when he needed her most she was not there for him. If he became president, he’d need to travel down to La Joya more often. Would he be able to depend on his wife to keep an eye on Beatriz in his absence? ‘She’s your aunt, not mine’: Consuela had fired a warning shot across his bows in their most recent battle of wills. Because that was what their marriage was now, he conceded. A battle of wills, and, to his great disquiet, his wife was no longer happy to be swayed by his reasoned arguments. Most definitely not; in fact she was beginning to gain the upper hand and do exactly as she pleased.
Yet again his life was in upheaval because of a woman’s will. He remembered, reluctantly – not wishing to travel back to the most painful days of his childhood – Beatriz begging his mother not to take him to America. ‘All his friends are here, Isabella. His life is here; you cannot do that to him. Let him stay here in Spain with me until he is older when he will be less shy and able to make friends better.’ He’d been outside in the hall listening, drawn to the parlour doorway by unaccustomed raised voices.
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