by Anne Weale
It wasn’t until the main course was being served that Cally was sufficiently adjusted to the shock of sitting opposite Nicolás to be able to appreciate how much attention to detail had been given to the arrangement of this and the neighbouring tables.
Everything on it from the crimson-bordered side plates to the silver pepper and salt containers, a pair for each place, was unusual and beautiful. Either Leonora Dryden had inherited a treasure trove, or she had been a life-long collector of glasses, china and knives, forks and spoons.
‘Cooking for twenty-four people would terrify me,’ said Gabriela. ‘Leonora enjoys it. She has incredible energy.’
‘Creative people are usually creative in more than one direction,’ said Luis. He looked at the food on his plate. ‘This dish with pork, prunes and apples, from which part of England does it come?’ he asked Cally.
‘I’m afraid I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I know more about Spanish food than English cooking.’
‘Don’t you take your authors out to lunch at London’s best restaurants?’ Nicolás asked her.
‘Usually only the mega-sellers are wined and dined at the expensive places. The less well-known authors have to make do with more modest hospitality.’ She turned to Luis. ‘I expect it’s the same in the art world, isn’t it?’
‘Definitely. I don’t take artists to restaurants with Michelin stars unless their work is fetching very high prices,’ he said, smiling. ‘But I should be delighted to take you to one, the next time you feel like a visit to Valencia. When do you return to London?’
‘I only arrived today.’ To avoid committing herself to a date with him, or saying when she was going back, she turned to the lawyer. ‘Do you go to Valencia much, Señor Bermejo?’
‘As little as possible. The traffic gets worse every year. Alicante is the same.’
‘I was in Alicante recently. I thought it was a delightful city,’ said Nicolás. ‘But then I live in Madrid, although for the time being I’m based here in Valdecarrasca. Señora Dryden put me in touch with the owner of a house for rent. He is working in Washington and may not come back for some years. I’ve taken a three-months lease, with the option to extend it if necessary.’
‘What brings you to Valdecarrasca?’ Luis asked him.
‘A business project in this area, but I can’t, at this stage, reveal what it is. It is not, as has been rumoured, a hotel,’ he said, glancing at Cally with a glint of mockery in his eyes.
She felt her colour rising. ‘I’m afraid you will find it very quiet and dull compared with the excitements of Madrid.’
‘Do you find it dull compared with London?’
‘I’ve never been here for three months. I’m usually only here for a week or two weeks.’
To avoid further questions, she turned to Luis. ‘Were you born in Valencia? Have you always lived there?’
‘I grew up in Sagunto, a little north of Valencia. In my twenties I worked in Paris and Amsterdam. All young people should have a spell of living abroad, don’t you think?’—addressing the question to the table as a whole.
This prompted the lawyer to launch another lecture on the bad habits introduced by flighty female tourists and obstreperous foreign youths. Cally and Gabriela exchanged silent looks, though, privately, Cally preferred being bored by Bermejo to being baited by Nicolás.
She didn’t understand why, if his project wasn’t a hotel, he hadn’t said so when she confronted him. Perhaps it was something worse than a hotel. A rowdy disco, a casino. Either would be a blight on the valley.
After the main course had been cleared and before the pudding was served, Todd Dryden rose and, clinking a spoon against his glass to catch people’s attention, asked for all the men present to change places with the men on their left.
‘We always do this at our parties. It gives all the ladies at your table the chance to enjoy sitting next to you,’ he explained. ‘And, in a moment, Leonora and I will also change places with two of our guests.’
The changeover brought Nicolás to Cally’s right side, with Luis now on her left. A few minutes later their host asked his lawyer if he would mind moving to the yellow table so that Todd Dryden could sit between Señora Bermejo and Gabriela.
Dryden was much better company than the lawyer and even his wife became less po-faced sitting beside the good-humoured American.
The pudding was a brandied fig tart with home-made apricot ice cream. ‘This is one of my wife’s specialities,’ he told them. ‘You can see how difficult it is for me to keep my weight down, married to such a superb cook. I hope you’ll like the dessert wine I’ve chosen to go with it.’
As the others started talking about wine, Nicolás turned to Cally. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were in publishing?’
‘When I’m in Spain, on holiday, I tend not to think about my working life.’
‘You were working a lot of the time I was staying with you,’ he said dryly. ‘I had the impression you lived in Valdecarrasca.’
‘Did you? I’m surprised you didn’t realise my parents’ business couldn’t support a third person, even if someone of my age would be content to stay in such a small place. Perhaps you didn’t give it a great deal of thought,’ she said coolly, her tone a hair’s breadth from hostility.
This was the closest she had been to him since the night they had sat on the sofa and he had kissed her. She was acutely conscious of the athletic body inside the well-cut suit and the broad shoulder close to hers. She remembered the feel of his mouth on hers when all she wanted to think about was the taste of the preserved figs.
‘What field of publishing are you in?’ he asked.
She had no alternative but tell a white lie. ‘I’m a nonfiction editor with Edmund & Burke. You’ve probably never heard of them. They’re not one of the big, well-known imprints.’
‘Big isn’t necessarily best. Some of the smallest publishers produce the most distinguished books. How did you get into publishing?’
This was not a subject she wanted to discuss with him, but as she could think of no way to avoid the question, she said, ‘I did a postgraduate course in publishing that included a work experience placement with Edmund & Burke. At the end of the course they took me on as an assistant in the editorial department.’
‘And you’ve been with them ever since?’
She nodded. ‘How did you get into service provision?’
‘I was a teenage computer freak. I went to college in the US—I have relations there—and afterwards I spent some time in Silicon Valley. It struck me that service provision was the backbone of the whole show. People I knew in Spain had the same idea and we set up our company when there wasn’t as much competition as there is now. We’ve managed to hold the top place in the efficiency league table of Spanish providers. Some people will always go for the freebie services, but those who need total reliability come to us.’
‘I see,’ she said politely. What she saw above all was that Nicolás had probably amassed the kind of fortune that, among her father’s generation, was not achieved until the late forties or fifties and, for most people, never. But today there were men in their twenties and thirties who were millionaires because they had seen the potential of the new medium and clever ways to exploit it.
To her relief, Luis claimed her attention by asking which part of London she lived in.
‘In Chelsea. It used to be the artists’ part of the city. There are still a lot of houses with studios with tall windows giving a north light.’
‘But now that district is fashionable and expensive,’ he said. ‘Do you have a house or an apartment?’
‘Neither. I have a small bedsitter in a house owned by someone else.’ But maybe not for much longer was her unspoken afterthought.
‘It’s better to live in the heart of a city than on its outskirts,’ said Luis. ‘I am fortunate in having an apartment in the old part of Valencia.’ He leaned forward slightly to speak to Nicolás. ‘Do you live in central Madrid?’
; ‘Yes,’ said Nicolás, but he did not elaborate.
Cally had an intuition that he lived in some exclusive area that only the very rich could inhabit. Yet he did not advertise his prosperity as Luis did with his Rolex watch, gold bracelet and rather too large gold signet ring. Nicolás wore an inconspicuous steel watch and his long brown fingers were ringless. Luis’s nails looked manicured, but Nicolás’s, though clean and short, did not look as if they had ever received professional attention.
When the pudding plates had been removed, coffee was served at the table, with dishes of irresistible hand-made chocolates.
To Cally’s relief, for most of the time they were drinking coffee Mr Dryden held their attention with several amusing anecdotes relating to his early days in Spain. This meant that she didn’t have to sit braced for Nicolás’s next question. But even when they both joined in the laughter, his deep low laugh sent a shiver through her. Even his speaking voice had a timbre to which, unwillingly, she responded, especially when he was speaking his own language with its rolling ‘r’s and the lisped ‘c’s that, so she had read, originated when a Spanish king had a lisp which, to flatter him, was copied by his courtiers.
Presently, the people at Leonora’s table rose and left the room.
‘Let’s go back upstairs, shall we?’ said her husband. ‘If you ladies want to repair your lipstick, you can use my wife’s bedroom. Go to the top of the stairs and turn right.’
Cally wondered if he slept in a separate room. But when she and Gabriela joined their hostess and other women, the size of the bed and the books piled on both bedside tables suggested that ‘my wife’s bedroom’ was a figure of speech. Certainly the Drydens gave the impression of enjoying a much warmer relationship than her parents.
When an opportunity arose to have a word with her hostess, she said, ‘Mrs Dryden, I hope you won’t mind if I slip away rather early by Spanish standards. I was up before six this morning. It’s a lovely party, but I may start flagging by midnight.’
‘My dear, of course you may leave whenever you like,’ Leonora said warmly. ‘It was angelic of you to come.’ Lowering her voice and speaking English, she said, ‘I love our Spanish friends dearly but they are incorrigible night owls and can party till all hours. Todd and I will be washed out tomorrow. We could dance till dawn once, but not now.’
Then, reverting to Spanish, she added, ‘Would you like me to ask Nicolás Llorca to walk you home? I’m sure he would be delighted.’
‘Oh, no…please don’t!’ Realising her reply had sounded too emphatic, Cally said, ‘It’s no distance and no one unpleasant lurks in our streets, thank goodness.’
Leonora gave her a quizzical look. ‘No, the village is blessedly safe,’ she agreed, ‘but being walked home by a personable man is always rather a pleasant experience, don’t you think? Or are you less impressed by him than I am?’
‘He seems very nice,’ Cally said politely. ‘But I really don’t need an escort, thank you. Is that a portrait of your husband?’—looking at a painting on the wall near her hostess’s dressing table.
‘Yes, that was Todd when he was twenty-five. It was my first attempt at a portrait and doesn’t really do him justice. At that age he was spectacularly handsome, and—in my eyes—still is. Ah, I see the bathroom is free. Do you want to use it. No? Then I shall. Excuse me.’
Before leaving the bedroom, Cally saw that her shawl had been laid on the bed with the other wraps. About half an hour later, after making a discreet exit from the drawing room, she retrieved it and went downstairs and out of the house.
Walking home by empty lamp-lit streets, she realised that now, because of Nicolás’s presence in it, Valdecarrasca was no longer a haven from the stresses of London. Here there were other stresses that in some ways were harder to deal with than the uncertainties afflicting her career.
The following day, soon after the Haigs had breakfasted, the doorbell jangled. As her parents were upstairs, changing out of their dressing gowns—which many people in the village wore until late in the morning—to go for a dental checkup, Cally answered it.
For a moment she wondered if the caller could be Nicolás. Local people usually opened the door and shouted to make their presence known. In earlier years, doors had been left unlocked even when people were out. Nowadays most of the village housewives locked up when they went to the shops.
Wishing she had put on lipstick, Cally opened the door and, pierced by mingled relief and disappointment, found Luis standing outside.
‘Good morning. I wanted to have a word with you before leaving,’ he said.
‘Good morning. Come in. I’m surprised you recognised me in my everyday mode,’ she said, smiling.
‘You look just as charming out of party mode,’ he assured her.
Cally laughed. ‘Can I offer you a cup of coffee?’
‘No, thanks. I’ve just finished breakfast. What an interesting old house’—looking up at the olive wood beams and ancient stone arches. ‘You must give me a copy of your brochure. I might be able to steer some clients in your direction.’
‘Thank you. Here it is.’ She handed him a copy of the leaflet she had designed and had printed. ‘Shall we sit down?’—indicating the comfortable armchairs arranged round a table with neat stacks of magazines on it.
‘As I don’t have to rush back to Valencia, I was wondering if you were free to have lunch with me today…somewhere local,’ he said.
‘Thank you, but my parents are taking advantage of my being here to have a day out and I need to hold the fort.’
‘I understand.’ He gave her a thoughtful look. ‘In fact I think I understand more than I did last night. When you switched the place cards, it was not because you wanted to meet that buffoon Bermejo, but because you did not want to sit next to Nicolás Llorca. Am I right?’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘There was a tension between the two of you that was obvious to me if not to the others. He is clearly attracted, but it appears not to be mutual. Rather surprising, considering that most women would give him ten out of ten.’
‘You have a very active imagination. Perhaps you’ve missed your vocation and should be writing fiction,’ she answered lightly.
When he didn’t respond, she added, ‘Have you considered that I might be immune to Señor Llorca’s charms because I already have a partner in London?’
‘If you had, he would be on holiday with you. No sane man would allow you out of his sight.’
Cally burst out laughing. ‘I suppose the wealthy art-lovers who patronise your gallery lap up outrageous flattery. You don’t really expect me to swallow it, do you?’
He leaned forward. ‘I mean it. I think you’re lovely. I wish I were Llorca’s age. What is he…thirty?’
‘Thirty-four according to his identity card. He stayed here for a few nights.’
‘I see…and was that when he blotted his copybook in some way?’
‘Since you ask, yes it was.’
‘I can guess what happened. You were nice to him and he took it as encouragement to make a heavy pass.’
‘No, that wasn’t the reason,’ she told him firmly. ‘I heard a rumour that he was involved in converting a deserted old house across the valley into a hotel. I was angry and told him to leave. You heard him say last night at dinner that his project isn’t a hotel, but I think it may be something equally damaging to the atmosphere of the valley. Not that there’s anything I can do to stop him, but I don’t have to be civil to him…except in other people’s houses.’
‘I see,’ said Luis. ‘Why not ask him what his project is? Then, if it’s something seriously damaging to the quality of life here, you can lobby the various departments in charge of such matters to have it stopped. I have friends in local government. I may be able to point you in some useful directions. Let me give you my card.’ He took a wallet from the inside pocket of his expensive-looking sports coat and produced a high quality business card.
‘If there’s
any way in which I can help…’
‘Thank you, you’re very kind. But I suspect that Nicolás also has influential contacts,’ she said, with a wry expression.
At this point her parents came downstairs. After being introduced, Luis took his leave.
‘He’s far too old for you,’ said her mother, when he had gone. ‘Anyway you’d be a fool to marry a Spaniard. I’ve seen a lot of mixed marriages. They hardly ever work.’
‘Mum, he came in to pick up a brochure…not to start a relationship,’ Cally said, rolling her eyes.
‘He fancies you…anyone can see that,’ said Mrs Haig.
‘That’s just his art dealer’s manner. It doesn’t mean anything.’ Cally looked at her watch. ‘You’d better get going.’
She was glad to have the house to herself. Later she went for a walk on a path by the dry, stony bed of a river that, fifty years ago, had carried a flow of water in which children could swim and women could wash clothes. Now the river only ran, briefly, after infrequent spells of heavy rain. Most of the year it was full of wild grasses and bordered by red and pink oleander bushes.
When she got back, Cally went online to pick up emails, hoping there might be some news about jobs. The last email to download had the name Nicolás Llorca alongside the symbol of a closed envelope. The subject of the message was If you want the facts...
She opened the message and read…come for a drink this evening and I’ll explain what the project really is. Nicolás.
Cally read the other emails, wrote answers to two and then returned to his message. She sat staring at the words, debating whether to reply that she would be otherwise occupied this evening but would like to hear about the project another time.
In the end she knew she couldn’t contain her curiosity, both about his project and the interior of the house he was renting. She hit the reply button and typed OK…what time?
Then she washed a large pear and some grapes and cut a chunk from the loaf fetched from the panadería earlier and filled it with the pickled anchovies called boquerones. She took her lunch up to the roof terrace and sat in the sun, with Mog looking hopefully up at her, knowing better than to try to jump on her lap but exerting all his considerable feline charm.
