by Anne Weale
Cally sighed. ‘Unfortunately, I don’t think there is. Lucinda enjoyed that adventure with him. But Rhys wants to go on having adventures and she wants a more settled life with babies and friends of her own kind coming to dinner parties. Considering how conventional she is, it’s amazing he persuaded her to go at all really.’
‘She was in love with him presumably. Women do amazing things for love.’
‘But if she loved him, and still does, you’d think she’d put his happiness ahead of her own. Rhys is the kind of man who could never settle to suburbia.’
‘You could also argue that, if he loves her, he would put her happiness first. Spending long periods in interesting but uncomfortable and even dangerous places is not how most women want to live.’
Cally finished her coffee before she said, ‘I suppose I’m prejudiced in Rhys’s favour because he’s such a wonderful writer. I think he needs her love and support, and that she’s lucky to be loved by such a gifted man. It’s interesting that you see the issue from her point of view.’
‘I don’t see it from her viewpoint so much as from a realistic viewpoint,’ said Nicolás. ‘It doesn’t sound as if they’re ideally matched. Maybe he would do better to wait until he finds someone who will love him and his lifestyle. I don’t think it’s a good idea for people to go against their deepest instincts and adjust to someone else’s needs. In my observation, that’s not a good start for any kind of joint enterprise.’ He picked up his glass of wine. ‘Salud.’
‘Salud.’
As Cally echoed the toast, a couple approached their table. ‘Would you mind if we joined you? It’s so crowded today.’
‘Not at all,’ Nicolás said politely, half rising from his chair as the woman, taking his consent for granted, seated herself on the other side of him.
She was a sixtysomething, trying to pass as a fortysomething. The man with her had strands of hair pasted sideways across his bald patch and everything he was wearing had the designer’s name on it.
‘We’ve come over from Calpe,’ she said. ‘Some friends have lent us their flat. We’re from Bootle in Lancashire. Where are you from?’
‘I’m from Madrid and my friend is from London,’ said Nicolás. ‘To order, you have to go inside but, if you like, I’ll do the ordering for you. It’s a bit of a mad house in there.’
‘Would you? That’s ever so kind. We don’t speak any Spanish. Our friends said we wouldn’t need to as long as we stayed in Calpe, but we wanted to explore a bit and someone told us there was a fair on here. My name’s Nora and this is Freddie,’ said the woman.
To Cally’s astonishment, Nicolás told her their first names. Then he went to fetch what the newcomers wanted to drink.
Later, when Freddie asked what they owed him, he said, ‘Please…be my guests. At fiestas and ferias it’s the custom to make strangers welcome, particularly when they take the trouble to explore our countryside.’ He lifted his glass to them. ‘To an enjoyable day for all of us.’
Cally took little part in the conversation that followed. The two visitors had plenty to say for themselves, and Nicolás fed them with questions and appeared to be genuinely interested in their answers.
Eventually, when Cally had finished her wine, he rose and said, ‘Will you excuse us? We must finish our tour of the stalls. Goodbye.’ He shook hands with them.
As they moved away, Cally heard Nora murmur, ‘What a nice fellow.’
She had to agree with Nora. Nicolás had been extremely nice which, considering that the English couple were what Olivia classified as ‘people you wouldn’t want to be stuck on the trans-Siberian express with’, was rather amazing.
‘Why were you so nice to them?’ she asked, when they were well out of earshot.
‘Nice?’ he said, looking puzzled. It seemed he had not overheard Nora’s comment to Freddie. ‘If you were in a pavement café in London and a Spanish couple asked to share your table, wouldn’t you be pleasant to them?’
‘Of course…but I wouldn’t necessarily buy them drinks and encourage them to tell me their life histories.’
He laughed. ‘I’m in a good mood today. The sun is shining. There’s music. I have a charming companion. In such circumstances, who wouldn’t be pleasant to strangers? But I haven’t lost all my critical faculties.’ He bent his head to say quietly, close to her ear, ‘The pictures at the next stall are the most horrible daubs I’ve seen for a long time.’
‘I was thinking the same thing,’ said Cally, her ear and the side of her neck tingling in reaction to his intimate undertone.
Further on they came to a stall where, a first glance, there appeared to be two small children gazing intently at something. At second glance they were life-size dolls dressed in baggy trousers and sweaters with caps and hats on their heads. Behind the stall was a row of similar dolls, all standing with their backs to the passersby.
Cally would have liked to see what their fronts were like, but the stall-holder was busy talking to someone.
‘What do you think of this silver jewellery?’ Nicolás asked, further on.
‘It’s a bit plain for my taste. But somebody who’s into minimalism would love it. Are you looking for Christmas presents for your sisters?’ she asked.
‘I always give books at Christmas and I usually buy them online to save myself having to wrap them. You probably enjoy gift-wrapping. Most women seem to.’
‘Yes, I do. I love choosing paper and ribbons and tags, though they’re easier to find in London than here.’
‘Will you be here for Christmas?’
‘Yes, we’re fully booked so there’ll be a lot of work to do. Where will you spend Christmas?’
‘Possibly on the French side of the Pyrenees. I haven’t decided yet. Helping your parents cope with a crowd of oldies doesn’t sound like much fun.’
‘Oldies can sometimes be more interesting than young people…Mr and Mrs Dryden, for example.’
‘Judging by the batch of oldies I met while I was staying with you, the Drydens aren’t typical members of the expat community.’
‘Not typical—no. But they’re not unique. There are other interesting older people living here. Anyway Christmas is no big deal for me. When I was small Three Kings was more important. Now the village people celebrate both and the whole “festive season”—’ she wiggled her forefingers ‘—has become a massive spending spree which, I think, tends to spoil it.’
‘I agree,’ said Nicolás. ‘That’s why for the past couple of years I’ve spent the holiday mountain-walking and avoiding the commercialised rave-up. Probably one will take a different view if and when one has children.’
His last remark surprised her. It was difficult to imagine him in any kind of domestic setting. She felt he belonged in the fast lane with other successful, ambitious, self-sufficient people for whom a wife and a family were not the primary motivations they were for life’s also-rans.
She had thought she belonged there too, that her career mattered more than a personal relationship. But having her career put on hold had made her spend more time thinking about her priorities. Even before she knew she had fallen in love, she had been beginning to wonder if she had allowed the failure of her first relationship to weigh too heavily on her.
‘Nicolás…what are you doing here?’ someone said, in Spanish, before a man she had never seen before clapped Nicolás on the shoulder.
‘Hello, Simón…I didn’t expect to see you, although I’d heard you had a place in this area. I was going to look you up later. Cally, this is Simón Mondragón, an old friend of mine. Simón…Cally Haig.’ He said the last words in English.
‘How do you do, Miss Haig?’ The other man offered his hand. Like Nicolás, he was tall and black-haired. Indeed they could have been brothers, Simón being some years older.
‘How do you do?’ Cally liked him on sight.
‘Yes, I have a house at Castell de los Toros,’ he said, referring to Nicolás’s remark. ‘It’s been converted into a host
el where children from the poor quarters of our big cities can have a taste of country life. My wife and I come down from time to time to see how the project is going. She heard there was an arts and crafts fair in Valdecarrasca and insisted I bring her…the shops in Madrid having such a poor selection of Christmas gifts,’ he added, with a grin.
‘Are you accusing me of being a shopaholic, Simón?’ asked an attractive woman, emerging from the crush in time to hear this remark. Holding out her hand to Nicolás, and smiling warmly at him, she said, ‘The last time you saw me I was in my bridal finery, and now I’m a downtrodden housewife, kept perpetually pregnant by this unregenerate male chauvinist,’ giving her husband a mock-reproachful look.
His reaction was to laugh and put an arm round her. ‘Not perpetually pregnant, my darling.’ Looking at Cally, he said, ‘We’ve been married six years and have a four-year-old son. We’re hoping the baby who’s due to arrive in February will be a daughter. Cassia, this is Cally Haig.’
As the two women shook hands, Nicolás said, ‘You mean you’re not sure of its sex? I thought now parents knew what they were getting from quite early on.’
‘They can if they have a scan,’ said Cassia. ‘But as I sailed through my first pregnancy, I’m trying to get through the second with as little medical interference as possible. If you let them, doctors will take over and turn having a baby into a form of illness when it should be as natural as a ewe dropping a lamb on the mountainside…well, perhaps not as easy as that, but not a succession of medical procedures. But, enough of my delicate condition, why don’t we go to the bar for a coffee break?’
‘The bar is packed. Why not come and have coffee in my garden?’ Nicolás suggested. ‘It’s only a couple of streets away.’
‘You’re living in this village?’ said Simón, looking surprised.
‘I’m renting a house that belongs to Cameron Fielding, the TV reporter. You’ve probably seen him on the box, Cassia.’
She shook her head. ‘You forget I’ve never lived in the UK.’ To Cally, she said, ‘I sound English but I’m actually a nomad. When Simón swept into my life I was living in the old Moorish part of Granada.’
‘You can tell each other your life stories when we get to Nicolás’s place,’ said her husband.
Half an hour later, relaxing in the peaceful seclusion of La Higuera’s courtyard, drinking champagne with the men while Cassia drank chilled orange juice, Cally explained her own background to Simón’s wife.
Although by now the fig tree had lost most of its leaves and those that remained kept falling with a rustle on the flagstones, the courtyard did not have the bare look of northern European gardens in November. A crimson bougainvillaea was in bloom and a magnificent aeonium was putting out large yellow heads composed of small star-like flowers.
While the women spoke English, the men had reverted to castellano. It was clear they had much in common. Presently Cally heard the older man say, ‘So you’re going to follow my example and adapt your inheritance to a twenty-first century purpose.’
She also caught Nicolás’s reply, ‘My inheritance is a flea-bite compared with yours,’ and wondered what he meant.
Presently, turning to the women, he said, ‘I’m going to show Cally my ruin on the other side of the valley. Would you like to come with us? Afterwards we could have lunch at a place I’ve heard about.’
‘I think, if you don’t mind, we’ll look at your ruin another day,’ said Simón. ‘Cassia is beginning to look tired. But why not come and dine with us this evening? It’s not far…only about half an hour.’
‘We’d be delighted. That’s all right with you, is it, Cally?’ Nicolás asked.
‘I’m afraid I can’t manage this evening. My parents are going out and someone has to be there in case a visitor arrives. My parents run a casa rural,’ she explained to the others.
‘Couldn’t Juanita stand in for you?’ Nicolás suggested.
‘Not tonight, I’m afraid.’
She hoped he would not ask why. To her relief, he didn’t.
‘Then I’ll come on my own,’ said Nicolás. ‘There are one or two legal complexities you have probably dealt with yourself and can advise me on.’
When the others had gone, he said, ‘Do you want to ring home and say you’ll be out for lunch?’
‘But you’re going out to dinner tonight,’ she reminded him. ‘You won’t want to lunch out as well.’
‘Certainly I do. I’ll be getting the car out. You know where the phone is…by the sofa in the living room.’
Her parents’ phone was in answerphone mode. She left a message. Then she went into the hall just as Nicolás was coming through the front door.
‘All OK? Good. Let’s go. I’m blocking the street,’ he said briskly.
It was Cally’s first experience of being a passenger in a luxurious car with leather upholstery and a woodgrain dashboard. To her surprise, instead of going the way she expected, he took the opposite direction which involved negotiating an opening between two houses that was scarcely wider than his car. The slightest misjudgment would have resulted in a scrape on the car’s coachwork. Using his wing mirrors as skilfully as Mog used his whiskers, Nicolás steered the car through the narrow gap as if he had been driving around the backways of small villages all his life.
Crossing the plana in his car was not the bumpy progress it was in her mother’s car. His car’s suspension made it feel more like gliding across the Venetian lagoon in a motorboat as she and Olivia and Deborah had one memorable weekend a couple of years ago when Deborah had booked them on a ‘great bargain offer’ flight.
‘Have you been to Venice?’ she asked.
‘Of course. It’s one of life’s essential experiences, don’t you think?’
‘I’ve only been there once, but yes I do…think it’s essential, I mean. If I were a millionaire, I would have a house there.’
‘Where would you have your other houses?’ he asked, with a smiling glance at her.
‘I don’t know. I haven’t travelled as much as I should like to. The house in Chelsea where I have a bedsit is great, and I’d always want a pad in Spain. Where would you want to have bases if you were fabulously rich?’
At that moment, at the wheel of another beautiful car, His Excellency the Marqués de Mondragón was saying to his wife, ‘Nicolás’s latest poppet seems a nice girl. What did you think of her?’
‘I liked her,’ said Cassia. ‘But I’m not sure they’re on those terms. What makes you think so?’
‘Just his track record with women, I guess. I’ve never heard him called a womaniser, but if he fancies someone I’m told they usually succumb. Unlike his brother, Nicolás is popular with everyone, always has been. It’s a pity he’s not the heir. He might have pulled that family back on track which an effete ass like Rodrigo, who takes after their mother, will never do.’
‘From all I’ve heard about her, I should think the duquesa would be a ghastly mother-in-law,’ said Cassia. ‘Your mother rarely says a bad word about anyone, but I know she dislikes the duquesa. Nicolás must take after his father. He’s the one who’s a diplomat, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, an ambassador…due to retire pretty soon, I should imagine. He was the best of her husbands and Nicolás is the best of her children. He’s a clever guy. Did Cally strike you as up to his weight?’
‘Hard to tell on so short an acquaintance. But clever men don’t necessarily need clever wives. I’m not up to your weight intellectually, but you seem to be content with me.’
Mondragón took a hand off the wheel and reached for one of her hands. ‘I adore you, and you know it,’ he said, kissing her fingers. ‘If we have a daughter with as good a brain as her mother, and better opportunities than you had, in twenty-five years from now she’ll be one of Spain’s outstanding career women.’
‘I hope she manages to combine it with being someone’s happy wife,’ said Cassia. ‘If I’d been at university, instead of working as a receptionist, I wouldn�
��t have met you.’ After a pause, she added, ‘When Nicolás comes to dinner tonight, I’ll ask him about her. You can always tell when a man is serious about a girl by the way he talks about her.’
‘I doubt if that applies to Nicolás,’ said her husband. ‘He has always kept his cards very close to his chest. It was a surprise to everyone when he suddenly emerged as one of the leaders of the IT industry and, although his mother and sisters are frequently in Hola!, you’ll never see him there. He knows how to guard his privacy.’
‘The house was called La Soledad,’ said Nicolás, as he drove through a gap in the trees and the building came into view.
Occasionally Cally had seen other houses of this type, relics of Spain’s nineteenth-century past, sometimes standing in the middle of extensive orange or olive groves. In England they would be called manor houses, not as large and grand as stately homes, but still important focal points of rural life.
Inside the surrounding ring of trees, a yellow digger had been at work clearing undergrowth and saplings. But today it was standing idle and there seemed to be no one else about.
As they left the car and walked towards the main entrance, she looked up at the façade and saw places where seeds had blown into crevices in the stucco and grown into plants, causing a network of cracks in the surrounding service.
Yet, despite its neglected state, the house did not look depressing. Perhaps it would in a different climate but here, under a blue sky and hot sun, it looked a romantic ruin.
‘Are you going to have it photographed as it is now?’ she asked. ‘After you’ve done it up, it would be interesting to have a record of how it was.’
‘I agree. It has already been done…by me and by a professional photographer my architect recommended. I used a digital camera. Next time you’re at my place I’ll show you the results.’
He unlocked the great door and pushed it open, its hinges creaking. They entered a large hall with a wide staircase curving upwards to the floor above.
‘It smelled a lot worse the first time I came,’ said Nicolás. ‘Since then I’ve spent a day here with all the shutters and windows open to give it an airing.’
