by Anne Weale
A tap on the door sent a flutter of alarm through her, in case it was Nick who was out there. Almost instantly she realised that it couldn't be. Even if he had returned, why should he come to her room? Or indeed any of their rooms? He would wait for them to go downstairs. This is ridiculous. I'm a bundle of nerves over nothing, she thought, as she called, 'Come in.'
It was Anna, bearing the bottle of duty-free gin she had bought on the plane and a bathroom tumbler.
'I could do with another snifter. How about you?'
'A small one.' Rosie had had two gin and tonics in the air. Working in PR had accustomed her to a fairly high alcohol intake but tonight, meeting a new client for the first time—for that was how she must try to think of him—she wanted to have all her wits about her.
'Our first impression was misleading, wasn't it? I began to think I'd be spending the night in a cell but there's nothing monastic about the mattresses and there's plenty of hot water on tap. Every comfort one could wish for,' said Anna. 'I hope dinner isn't too delayed. I'm getting peckish, aren't you?'
Rosie nodded, but in fact nervous tension had destroyed her appetite.
'If Carolyn's finished unpacking, I think we should go down. We might be offered some tapas to stave off the worst pangs,' said Anna, when she had swallowed her drink. Like Rosie, she was still wearing the clothes she had arrived in—black sweater and trousers—but had brushed her hair and retouched her make-up. Anna always wore black with Indian or African jewellery.
Rosie had travelled in immaculate jeans and a cashmere turtle-neck top under a classic hacking jacket. Her accessories were well-polished tassel loafers, a coach-hide bag and a colourful Hermes silk headsquare made in the 1930s and snapped up at a jumble sale during a visit to her parents.
They found that Carolyn had changed into a smart silk frock and dramatic earrings. About the same age as Anna, who was thirty-three, Carolyn had been married but now was divorced. As she led the way downstairs, they heard a car drawing up outside the monastery. Just as Carolyn reached the hall, the wicket door opened and a very tall man ducked through it. Seeing them, he said, 'You've arrived! I'm extremely sorry I wasn't here to meet you. Something urgent cropped up which demanded my immediate attention.' He offered his hand to Carolyn. 'You are...?'
'Carolyn Campden. Hello. It's a pleasure to meet at long last.'
For me also. Welcome to Font Vella, Carolyn.' With practised ease he lifted her hand to his lips. Although she had seemed self-possessed, the gesture, not common in England, made Carolyn give a small sound of pleased surprise. Then she turned to introduce the others. This is Anna Mortlake, our publicity director.'
'As the Spanish say, mi casa es su casa... my house is your house, Anna.'
'Thank you.. .it's good to be here.' Perhaps because she was prepared for it, Anna behaved as if having her hand kissed was a commonplace occurrence.
It was she, not Carolyn, who said, 'This is Rosalind Middleton, head of the agency which will be handling your promotion.'
Rosie did not get her hand kissed. He clasped it as if he intended to salute her in that fashion but instead of bending his head he continued to look intently at her. For a moment she thought that in spite of the ten-year interval and the dismal light in the large vestibule he had recognised her. Then he said, rather formally, 'How do you do? It's good of you to come all this way,' and her hand was shaken and released.
Addressing them all, he went on, 'It's always cold in the hall, except in July and August. Come to the library and get warm. I'm sure you're longing for your dinner. We'll have a quick drink and then we'll eat.'
The library, off the ground-floor cloister, was a huge room with log fires burning in the cavernous hearths at either end. The floor was spread with a vast mat of plaited grass, the same esparto as the workman's basket with rope handles which Rosie had bought on her holiday in Marbella. The walls were lined with books; hundreds, perhaps thousands of books, some in old leather bindings, others in shiny new dust-jackets.
At the end of the room a drinks tray shared a large table with more books and magazines. At the other end another table was set for a dinner a quatre. There were enough chairs and sofas to seat at least twenty people in relaxed comfort, every seat with a reading lamp and a table for a cup of coffee or a drink close at hand.
'How long have you had this place, Nick?' Carolyn asked, as he went to the well-stocked drinks tray where a bottle of champagne was standing in a bucket of ice.
'Fifteen years. I was twenty when I bought it... one of the many rash acts of my youth.'
His smile had lost none of its charm. In the better light of the library, Rosie saw that his eyes were still vividly blue, if anything bluer than before because now he had the deep tan only possible for someone with almost black hair and olive skin.
'It was going for a song because it was in a bad state and nobody wanted a place of this size with no electricity and the roof falling in,' he went on. 'But I thought it had possibilities. For the first five years I came here every summer and spent what I could afford on putting it to rights. Then I switched from newspaper journalism to TV reporting and began to collect things to put in it. By the time I was ready to try my hand at fiction, it was as you see it now.'
As he spoke, he handed them each a glass of pink champagne. 'All it lacks,' he said, as he picked up his own glass, 'is the proverbial woman's touch and the patter of little feet.'
'You surprise me,' Rosie said coolly. 'I should have said it owed a great deal to a woman's touch... possibly several women's touches.'
She sensed that Carolyn and Anna were surprised, not to say startled by her comment and its tone.
Nick, if he recognised a caustic tone in her remark, said equably, 'It wouldn't look the way it does if I hadn't engaged the services of the man generally regarded as Spain's most distinguished designer, Jaime Parlade. It was he who brought into harmony all the stuff I'd picked up on my travels. What shall we drink to? How about saludy pesetas, y tiempo para gozarlas: health and money and the time to enjoy them.'
As the three women repeated the toast, he raised his glass to each of them in turn before drinking. As before, Rosie was the last to receive his salutation and, as before, he continued to look keenly at her while tasting the sparkling dry wine here called cava because, as she had learned on her previous visit, the Spanish growers were forbidden to call it champagne although it was made by exactly the same method as French champagne.
'I think we should also drink to the reason for our being here... your marvellous book,' said Carolyn.
'Quite right. To the book,' Anna agreed with enthusiasm.
'To the book,' echoed Rosie.
'Thank you, ladies. I'm sure any book with you three behind it has an excellent chance of success. Now if you'll excuse me for a moment I'll tell Encarna to serve the meal.'
When he had left the room, Anna said, 'All I can say is wow! He's even more gorgeous in the flesh than I imagined. You never get a proper impression of people's height on TV. I assumed he was tall but he's taller... at least six feet two, wouldn't you think?'
'And all in proportion,' said Carolyn. 'Do you suppose that reference to a woman's touch and the patter of little feet meant he has someone in view? I hope not. I mean, he's far more promotable as an eligible bachelor. Don't you agree?' looking at Rosie. Rosie couldn't help wondering if Carolyn wanted him to be heart-free for personal rather than professional reasons. There was a definite touch of flirtatiousness in her manner towards him. Perhaps she was like that with all men. Some women were.
'I think in the long run it's the book's appeal, not his, which will sell it,' she answered. 'You can hype a book to the skies but it won't stay in the charts unless it's inherently a winner. Although of course a lot of excellent books never get the sales they deserve for lack of the push to get them started. I think Mr Winchester's charisma and TV exposure must be an enormous help, but the book would make it if he were a recluse.'
Now that the ordeal of meeting Ni
ck was over and he hadn't recognised her, she was less strung up, capable of separating her feelings about him from her feelings about the book.
'As I told Carolyn, I'm not a thriller reader,' she went on. 'But this is more than a thriller. It's a first-class novel which happens to be about the drug war. It should appeal to women as much as to men. I think our efforts are really going to be superfluous. Although it's in a different category, like Gone With The Wind and Rebecca this book is going to sweep the field, with or without our help.'
'I'm delighted to hear you say so.'
Nick had re-entered the room by another door which, as he closed it behind him, proved to be a clever piece of trompe-l'oeil with the spines of closely packed volumes so cleverly painted on the wood that at a casual glance no one would guess there was a door among the real bookshelves.
His unexpected reappearance surprised them all, especially Rosie.
'I'm sorry—I didn't mean to startle you,' he apologised. 'I've been to my room to clean up.'
He looked at Rosie. 'I'm very glad to hear that you think so highly of the book. As I've had my fill of TV and don't want to go back to journalism, writing is my only option.'
At this point Encarna entered with a tureen of soup and they took their places at the table, Carolyn and Anna on either side of their host and Rosie directly opposite.
'Who is the young man who helped me with my luggage?' Carolyn asked, as she unfolded her napkin.
'Jose Maria Rodriguez... who's on leave from the Army and likes to practise his English. He was with me when I was called out. As Encarna has no English, I asked him to stand in for me.'
'Is your Spanish fluent?' asked Anna.
'I speak fairly good Castilian Spanish, the lingua franca of the country. But in this part of Spain the people speak Valenciano except when they're talking to foreigners and people from other parts. Now that I'm living here full-time, it shouldn't take long to pick it up.'
'You said something about the patter of little feet. Are a wife and children part of your plan for living here?' Carolyn asked.
'A happy family life is part of most people's plans, isn't it?' he answered. 'Until recently, because of the work I was doing, no woman in her right mind would have taken me on. If Crusade sells, I should be a slightly better bet. But so far I haven't met anyone who wants to sequester herself in a monastery in the backwoods of Spain. Are you three married?'
'I am. Carolyn was. Rosie isn't,' said Anna, helping herself to soup. She smiled at Encarna.
'Gracias.'
As the maid left the room she touched a switch which turned out all but one of the table-lamps and left the round dining table lit by a group of candles and by the light of the fire.
'How did you discover the monastery?' Carolyn asked. 'I shouldn't think many tourists find their way to this village, do they?'
'No, there's nothing here to attract the package tourists, but some of the expatriate community—mostly retired people from the colder parts of Europe and North America—
come to the bar in the village to eat the roast leg of lamb which is the speciality of the owner's wife. I found Font Vella when I was staying with a friend whose parents live on the coast. He and I had both been keen on fell-walking and one day we set out to explore the mule paths which criss-cross these mountains. They led us here.'
Rosie was learning things about him she hadn't known before. He must have owned the monastery at the time she knew him, but he had never spoken of it to his colleagues. Nor had she heard him mention fell-walking.
'I have a friend, a photo-journalist, who does a lot of work for He11 o! magazine,' she said.
'As you know, it's an off-shoot of the Spanish weekly Hola! I'm sure both magazines would be interested in a feature about the monastery. Would you have any objection to that? It would be excellent publicity.'
'I must admit that, having once made my living prying into other people's private lives—although never as ruthlessly as the tabloid press do—I'm not particularly keen to have my own life exposed to public view. Is it necessary? Writers like Forsyth and Deighton don't seem to go in for a lot of personal publicity.'
They established themselves before publishing became as competitive as it is today,' said Anna. 'I can't urge you strongly enough to agree to anything Rosie suggests.'
'If you like you can write the text of the feature yourself,' said Rosie. 'Sasha won't mind. She's an excellent photographer but not so hot on the written stuff. I usually polish it up for her. She'd be happy to have you collaborate with her.'
Nick was looking fixedly at her but she could tell he wasn't listening to what she was saying.
'My God! Roly-poly Rosie,' he exclaimed suddenly. 'I had a feeling I'd met you somewhere before, but I'd forgotten your surname so Rosalind Middleton didn't ring any bells. It was your eyes I remembered. Everything else about you has changed, but not those beautiful grey eyes.'
Rosie's heart gave a curious lurch, a sensation she had not felt for a very long time; not since the first time he smiled at her. Aware of the others' puzzlement, she felt herself starting to blush.
'For a few months, a long time ago, Nick and I were on the same newspaper,' she said.
'But you must have recognised me. Why didn't you say so?' he asked. She attempted a nonchalant shrug. 'Does anyone want to be reminded of the way they were at seventeen?'
He laughed, showing the beautiful teeth she remembered from years ago.
'But you were a darling, Rosie. A little on the plump side maybe, but so full of j oie de vivre and excitement at being taken on as a junior reporter that everybody adored you. I remember Sasha as well. A dark girl with very short hair and large gypsy earrings. She was Tom's girl, I seem to remember.'
'She was then but later they split up,' said Rosie. 'But I'm sure all this reminiscing must be frightfully boring for Anna and Carolyn.'
'You're right. We must get together and talk about old times later. Here comes Encarna with the chicken.'
He rose and collected the soup plates, coming back from the side-table with a bottle of wine to fill the heavy glass goblets which Rosie recognised as coming from Biot in France.
CHAPTER T H R E E
ROSIE woke at what would have been seven in England and was eight in Spain. It had been long past midnight when they came to bed and Nick had suggested they should get up when they felt like it. He would be busy all morning.
In spite of the very small window overlooking the plaza, Rosie's bedroom was not at all gloomy because it had two large skylights let into the restored roof. Watching the pink glow of dawn seeping across the clear sky, she wondered how she could avoid Nick's intended talk about 'old times'.
After dinner, sitting by the fire, Carolyn and Anna had done most of the talking. Rosie had said very little, preferring to let the other two hold the floor while she listened, trying not to notice how the firelight emphasised Nick's handsome bone-structure and turned his deep suntan to bronze. It had crossed her mind that, with his strongly marked features and well-shaped skull, he would be an excellent subject for a sculptor. If it hadn't been for the fact that he might have insisted on escorting her to her door, she would have retired to bed early. The build-up of nervous tension ever since Anna had told her about this weekend had, once the moment of confrontation was over, left her strangely exhausted.
Soon after eleven there had been a short power-cut which would have plunged them into darkness had it not been for the log fire. Apparently power-cuts were a frequent occurrence in rural Spain, which was why all the visitors' bedrooms were supplied with torches and candlesticks.
The bed in which she was sleeping was one of a pair of wider than average single beds, both with barley-sugar headposts topped with brightly painted carvings of parrots. She guessed that Nick must have picked up one set of posts on his travels and had them copied for the twin bed. It seemed strange for a man on his own to have acquired goods and chattels. Yet why not?
Hadn't she always been a magpie, gradual
ly accumulating pictures, pieces of furniture, rugs and the miscellaneous odds and ends which were now in the house in Fulham? Why shouldn't a man have the same acquisitive instinct?
For the first time it struck her that she had never heard Nick refer to his parents or to any aspect of his past life. He had only talked about the present and the future. Was that because the past was something he preferred to forget?
I was in love with someone I didn't really know, she thought. It was almost like having a crush on a pop singer or a film star. I fell for his eyes, his mouth, his physical presence, but the much more important parts of him— his mind and his heart—I never gave a thought to. Knowing she wouldn't go back to sleep, and not wanting to lie in bed thinking about Nick, she got up and dressed, putting on soft-soled shoes which would make no sound on the flags of the cloister when she left the room. Both Carolyn and Anna had said they enjoyed getting up late at weekends and she didn't want to disturb them as she passed their rooms. Last night she had noticed that the cloisters on the far side of the courtyard were open on both sides. But there had been nothing but darkness to be seen beyond the double row of pillars. This morning the view made her gasp. The monks had built their retreat overlooking a bowl-shaped valley sheltered by mountains to the west and giving a distant prospect of the sea to the east.
Quickly she hurried round to the open side of the cloister, captivated by a panorama as beautiful as any she had seen in her quite extensive travels.
'I used to visualise this when I was in Beirut, and all the other places where children grow up not knowing what a peaceful, verdant countryside looks like,' Nick said quietly. As it had the night before when he returned to the library by way of the painted jib-door, his soundless approach from the doorway to the upper hall had caught her unawares. As she swung round, he said, keeping his voice low, 'Good morning. I hope your being up so early doesn't mean you had a poor night.'
