by Anne Weale
'Good morning. No, I slept very well, thank you. I usually get up early. I thought you were always closeted in your workroom at this hour.'
'As a rule, yes. But sometimes I take a short break to come up and look at the mountains. They're at their best in this light. Once the sun gets up, their shapes become less distinct. Also, for writers who use a computer, as I do, it's supposed to be a good thing to have a complete change of focus every so often. After I've been staring at the screen for about an hour, I rest my eyes by looking at the sierras. Encarna is making coffee. Will you have a cup with me?'
Although a tete-a-tete with him was the last thing she wanted, Rosie felt obliged to say,
'Thank you.'
'We'll have it downstairs on the terrace where our voices won't disturb your colleagues if they're asleep. I see you are sensibly shod,' he said, glancing down at her feet. He was wearing a pair of navy blue cotton cspadrilles with rope soles. Perhaps because his long legs made it difficult for him to find ready-made trousers of the right length, his white denim jeans showed his ankles. They were as brown as his face.
Like Rosie, he was wearing a sweater. Hers was a cream cotton guernsey, a present from her parents after a holiday in the Channel Islands. Nick was wearing a blue naval sweater with cotton elbow-patches and cotton reinforcements on the shoulders. The epaulettes, intended for the wearer's badges of rank, emphasised the breadth of his shoulders which, as Anna had remarked the night before, were in perfect proportion to his height. Downstairs, he took her to the kitchen where the delicious aroma of freshly ground coffee beans was starting to pervade the air.
Encarna was nowhere to be seen but, as Rosie was looking admiringly at the blue and yellow antique tiles with which the walls of the kitchen were faced up to dado height, the Spanish woman came in by the back door. She was carrying a long cotton bag with 'PAN'
embroidered on it.
'The village has an excellent baker,' said Nick, adding something in Spanish which made Encarna open the bag and hand him a long crusty loaf.
Nick broke off the end of the loaf and offered it to Rosie. 'Have the crustiest bit.'
When she had taken it from him, he broke off another piece for himself. The bread, made with wholemeal flour, was still hot from the oven. But before she could taste it, Encarna shook a reproving finger at Nick and said, 'Momento, senorita. . .with a gesture indicating that Rosie should wait a moment.
She then produced a dish of butter, another of honey, and a plate, knife and checked napkin.
'Encarna can't understand that I find the bread good on its own and she may be right, you may not care for dry bread.' He said something to his housekeeper who nodded and fetched a tray. By this time Rosie had bitten off a piece of the crust. 'I agree: even by itself it's delicious,'
she said.
When Encarna had set the tray with two pottery cups and saucers and a basket lined with another napkin for the bread, Nick picked it up.
'The coffee isn't quite ready. Encarna will bring it to us in a few minutes.'
He led the way along a passage to another door giving on to a covered terrace furnished with basketwork chairs and loungers with faded blue sailcloth squabs and cushions. The terrace had much the same view as the outer cloisters except that from here more of the monastery garden was visible, including a number of orange trees bearing ripe fruit and, at a lower level, a large swimming pool, its surface at present covered with a thermal blanket. Wisps of vapour seeped up from the edges, indicating that the water was heated.
'How long have you had Encarna looking after you?' Rosie asked, as he put the tray on a cane table and pulled it to where they would be sitting in sunlight.
'Since a year ago when I came to live here permanently. Before that she kept the place aired and looked after the indoor plants and did my laundry in her washing machine when I was here. Sometimes I cooked for myself, sometimes I ate out.'
He fetched a wicker armchair, placed it to face the view, and gestured for her to be seated. Fetching another for himself, he went on, 'She had been widowed for six months when I packed in TV. She has a daughter married to a chef in Benidorm and they wanted her to sell her house and live with them. But Encarna is a countrywoman. She didn't fancy life in a sixth-floor apartment. So she offered to keep house for me. It's an arrangement which suits us both, but I don't know how long it can last. She doesn't look it, but she's getting on for seventy.'
'I would never have guessed it. She doesn't look much more than sixty. Are those oranges ready to pick?'
'They are. Would you like one for breakfast?' He pushed back his chair and went to fetch one for her, moving with the lithe grace of a man in perfect physical condition. None of the signs of an unhealthy, dissipated life she had half expected to find were apparent in his muscular physique. The whites of his eyes were as clear as her own.
'Thank you,' she said, when he came back. 'When I was staying in Marbella I bought some tangerines which had leaves on their stalks, but I've never had an orange straight from the tree before.'
'I'll peel it for you... the Spanish way.' He took out a pocket knife and sliced off the top and bottom before making half a dozen longitudinal cuts in the thin glossy peel which then came away very easily.
Watching the swift, precise movements of his lean brown fingers, Rosie remembered a day when he had come past her desk in the News when she was new to the job and hadn't completely mastered the software used in that office.
He had realised she was in a muddle, said, 'Move over,' and sorted it out for her, rewriting her report but in a tactful way so that she saw how it should be done but wasn't made to feel a fool. Perhaps it was then, watching his fingers flick expertly over the keyboard and the right words, arranged in the right way, come up on the screen, that she had lost her heart to him. I mustn't do it again, she thought, as Encarna appeared with the coffee pot in one hand and a jug of hot milk in the other.
'Enough about my life... I want to hear about yours,' he said. 'Where do you live and how did you come to be in charge of a PR agency?'
'I changed to PR six years ago when I didn't get the job I wanted on a women's magazine but was offered one as an assistant to the woman who founded the agency. Two years ago she married an American oil man and I took over the business. I share a house in Fulham with Sasha Otley. Like you, we have a housekeeper to run it so that we can concentrate on our careers.'
'How do you like your coffee? Half and half?' When he had filled both cups Nick gave her a thoughtful look. 'Your parents were farmers, weren't they, Rosie?'
'How clever of you to remember.'
'Not really. I remember you as the archetypal farmer's daughter: a lovely skin, rosy cheeks, rather buxom in those days, a living advertisement for good wholesome food, country air and rural life. I would never have imagined you becoming a sophisticated London career girl. If I'd been asked to predict your future, I'd have said you would stay in journalism for a couple of years and then marry somebody local and settle down to raise a family.'
'You would have been miles off the mark. The last thing I wanted was to be like my mother, stuck in a rut of domesticity. It may not have shown in those days, but I was always ambitious and so was Sasha. Archetypal yuppies, that's what we were... our sights firmly set on being successful careerists.'
'And having, I gather, achieved your objectives, has it made you as happy as you hoped?' he asked.
'Very much so. As you have with this place, in a different form we've achieved a perfect lifestyle.'
'And where do men fit in to this pattern of perfection? Do you have boyfriends?' he asked.
'From time to time, yes, of course. But neither of us plan to become seriously involved for at least another ten years.'
'Is it possible to plan one's serious involvements? Don't they just happen whether the timing is convenient or not?'
'To some people—yes. But I don't think either Sasha or I are likely to lose our heads now. I know I'm not. I like being a woman of independent
means. If I'd had a husband and children, I probably shouldn't have been able to fly out here for the weekend to discuss the promotion of your book.'
'Anna is married. She's here.'
'Anna has an exceptionally accommodating husband and no children. The majority of men still aren't keen on their wives Hitting about the world and putting their work before their domestic responsibilities. This is delicious honey. Is it local?'
'It's eucalyptus honey from Callosa de Ensarria. Had you been staying longer, I would have taken you there to sample the various flavours and choose some to take back to London. In view of the fact that we're old friends, and you aren't hampered by a husband, can't you extend your visit for a day or two?'
'Unfortunately not. I'm very busy next week, and I'm sure Carolyn is impatient to start going through your book with you. If you're not in a hurry to get back to your desk—' he was spreading honey thickly on a piece of bread '—can we talk business? Do you have any ideas of your own on how the book should be promoted?'
Nick bit off a piece of the bread and chewed it with obvious enjoyment while considering his reply.
'I wouldn't say this if we were strangers. As we aren't, I'll be candid with you. I'm not falling over myself to leave here and trek around the UK helping local radio disc jockeys fill in the time between records. Frankly, I have reservations about the value of these tours, but I don't expect you to agree. They're part of your livelihood. The whole promotional circus was invented by PR people and authors are stuck with it, whether they like it or not. Some of them may enjoy that kind of ego trip. But I'd just as soon stay here, writing and reading.'
His attitude surprised her. She had heard several authors claim that they didn't like promo tours but had never taken them seriously. If they really hated the tours they could refuse to do them, but very few did.
Knowing Anna would be horrified if she heard her, Rosie said, 'In that case, why not do that? Or have Bury & Poole insisted that you help to launch the book in person?'
'No, they haven't made it a condition, but it's what they want and I don't feel I'm in a position to reject their proposals. I'm a greenhorn in the book world and maybe they're right and I'm wrong.' He gave her a glinting blue glance. 'And I must say that now I've met my bear-leader I'm becoming more resigned to the idea. It could turn out to be fun.'
She wondered what he meant by fun. She said briskly, 'I don't think tours are ever that, but we'll do our best to make it as painless as possible. As a journalist yourself you should have no trouble establishing a rapport with the journalists who will interview you. Has Anna given you B & P's author's questionnaire to fill in? Or do you have a curriculum vitae I can use as the basis of a hand-out about you?'
'I have a CV on disk. I'll print out a copy for you later today. Anna mentioned a questionnaire and may have brought it with her. Have some more.' He passed her the basket of bread.
'No, thanks, no more for me. I thought I'd pass the time until the others are up having a look round the village.'
'Why not leave that till later? I'm going to have a swim next. Wouldn't you like to join me?
Did you bring a swimsuit? Anna said she would tell you to bring one.'
'Yes, I did and I'd like to swim later but not right now if you don't mind.'
There was a degree of intimacy about having a swim alone with him which she preferred to avoid.
'As you like. How about some more coffee? There's still plenty in the pot.'
Rosie shook her head. 'It was a very good breakfast—especially the orange. I'll see you later.' As she pushed back her chair and stood up, Nick also rose. He had always been punctiliously courteous to the women on the editorial staff, opening doors for them, lighting their cigarettes, finding bar stools for them to sit on when they joined the men in the pub round the corner.
Other reporters had taken the view that women on equal pay with equal opportunities had no right to expect special courtesies. Perhaps that was one of the reasons for Nick's success with women. He understood that however 'equal' women were, they were still and perhaps always would be suckers for the chivalrous approach.
'It's market day in the village. I shouldn't think you'll see anything you want to buy, but would you like to take a few hundred pesetas in case?' he asked, producing a billfold from the back pocket of his trousers. His sudden grin made deep creases down his cheeks. 'A credit card's not much use in Font Vella market.'
'Thanks, but I have some Spanish money.'
Although she was here for only a couple of days, Rosie had thought it wise to bring about fifty pounds' worth of pesetas. She might see something her mother would like, or presents for her two sisters, both of whom had done what Nick had predicted for her: married young and had babies.
This morning, when she stepped through the wicket, the plaza was full of stalls selling plastic flowers, plastic jewellery, enamel pots and pans, cheap crockery, carpet slippers, track shoes and corsets such as her grandmother had worn except that these were flesh-coloured instead of the shiny pink garments she had seen hanging out to dry on Granny's washing line. The wares were not dissimilar from those sold on markets in the north of England. The only things she could see which were essentially Spanish were brown glazed earthenware casseroles and rabbit-fur slippers.
But if the market was not exciting, Font Vella, as she wandered around its steep streets and alleys, made her wish she had brought her camera to record the handsome wrought-iron grilles which protected some of the windows, and the heavy brass door-knockers shaped like dolphins or lace-cuffed hands. Where some doors were standing open, she caught glimpses of unexpectedly large and well-to-do interiors.
It was near the entrance to the village that she found the fountain from which the place took its name. Jets of bright water gushed from three spouts and fell into a large stone basin. From there it flowed along a channel at the side of the road and presumably was used to water the cultivated land surrounding Font Vella.
As Rosie was watching the play of sunlight on water, a woman came to fill a plastic container from one of the spouts. The houses must have piped water if Encarna had a washing machine, but perhaps that came from a reservoir in the hills and this was better for drinking. How civilised, to have natural spring water to drink and good bread from an old-fashioned baker's oven to eat, she thought, strolling back up the steep main street with its time-polished cobbles. In the past, she noticed, the street had been stepped all the way up but now at the sides the shallow steps had been converted into slopes so that cars could drive up and down.
'Good morning, senorita.'
She turned to find the young Spaniard who had met them the night before coming up the hill behind her.
'Good morning, Senor Rodriguez.'
'You know my name but I do not know yours,' he said, as they fell into step.
'Rosie Middleton.'
'Rosie..He rolled the 'R'. 'In Spain the diminutive of Rosa is Rosita. My name is Jose Maria. Is this your first visit to Spain?'
Towards the top of the hill they had to step into a side street to let two cars come past. They were followed by a third vehicle, a Land Rover driven by Nick. He did not see them, his attention being on a couple of small children on his nearside.
'I wonder where Nick is off to. He's supposed to be working this morning,' said Rosie, as the Land Rover passed out of sight.
'There was a bunch of carnations on the passenger seat. I expect he is going to see Senora Clermont,' said Jose. 'There are only two foreigners living here... Nick and the French lady. They are very close friends. She does not have much money. He is very good to her. Every week flowers... chocolates ... wine.' He smiled. 'Encarna is jealous because Senora Clermont cooks for Nick and Encarna thinks he likes her dishes better than Encarna's. Perhaps he does. They say French food is the best in the world. Is that true, do you think?'
'I don't think it's possible to compare the cuisines of different countries which, at their best, are all delicious,' she answered diplomatically. 'N
ick says the bar in Font Vella serves a superb leg of lamb. If Encarna's cooking is as good as her coffee, I should think Nick enjoys every mouthful of the food she cooks for him.'
'She is a very good cook, but he cannot converse with her as he does with Senora Clermont. She is a woman of the world who speaks several languages and can discuss many subjects. They are of equal high intellect ... is that how you would say it?'
'It would be more idiomatic to say "They are intellectual equals",' she told him. And what else are they? she wondered. Lovers, perhaps?
CHAPTER FOUR
W H E N Rosie returned to the monastery she found Carolyn and Anna having a late breakfast at the table on the terrace.
Although the stall-holders and shoppers in the p laz a were wearing sweaters and cardigans, Rosie had taken hers off and the others were breakfasting in bathing suits. To anyone from northern Europe, the sun was now summer-hot although there was a noticeable drop in temperature in the shade.
'Morning, Rosie. Encarna told us you'd had breakfast with Nick and then gone exploring. Like some more coffee? This is our second pot. I'll go and ask for another cup.' Slipping her arms into a beach wrap, Anna went to the kitchen.
'I hope you didn't keep Nick chatting when he should have been back at his desk,' said Carolyn. 'I don't want our visit to interfere with his routine.'
'It wasn't my idea to have breakfast with him,' said Rosie. 'Afterwards he was going to have a swim and suggested I join him, but I said I'd rather go for a walk round the village.'
'That was sensible of you. It could be all too easy in surroundings like these—'
Carolyn indicated the swimming pool which now had its cover removed and four sunbeds and two 'sunbrellas' arranged alongside it '—for him to get out the way of writing at fixed times. You wouldn't believe the trouble I have getting some of my authors to work regular hours and finish their books on schedule.'
