Are they holidaying too, or is the pace of life just that much slower here? I can’t imagine people sitting out like this in London. In the City they barely stop to eat unless it’s a business lunch.
The gentle hubbub of conversation interwove with the highlights and flashes of laughter. It felt like sitting next to a bubbling brook or on the beach as waves lapped and dragged at the stones.
If I’d come here a year ago, I would have condemned them all as lazy. I was so caught up in the City way of work work work. Now it’s hard to figure out what it was all for. What’s the point in working in an office like a pit pony for fifty weeks of the year so we can afford to sit around drinking outside coffee for the other two?
One thing Helen loved, doing freelance work, was being outside instead of trapped behind tinted glass. She was aware of the seasons passing; she knew how the weather changed during the day. She felt more connected to the world somehow; more rooted in reality. It more than made up for the loneliness.
Of course it would be great to have people to hang out with, she thought. Although she sometimes grabbed lunch with Sharni or Ben, they both still had regular jobs.
She smiled. Soon she would have a reason to hang out with people in coffee shops, even if it wasn’t going to be relaxed and carefree. She was under no illusions: she’d taken to watching groups of mums out and about. The mess, the noise, the chaos. She envied them though; they seemed to pull together in their adversity, swapping stories of sleepless nights and nappy explosions.
Once I meet some other mums it’ll be easier. It was a hollow thought. Helen had no idea how she would be able to face them, to explain her situation. And she still needed to work as long as she was able. There was no husband to bring in the pennies while she tended to the young. Thank goodness boredom made me take up photography or there would have been no pennies at all.
Her maudlin thoughts were interrupted by a sudden kick in the ribs, followed by one further round.
“Oi, you two, pack it in,” Helen said with a laugh, realising it was probably the first of many times she would utter those words. A kick to her bladder made her get up in a hurry and look around for the nearest toilet.
Funny how no-one ever tells you about this bit, she thought, searching through her bag for her town map.
People talk about the glowing skin, the joy of feeling movement, even the back ache and the sleepless nights. No one ever mentions that you’ll spend half your time looking for a public toilet, whilst waddling like a bloated whale wearing a nappy.
Hurrying from the courtyard through a narrow street Helen smiled at the picture she must present. The street led to another courtyard with a covered market at one end. She rushed into the market, hoping there would be facilities at the back as there sometimes were, and came to a sudden stop in the doorway. It was a fish market. Her newly-enhanced sense of smell reeled at the malodourous wall that greeted her.
Bugger. Do I brave it and hope breakfast stays put? Or look somewhere else?
Another kick to the bladder made up her mind. Trying to unobtrusively breathe through her mouth, Helen carefully threaded her way through piles of shimmering fish, searching for the tell-tale picture that would inform her she was in the right place. Someone shouted something in her direction and she turned, concerned that she was somehow trespassing.
She faced a tall man in an apron, with white wiry hair twisting round a bald patch on his head. He smiled and spoke again in rapid Spanish or Catalan, she couldn’t tell which. When she shrugged and shook her head he tried again in broken English.
“Help you, lady?”
“I’m looking for the ladies,” Helen said quickly, trying hard not to breathe in.
The man looked puzzled. She tried again in her phrasebook Catalan.
“On es el lavabo?”
The old man’s face lit up in comprehension and he rattled off some incomprehensible words and accompanied them with gestures which were clearly meant to be directions. Helen prayed she had grasped enough to find what she needed. Experience taught her that saying she didn’t understand would only cause him to call his friends over until someone spoke enough English to tell her.
Nodding her comprehension, though feeling otherwise, Helen smiled, waved, and headed off in what she hoped was the right direction.
Trying to walk nonchalantly around the building she eventually saw a silver door with a picture of a lady on the front. With relief she found it was empty and hurried inside.
“Babies, you have no idea what your mummy is already going through for you!”
Marcio put down his knife and fork and pushed away the empty plate. The food was okay, his review wouldn’t be derisive, but neither would it be glowing. Glancing out the window over the harbour, he let out a long sigh.
This isn’t the life of a writer.
He knew his friends envied him; travelling and tasting good nosh for a living sounded so glamorous compared with wearing a suit and sitting in an office all day. And he knew, for him, it was infinitely preferable. But it wasn’t what he wanted.
His unfocused gaze caught sight of someone walking past the window and his breath caught as copper hair lifted in the breeze coming off the water. The lady turned to surreptitiously check her reflection in the window and Marcio saw dark Spanish skin rather than fair English rose. He felt his heart slow down, without realising that its beat had quickened.
Get a grip. She’s just a bird, that’s all. A pregnant one at that. He gulped down some of the heavy red wine that had been served with dinner and felt it burn down his throat.
A lonely one, too, part of his brain observed. He thought back to their second meeting, outside his hotel. She had looked serene whilst taking pictures, her face suffused with the glow that pregnancy gave to women to make up for the morning sickness and expanding waistline. Not that he’d realised she was pregnant, or that she was the same woman he’d rescued from pickpockets on Las Ramblas. Although I might have guessed, with her bag there on the floor for anyone to nab. Silly naïve gorgeous girl.
He’d studied her beauty while she was absorbed, making a mental note of the details of her hair piled up and the damp curl at the nape of her neck. Even though all women were faithless he still needed to pretend he believed in love for his novels. All stories needed romance even if life showed what a shallow concept it was.
She had lost her serenity talking to him. When he’d said he was staying at the Hotel Arts her face had tensed and grown dark. He wondered for the second time what her story was. Maybe she wasn’t what she seemed, innocent and green and fragile. Maybe she got herself knocked up by some barman and now thinks all men were bastards. Who am I to say? It’s not like I haven’t misjudged someone before.
Pulling out some money to cover the bill, Marcio gathered up his tablet and keys. He’d tapped out some notes during the meal and would now take the scooter back to his hotel to finish the review and email it to his editor. Tonight was the festival; at least there would be something more interesting to write about than the fish course and dessert menu.
Chapter Four
Helen adjusted her rucksack as the straps threatened to cut off all supply of blood to her arms. Her whole body felt swollen and full of water. I’m surprised I don’t slosh when I walk. She trudged down the steps to the Metro and let out a sigh as the cool of the station replaced the relentless afternoon sun. Thank god there’s time for a short nap back in the flea-pit before I head to the festival. I’m beat.
Good festival photos were going to make or break her trip. Fun as they had been to take, the pictures of Gehry’s fish and Gaudi architecture were unlikely to bring in significant income. They were too common, with every amateur tourist-come-photographer loading their snaps to stock image sites. As she slumped against a wall and waited for the train Helen tried not to dwell on her main assignment. Taking pictures at night was not her strong suit and she hadn’t taken any professionally since completing her course.
I guess now’s the time to
find out if I’m good enough to cut it. All I really want to do is take the weight off my feet and force some food into my squashed stomach.
At last a train whooshed into the station and Helen groaned. It teamed with a living wall of suits and jeans, as workers heading home pressed against early revellers heading to the festival. Helen edged into the carriage and clung to a strap, trying to rest one aching ankle at a time. She longed for a seat but knew she wasn’t nearly pregnant enough for someone to give up theirs.
A prickling sensation informed Helen that someone was watching her. She looked up into the heavily lined face of a petite Spanish lady. The old woman smiled and stood up, gesturing for Helen to take her seat. Helen felt her heartbeat thud heavy in her chest. What the hell do I do now? The old dear is three times my age, and I’m barely halfway through my pregnancy. The lady gestured again, more insistently this time. Unsure what else to do, Helen sank gratefully to the seat and the lady’s beaming smile confirmed she had made the right decision.
Through gestures and sign-language the lady asked how far along she was, holding up nine fingers and counting along them. Feeling a bit daft, Helen held up five fingers in response. The lady looked surprised and gestured to indicate a large bump for five months. Okay, so maybe I look more pregnant than I think I do! Great. She smiled wryly at her new friend, trying to work out how to communicate twins. She held up two fingers, then rocked to indicate she meant two babies. Her heart beat slightly faster, as it always did when she contemplated twins. The lady’s face lit up brighter, and her signs indicated twice the blessing, twice the love.
Helen’s chest tightened and she felt a lump form in her throat. She shoved the feelings away. I have cried enough for one lifetime. The lady’s words floated through her fear. Twice the love? Is that to make up for them not having a Daddy? For me doing this by myself? Looking along the carriage she could see couples, snuggled together or holding hands, talking into each other’s ears to be heard over the general noise of the busy carriage.
Her sadness must have been visible on her face as the old lady looked at her with pity. She indicated the rings on her finger and pointed at Helen’s hand, shaking her head. Helen wasn’t sure how to respond. She shook her head in turn, to indicate there was no husband, and waited for the woman’s censure. It didn’t come. Instead there was a question in the lady’s eyes and she spoke her first words in heavily accented English.
“He die?”
“No,” Helen responded, wondering why she felt the need to be honest to this stranger even though it would surely cause condemnation in such a religious country.
“He scared? He run?”
Helen raised her eyes in surprise, then nodded. “Not scared.” Helen wondered how much English the lady understood. Trying to think of a way to describe Daniel in simple terms she paused, then said, “Babies not part of his life plan right now. Work is his number one.” She emphasised the point with an upright index finger.
The lady thought through the words for a moment, before comprehension dawned. She frowned, and Helen thought she would turn away in disapproval. Instead the lady patted her shoulder in a motherly way and leant down to whisper in her ear.
“He stupid. You do fine, babies bring joy. You strong.”
Helen shivered and once more tears rose in her throat. How could the words of a complete stranger cut through to her soul? What does she see that I don’t?
Dawn had also told her she would find strength. She didn’t feel very strong. Some days it took every ounce of energy to fight the urge to call Daniel, just to have someone to share the burden with. And the babies haven’t even been born yet.
Seeing the sign for her stop outside the window, Helen pulled herself upright and sought out the kind eyes, buried in the tanned, wrinkled face, to say farewell. The eyes twinkled with compassion and understanding, and Helen felt she had been given a blessing as she departed the carriage.
The warm glow cocooned Helen as she made her way along the silver corridors to exit the Metro. As she came out blinking into the afternoon sunshine, the brightness seemed to clash with her happy feelings rather than enhancing them. The lady’s words, babies bring joy, echoed in her head but now they chilled her rather than warmed her. These babies hadn’t brought much joy so far.
Nodding at the bored woman on reception, Helen walked to the lift and hit the button for her floor so hard it left a mark on her hand. She was only two floors up but even that short climb seemed beyond her strength.
Once in her room, she set her alarm for six p.m., sank her head heavily into the pillow and was soon lost to restless sleep.
Helen’s dreams were frantic and she woke exhausted. Her mind twirling with images of party-goers in festival masks that resembled Daniel, his face twisted with rage. Sometimes the faces more closely resembled the stranger she had bumped into twice since arriving in Barcelona. She wondered what it meant and why the sexy Spanish man with the London accent intruded in such a personal space alongside Daniel.
They’re both city suits, cut from the same cloth. And they can both sod off out of my head! I don’t care if he wore the nice mask in my dreams, no-one who can afford to stay at the Hotel Arts is going to be anything other than a git. Besides, he let that kid get away. She felt her stomach knotting as she remembered the sardonic look on the stranger’s face when she’d demanded he call the cops. God I hope I don’t bump into him again.
Helen swung her feet off the bed and grimaced as her blistered feet touched the tiles. Pregnancy seemed to have made her feet bigger and even her most comfortable shoes rubbed. The prospect of walking more miles around the city centre made her want to lay back down on the bed and weep.
Stop whinging, get on that train, get your pictures and get home. Every day in this flea-pit is using money you don’t have. You can feel sorry for yourself once you’ve been paid.
Helen had discovered the downside of being freelance – it was rare to be able to claim travel costs on expenses. Maybe once she was more known, had more experience, she could negotiate for that, but until then she had to swallow the costs herself and hope the payment she received for her photographs covered it. She nearly hadn’t taken the Barcelona assignment for that reason. Unfortunately, with the babies due in less than four months, she wasn’t in a position to turn down work. Speculate to accumulate, isn’t that what they say? Well I hope I accumulate big from this otherwise the babies and I are going to be living in a cardboard box. Or with my parents.
As she gathered her photography gear together, and dressed to blend in with the revellers, Helen once more thanked her lucky stars for the work she had secured so far. Aspiration Publications had been good to her, sourcing every tiny, low-paying job, at her request. She had been surprised to find support in what she’d always imagined to be a cut-throat industry.
Looking back Helen wondered what decision she would have made if she had known from the beginning that she was carrying two babies. It seemed foolish to have moved back to London, evicted her tenants so needlessly. She could have stayed with her mum in Devon, at least until the babies were born.
You still could, part of her mind observed. It’s hardly difficult to find new tenants and you know Mum would love to have her grandchildren born on the farm.
It was the sensible choice but she just couldn’t imagine not being in the city, with all the effervescent life fizzing around her. She wondered if she would feel differently when the babies arrived.
I can’t think about that now, Helen muttered, seeing the time on the digital clock by the bed. Pushing thoughts of the future out of her mind, she shouldered her rucksack and hurried out the hotel.
She had decided to set herself up in one of the many squares that led off from Las Ramblas. Any thought of taking pictures along Las Ramblas itself had been quashed by her experience the previous evening.
I’ll be safer with some space around me, or a wall behind me, she thought, as she joined the crush on the next train heading for the centre.
> Helen walked up the steps of the Metro into a wall of sound. The station was halfway along Las Ramblas and she emerged from calm into chaos, like a rabbit coming out of his burrow to discover a rave had kicked off in his field. If I thought it was busy yesterday that was like a graveyard in comparison. Definitely the right decision to find somewhere quieter.
The milling crowd jostled her as she stood stationary trying to get her bearings. The sound of shouted laughter and music tunnelled into her ears and vibrated through her skin. She felt one of the babies kick and rubbed her hand protectively over her bump.
Sorry little ones, this is a bit crazy. Guilt stabbed under her ribcage as it occurred to her for the first time that perhaps this wasn’t the best environment for her unborn children. As if to emphasise the thought she inhaled the scent of cigarette smoke all around as people stood in groups smoking and chatting.
Helen searched around, trying to decide which way to go. To one side a procession of masks, like the ones in her dream, bobbed along several feet above the crowd. From what she could remember in the festival brochure they were heading for the market. Helen shivered as flashes of her dream washed over her and she quickly snapped a few shots before seeing a gap in the throng. Feeling like someone finding a path out of the jungle, Helen pushed through the space and left the busy street. Her bag snagged as she moved forward and her heart jumped into her throat. Please don’t let anyone try to pickpocket me today. She turned and checked the zips on her rucksack but everything looked fine. With a last lunge for freedom Helen left the street and hurried down a half-empty alleyway.
The noise dropped as soon as she left Las Ramblas. Resting her shoulder against a stone wall Helen took a deep breath. Her skin itched from the jostling and she felt as if she’d come up for air after being underwater too long.
Really, was this the right job for me? I grew up in Devon, for heaven’s sake: Their idea of busy is when sheep block the road and a three-car queue forms waiting for them to clear. The thick Londoner skin she had taken ten years to construct had apparently been shed with pregnancy. It’s like being a green little grockle again.
Baby Blues and Wedding Shoes Page 13
