Spying a church circumnavigated by a small alleyway, Helen pushed her way through the meandering crowd and headed for the relative solitude. She followed the path around the church and her ears picked up quiet strands of classical music, vying with a heavy beat coming from speakers in the square behind her. As she rounded the corner she saw two people sitting against the church wall with a few bystanders quietly observing. Strands of cello music coiled up from where a young girl cradled the instrument, head bent low. The melody raised goosebumps on Helen’s bare arms and wrapped around her like a blanket, smothering all thought of the Festival or why she was there. Next to the girl sat an old woman with her eyes closed. She seemed to be meditating and Helen wondered if she was there as a chaperone for the young cellist. Then, as the cello music changed tempo, the old lady inhaled and began to sing. The voice that emerged was strong and pure, scattering Helen’s expectations. The song was in Spanish but Helen didn’t need to understand the words. The music resonated with emotion, first wondering and longing, then moving into understanding and finally joy.
Helen felt tears well in her eyes as the incongruous buskers reached the end of their performance.
Damn hormones.
There was no rapturous applause, just a sigh of shared experience as the onlookers tossed coins into the open cello case.
Helen searched in her pocket for change, nearly dropping her camera as she discovered her hands were shaking. She felt someone reach out to steady her and was immediately on the defensive. Looking up she saw the man from the beach. Is he following me? Her heart skipped and thudded like startled rabbit.
The handsome face broke into a warm smile as the man recognised her, but his demeanour, with half his body turned towards the performers, suggested to Helen that the meeting was accidental; that he too had stopped to listen to the lady sing and the girl play.
“Thank you,” the man said, when Helen eventually located some Euros and dropped them into the velvet-lined case. She looked up at him, a question in her eyes.
“The cellist is one of my sisters; I said I would come listen to her play.”
“She plays beautifully. Is the singer a relative too?”
“Probably.” The man shrugged.
“You don’t know?” Helen laughed, diverted by his answer.
They were walking back towards the square and the man paused to answer before the blaring music made it hard for her to hear him. Leaning in so he didn’t have to shout, his voice rippled laughingly across the short space between them.
“I come from a large family, who knows how many people are cousins or aunts twice removed. You know how it is!”
“Not really, my only relatives are my parents and a brother.”
The man looked surprised. “Really?” He paused, as if imagining such a life. “How sad.”
Helen frowned. “Why do you say that?”
“I love having a large family, there’s always something going on. That’s why I come back to Barcelona whenever I can.”
“You don’t live here then?”
“No, London.”
“Oh me too. Whereabouts?”
“Highbury, and you?”
“Earl’s Court.”
Helen wondered how she had fallen into conversation with this man whose name she didn’t even know. She was here to work, not to be chatted up by random people. Not that he seemed to be chatting her up. He wasn’t even looking at her, but rather he seemed to be preoccupied surveying the square before them, as if trying to find someone, or to record it all in his mind.
As if to confirm this, he turned to her abruptly and declared, “I have to go. Nice to talk to you again. You be careful out there tonight, the pickpockets will be out in force.”
“Thanks.” Helen was unsure whether to be flattered or offended by his concern. Before she could say any more he was gone, striding across the square towards one of the stages.
She became aware of a new sensation itching at her skin. Pausing for a moment to wonder what it was, she realised it was a sense of exposure, as if a protective force had been withdrawn. She hadn’t realised how lonely it was being solo in the middle of a festival, until she had bumped into her strange shadow. She had felt relaxed walking with him, more complete somehow. Now he had left her standing alone she felt vulnerable and in need of the warmth of body contact for the first time in weeks.
Wrapping her arms around her she murmured, “It’s just us babies, we will be each other’s family.”
Chapter Five
Her brief was to get as many natural shots of the festival as possible without any one person being so identifiable a model-release form would be required. It was a tricky brief and Helen had decided to take as many pictures as possible and worry about the content and quality later.
Derek would be hopping like Rumplestiltskin if he could see me, frothing about only amateur’s taking a gazillion shots. He’d be right, too, it’s going to take me forever to wade through this lot.
She thought back to the day in the park with Rosa. If she had taken too many shots that day she would never have been able to download them in time to email her submission.
And where would I be now? Still, what else do I have to do with my time? It’s not as if I have to rush back to prepare some stupid dinner party or help write acceptance speeches. Much as I miss Daniel, I don’t miss that.
As she ran off ten shots of some teenagers dancing at the side of the square, Helen whispered a small prayer of thanks for the invention of the digital camera. She couldn’t imagine being restricted to 36 images a time, or having to change film out here in the busy square. It wasn’t dark yet, although the September sun had disappeared behind the buildings, but the lights from the stages made it seem darker and later than it was. The noise built in waves, like the incoming tide. Her tummy bopped and moved in time to the music as the babies kicked merrily inside her.
I wish I was sitting in that café watching rather than here on my feet trying to find the perfect shot, whatever that is.
Her brain absorbed itself in selecting shots, shutter speeds and apertures without much need for intervention. Helen found herself wondering what the London stranger was doing and wishing she had asked his name. Now she had met him several times, his features were beginning to fix themselves in her mind. He hadn’t towered over her so he wasn’t tall, but taller than her 5ft 7in, so that she had to look up into his face.
What stood out in her memory were his blue eyes. She had never seen a Spanish man, or any man with dark hair, who had anything but brown eyes. The blue was dazzling against the tanned skin; she felt goosebumps just remembering them. They were as incongruous as his London accent and just as attractive. There was something familiar about his voice that made her feel at home, even though her Devonian burr was a long way from an East End brogue.
She wondered idly where her stranger got his accent – was he actually English and his family had moved to Barcelona? He had said he had a large family, that sounded more Spanish than English. But there was no trace of a local accent when the man spoke. He was intriguing and she found herself wanting to know more.
Alarm bells clanged loudly in her head, even as she had the thought. Men were trouble. Besides, what man wanted to date a woman carrying another man’s offspring?
A blanket of lassitude settled on Helen’s shoulders, making her limbs and eyelids heavy. Her head swam with dizziness and she realised she hadn’t eaten since lunch.
I need to sit down before I fall down. Time to eat, my little ones, you must be starving. Mummy isn’t taking very good care of you.
Helen looked around for a quiet restaurant where she could grab some food and review the shots she had taken so far. If they were good enough she could skulk back to the hotel and call it a night before the crowds got rowdy. There would be time to upload them and email some thumbnails to her publisher, who she knew would still be working even at this late hour. Being on her own budget, Helen was keen to get a flight home in the morning
if her assignment was completed to satisfaction.
Finding a café that wasn’t already bursting with bodies began to feel like an initiation test, but eventually Helen realised most customers were sitting outside so they could continue to watch the festival. She found a restaurant in the corner of the square furthest from the stage and sat down gratefully in an empty booth.
Thankful the menu was in English, Helen scanned the list searching for something she could eat. There were so many forbidden foods for pregnant women.
Usually all the tasty ones.
After sighing over the uncooked meats and soft cheeses Helen ordered a basic pizza and settled down to skim through the pictures she had taken so far. She was pleasantly surprised that some of them captured the soul of the festival. The first shots, of the masks along Las Ramblas, were particularly effective, although they also reminded her of her bizarre dream and, by association, the unnamed stranger.
As if the mere memory of him conjured him up, her heart began to beat a little quicker as she saw him in her picture of the cellist outside the church. Clicking on the zoom button, Helen studied his profile, his mocha skin and thick black hair. His face was relaxed, almost fatherly, as he watched the cellist. Helen realised how much more handsome he was when his features were not marred by the sardonic expression he seemed to wear whenever they spoke.
If he wasn’t stalking her, and it didn’t seem likely, it was a strange run of coincidences that kept them bumping into each other. He felt like her Barcelonan guardian angel and Helen thought how nice it was to have the protection of a man again.
Don’t be silly, she admonished her traitorous mind. You do not need a man to protect you or your babies. This is the Twenty-First Century; women do not need men to shelter and guide them.
A waiter arrived with her food and Helen was glad of the interruption. When he had placed a steaming plate and a small glass of wine in front of her and departed, she found her mind immediately resumed its previous chain of thought.
Just because you don’t need something, her mind argued, doesn’t mean it isn’t rather nice to have it. You don’t need a glass of wine with your dinner, in fact it’s on the list of forbidden things for someone in your condition, but it makes you feel warm and content. Life should be about more than mere need.
She looked guiltily at the wine and vowed only to have a mouthful.
The Midwife did say a single unit every now and then wouldn’t hurt.
Sitting back, the food restoring her to calm, Helen thought about her interior dialogue. Was that indeed the crux of the matter, the thing that was causing her such disquiet? Not that she couldn’t cope with the twins by herself, but that she didn’t want to?
In a few short months she had gone from having a stylish apartment, a man to love who loved her in return, a hobby that excited and fulfilled her, a fairy-tale wedding to look forward to, followed by the hope of children, to this: a future full of struggle and fear, where money was a constant worry, where she would need to give all her love to two small children who would be incapable of giving her much in return for a long time. Where there was no one for her, to love and protect her.
Of course she had her family. She knew her mother would be ecstatic if she chose to raise the babies in Devon where there would be doting grandparents on hand. Some days the temptation was tangible. It would be so easy to rent out her flat and jump on a train. Some days she wasn’t sure what she was fighting for. Thinking about it now, Helen tried to pinpoint the cause of her reluctance. She pictured herself back on the farm, where she had worked so hard as a child. She imagined her parents and tried to visualise her children growing up there too.
I don’t want that for them. I want them to have the choices I didn’t have: To run and play and be children, without having to muck out the pigs or collect eggs.
That was certainly part of it. Not all of it though. Twirling the rich red liquid in her nearly-full wine glass, Helen thought about her life in London and realised that, selfishly – if selfishness were permitted in a parent – she wanted to stay in London because there she was Helen. Not Maggie’s daughter or Simon’s sister or the lass from the farm.
Of course for a long time she had been Daniel’s fiancée, although she hadn’t realised at the time how much of herself she had given up to fulfil that role.
And now I guess I’ll always be the twins’ mummy.
With a sigh, Helen fished out enough Euros for the bill and tip and gathered up her belongings. She felt there were enough pictures to keep her publisher happy and, besides, she had nothing left to give this evening. Two wriggling babies were demanding that their mummy put her feet up and rest and who was she to deny them?
Marcio hurried across the square to catch-up with the face he’d spotted near the stage. A friend had promised Marcio a five minute interview with the headline act and Marcio was keen to seize the moment. It was just the angle his article needed to get the editor’s attention. Food reviews were all very well but only lead articles made any kind of money and he had an urgent need for cash. Another reminder had arrived that morning and he felt honour bound to pay them all, even though he knew she would happily pay her half and more if only he could bring himself to ask.
It was bad enough that she had humiliated him in front of all his family and friends, he’d be damned if he was going to visit her, them, cap in hand.
I’d rather starve.
Looking back across the square, Marcio saw the strange lady with the copper hair staring bemused at the carnival chaos. Why did he keep bumping into her? It was as if fate kept drawing them together. Barcelona wasn’t a big city but, even so, she did keep turning up like a bad copper penny.
She looked so fragile and lost that some primal need rose up in him, instructing him to protect and care for her. She was such a target. I’m amazed she chooses to wander the city alone, particularly in her condition. He wondered what she was doing at the festival. She obviously loved taking pictures, but it was strange she was there by herself. Was she working? He knew some freelance photographers who were taking shots of the festival. He’d approached a couple, hoping to offer a complete package of article and image to his editor to improve his chances of securing a lead slot. She seemed an unlikely freelancer though. She didn’t have the edge, although he knew that pregnancy softened the hardest female. He’d seen his sisters, all strong sassy women, crumble and cry over the smallest thing due to hormones. It had frightened him to begin with but he had so many nephews and nieces now that pregnancy and birth were no longer a shock.
Not that I’m likely to experience fatherhood myself. He swallowed the metallic taste in his mouth. He couldn’t imagine ever trusting a woman again, certainly not enough to want to marry and rear offspring. My role is to be the perpetual uncle, the endless bachelor.
“Marcio, Hola!”
Startled out of his reverie, Marcio realised his friend had spotted him and was coming through the throng, arms outstretched in greeting.
“Pedro, good to see you. Thank you so much for arranging this, I owe you.”
“It’s nothing, friend. Come through now, he’s getting ready backstage and has agreed to five minutes and five minutes only.” In a quieter voice he added, “He’s a bit of a diva, between you and me, so tread carefully.”
Marcio sighed. Oh to be sat on deck writing his novel, where he didn’t have to deal with awful food, rude waiters or over-sized egos. The things we do to make a living. He shrugged and walked forwards. You have to play the hand you’re dealt, however much it stinks.
He followed Pedro behind the make-shift stage, reaching for his Dictaphone and notebook and steeling himself to turn on the charm.
Chapter Six
Considerably more than five minutes later the interview was finally complete. Funny how ego overcomes deadline when faced with a Dictaphone and a willing audience. Marcio twisted his lips and headed back out into the thronging crowd, trying to decide what to do next. He could wander back to Hotel Arts,
write up his reviews and the interview and get them sent off. Or he could meet up with some friends that Pedro had told him were in a nearby bar. Paused in indecision, he saw the lady with copper hair leaving a restaurant at the edge of the square. She looked tired and defeated, but still so beautiful. It irked him that she was alone. If he was the father of her baby he would be here to protect her, to make sure his precious family came to no harm.
On impulse he strode across the square towards her.
“Hey, pretty lady!” he hailed, realising he still didn’t know her name.
“You again,” she responded, her voice a mixture of pleasure and annoyance. “Are you following me?”
He laughed. “No, gorgeous, don’t flatter yourself. Fate must be throwing us together. I thought maybe one shouldn’t ignore fate, so I have come to invite you for a drink. And to find out your name. I’m Marcio.” He held out his hand.
Helen felt the smile spread across her face at his casual use of the word gorgeous, even if it was obviously just a line. She looked at his handsome face, weighing up the possibilities. What harm in a drink? It beats going back to that disgusting hotel. She ignored the little voice reminding her about her need to leave in the morning to save cash. You couldn’t argue with Fate.
“Helen. I’m Helen.” She reached out a tentative hand towards his and he shook it warmly.
Marcio placed his hand gently on her lower back and steered her through the dancing throng towards a nearby bar. Helen was unsure what to make of the physical contact. She realised the only men she’d been near in the last five months were her father and Ben. A warmth radiated from Marcio’s hand that had nothing to do with his touch. There was something very protective about the gesture. There was no sexuality in it, he was merely steering and supporting her through the crowd. When he dropped his hand as they arrived at a bar, Helen became aware of a hollow feeling in her throat.
Baby Blues and Wedding Shoes Page 14
