Circles of Fate (5 page)

“You don't have to decide anything in a hurry,” said Edward, looking complacent now that the seeds had been set. He even patted her hand before resuming his meal. “But think about it. With the right manager installed, that property of yours could be a good working investment.”

“Have you enjoyed your meal?” He set down his knife and fork and crumpled his napkin into a ball. “It's been delicious.”

“You obviously enjoy Spanish food.”

“Yes.” She smiled at him. “But then, I would. I'm half Spanish.”

“Would you like some coffee?” He averted his eyes to signal the waiter. “With a liqueur, perhaps?” But still he did not look at her.

They had finished their meal by ten o'clock, which was early by Spanish standards, and she hoped that Edward would suggest they leave the hotel and go on a sightseeing expedition. Earlier, while shopping, she had spied several interesting looking taverns which invited exploration. But Edward smiled benignly and said that he wasn't yet acclimatized to the long-drawn-out Spanish meals and odd hours and that he was ready for bed.

He walked her to her bedroom door. “Tomorrow we'll hire a car and go sight-seeing. You'd like that?”

“Yes, I'd like that.”

She waited.

“Anita?”

“Yes?”

“No, it doesn't matter.” He dropped a quick, embarrassed kiss on her forehead and hurried off down the corridor to his own room. He had been going to tell her something of importance. His tongue had quivered on the brink of confession and then he'd changed his mind.

His indecisive treatment of her left her feeling frustrated. Yet she knew she would have felt just as stricken (in all honesty, more stricken) if he'd forced his way into her room and made passionate love to her. How could she call him when she shared his feelings? When she didn't know what she wanted herself.

On entering her room, the first thing she noticed was the enormous bouquet of cellophane-wrapped carnations. She stripped off the wrapping and buried her face deeply into their fragrance. She didn't look for a card. She felt she didn't need to. They could only be from Edward.

The maid who had brought the flowers had also thoughtfully provided a container, a jug of local pottery, filled almost to its rim with water. She tipped a little of the water out and plunged in the flowers, dividing and tweaking until she began to feel satisfied with the arrangement.

She still held a carnation in her fingers when the sound of music distracted her attention. It seemed to be coming from immediately below her window. She pulled aside the shutters and stepped out on the tiny balcony. A man stood below. He wore a long black cape and a wide-brimmed sombrero and he was playing a guitar. As soon as Anita appeared, he began to sing an old Spanish love song. It was one she had heard her mother sing. It was plaintive and sweet and infinitely sad. The gay rhythm of the guitar seemed at odds with the young man's melancholy rendering of this story of love and jealousy, passion and death.

She pillowed her arms on the iron railings and her heart knew a great ache. Could not true love be achieved without sadness and pain? A last violent strum and the guitar stopped; his throat closed on the last dulcet note. Now the young
caballero
looked up and waved to her, confirming her first pleasant suspicion that he was indeed serenading her. As she did not know the young man, she rightly assumed he was a paid serenader. The tantalising question was, who had hired him to play beneath her balcony?

Her eyes pierced the darkness for some moments before a figure detached itself from one of the deeper shadows. She still could not identify the man, but recklessly she leaned over the
hierro
, the iron railing, and tossed the carnation to him. He caught it, pressed it to his lips, and turned his face up to her. As she recognized Felipe, her breath caught in her throat.

“The night is young, señorita,” he invited. She must have nodded, although she wasn't aware of doing so. “Five minutes?” he said.

“Three,” she said.

A smile twitched up the corners of his mouth. “Bring a coat. Towards dawn it tends to get cold.”

It was madness; rash, exhilarating madness. She combed and pinned her fair hair, outlined her mouth with rich pink overtones. She didn't know him. True, she had spent the night with him in involuntary exile and he had conducted himself in an exemplary manner, but she still did not know him.

Forgetful of her hurt ankle, her feet clattered down the stairs like lively castanets. She might not have inherited her mother's dark and sensuous beauty, but she was her mother's daughter. On such a night, who could expect her to employ caution?

He tucked his arm through hers with an amazing lack of self-consciousness. She couldn't help but compare his ease of manner with Edward's stiff formality, compare it, respond to it. Edward set her apart, gave her queenly treatment; Felipe saw her in a more down-to-earth manner. He wouldn't give with no thought of return. She would not dare say a quarter of the things to him that she said to Edward. And his mouth had a decidedly cruel twist to it, now that she came to think about it. “Did you like being serenaded?”

“Yes. But don't do it again.”

His eyes sparked wickedly. “I always find negations challenging. I'm half tempted to re-engage the services of my friend.”

“Is he?”

“Is he what?”

“Your friend?”

“Tonight, all the world is my friend. Did you like my flowers?”

“Of course. I was going to thank you for them.”

He answered what she didn't say, because the flowers didn't have to be tagged with the serenade and could have come from Edward.

“Next time I won't forget to include a card.”

“You didn't forget this time,” she said. “It pleases you to be deliberately provocative.”

He laughed.

“Where are we going?”

“First we eat.”

“I've eaten.”

“Then, unless I can persuade you to eat two suppers, you can watch me eat.”

There was a marked Arabic touch about the dazzling white houses and huddled streets. His favourite restaurant was situated at the top of a steep rise, up an incredibly narrow street. The upstairs windows were touching close and were fitted with either grilles or tiny step-out balconies. These latter were filled with colourful plants in pots and rioting vines. A fat señora, whose curves gave evidence of too much oily food, wine and child-bearing, stepped out to unpeg the daily wash. A scraggy black cat brushed against their legs and disappeared up a black alleyway.

Anita didn't eat with Felipe, but she shared his bottle of wine. He pointed to her finger.

“That's an unusual ring.”

“It isn't new. It belonged to Edward's sister.” It didn't seem odd to be sitting with Felipe and discussing Edward and his family. “She died very young, very tragically.”

“Tell me about it.”

The wine has made me weepy, she thought, explaining the lump in her throat because surely she ought to be able to talk about it after all this time.

“Well, she and her husband were travelling in the last carriage of a train which was derailed.”

“Was anyone with them?” He had a way of going to the important heart of the matter.

“My mother and father. Of all the train, only the last carriage was damaged. Only my mother was carried out alive. My father, Sheila Masters, that was the name of Edward's sister, and her husband John, were killed instantly.”

“So Edward has been a friend of the family, I believe that is the correct term, for a number of years?”

“For one month before I was born. My mother was carrying me at the time.”

“Edward is much older than you?”

“He's forty-one. Nineteen years older than I am. He sought my mother out to obtain news of his sister. They had been very close and he felt her death keenly.”

“Poor Anita. You never knew your father.”

“I know what you're thinking, but it isn't like that.”

“No?”

“No.” She didn't regard Edward as a father figure.

“Come on,” said Felipe. “I want to buy you a present. Something to remember me by.”

“Surely the shops aren't still open?”

“The shops stay open while ever a prospective customer prowls the street.”

He held her hand like a
novio.
She was very conscious of his fingers clasping hers. She thought of carnations and moonlight and all the romantic nonsense a girl thinks of at such times. The shop he selected sold a jumble of inexpensive things. Castanets, tambourines, music-boxes and fans. Not for tourists, surely? – because so few tourists had as yet found this island – but for the employees of the big export people. Ponchos and shawls and sunglasses with exotic frames. Dolls dressed in peasant costume or as gypsies or flamenco dancers.

Such lovely things! She wondered what he would choose to remind her of him. She felt as excited as a little girl. He preserved her feeling of expectancy by making her turn round while he made his selection, and then he handed her a wrapped parcel.

Out in the street again, she said: “When can I open it?”

“You can open it now.”

She ripped at the pretty paper, casting it untidily to one side. Her present was a matador doll. She hated it.

“Thank you.” She managed a macabre smile.

“You don't like it?” He didn't look surprised. “You don't admire this brave little fellow?”

“I don't admire what he stands for.”

“Matadors have to live.”

“Not on dirty money. I'd rather see a man starve to death or beg at street corners.”

“The matador performs a service.”

“I'm sure the poor bull doesn't think so,” she scoffed. His mouth tightened. “He satisfies the crowd's craving for blood. All men are aggressive beasts. They go to the bullfight to rid themselves of aggression. If they had no such outlet they would go home and beat their wives and assault their sweethearts. The crime rate would increase and there would be terror in women's hearts. It is better this way and the bull does, at least, get a chance to retaliate.”

“I shall never see it that way. Never!”

“
No importa
,” he said, lapsing into Spanish. He shrugged his shoulders to give the impression of unruffled indifference. “We do not have to agree on all points. We can surely admit to a healthy difference of opinion.”

“Yes,” she said. Her lie sounded as unconvincing as his.

She pushed the doll deep into her pocket. It was better now that she could not see it. Back at her hotel she said: “Will I see you again?”

That was a gauche thing to say. Too eager. She immediately regretted it.

Ignoring her question he said: “A man of honour would not attempt to kiss another's fiancée.” He lifted her chin to look into her eyes. “What would you do if I did?”

“I don't know.”

“In that case, I shall have to find out.” He put his arms round her. His lips came down upon hers, gently at first, testing her for depth and willingness and desire. Not until he found the response he wanted did the sweetness flare into passion. Releasing her, he whispered :

“And now we both know.”

After that she was expected to go up to her room and get undressed and into bed. Go to sleep, get up again, and join Edward for breakfast exactly as if nothing heart-shattering had happened.

“You look better this morning. Refreshed. I told you a good night's sleep would do wonders for you.”

“Yes, Edward,” she said.

“What would you like to do today? Shall I hire a car? Would you like to tour the island?” He was like a little boy, so eager to please.

“I'd like to visit my mother's home. I want to see Casa Esmeralda.”

“Of course. I bet you've been thinking over what I said. I bet you went to bed last night and thought of nothing else.”

“No. I did think of other things.”

“You're teasing me. You know it's a jolly fine idea and you can't wait to look at Casa Esmeralda to see whether it is feasible and if it will convert into a hotel.”

“You're going too fast, Edward. I only want to see the house.”

“And so you shall, my dear. And so you shall.” She had noticed it before, Edward's aggravating habit of repeating himself.

Casa Esmeralda was a short drive out of town and was approachable by two roads, a precipitous mountain road, or a picturesque coastal road. The coastal road was very pretty. It was delicious to drive with the windows wound down and feel the wind on her hot cheeks. Even though the locals professed it to be a temperate climate, it was still hot by English standards.

Edward was a thoughtful, sluggishly conventional driver with ten men's patience. He didn't even get harassed when they had to crawl part of the way behind a heavily laden donkey. The donkey wore a sombrero with holes cut out to accommodate his long silken ears, and when they did eventually squeeze past, Anita saw that he had a very sorrowful expression on his animal face.

Edward pulled up alongside a gate in the form of a huge wheel. The name of the house was suspended above it.

“This is it.”

He was on the point of getting out of the car when she touched his sleeve. “Do you mind if I go in alone?” He looked hurt, so she said:

“It's not that I don't appreciate you. I do. I suppose this isn't the right time to say it, but I don't know how I would have got through the last few months without you. But this is something I can't share. I don't even know whether it's my pleasure or my dragon. I only know I must face it alone.” He won't understand, she thought wearily. But she was wrong.

His acceptance was quick and oddly out of character. He pretended to shoo her out of the car, then tipped his newly acquired straw hat over his eyes, as though he was going to enjoy forty winks.