Liz made no comment. That she had no children, and probably never would have, was a sadness she had learned to live with. But sometimes, seeing other women with theirs, she felt an ache inside her.
It was only a short drive to the restaurant where, although it was early for lunch by Spanish standards, there were already several cars parked.
‘Would you prefer to eat inside or outside?’ Cam asked, as they mounted the steps to the terrace.
‘It’s such a lovely day, it seems a pity not to make the most of it.’ Liz had left her shawl on the back seat of the car.
‘That’s my feeling too. How about there?’ He indicated a table for four where they would both be able to sit facing the mountains.
Cam was drawing out a chair for her when the proprietor bustled out to greet them. Evidently he remembered Cam from previous visits and the two men—one short and rotund, the other tall and lean—had a conversation in rapid Spanish.
Then the other man gave a smiling bow to Liz and presented her with one of the two menus he was carrying.
‘What about a drink while we’re choosing what to eat?’ Cam said. ‘A glass of vino blanco, perhaps?’
‘I’d rather have a glass of sparkling water.’ She wanted to keep a clear head.
Cam’s left eyebrow rose a fraction, but he didn’t try to persuade her to change her mind.
The menu, she discovered, was set out in several languages. She read the Spanish page, keeping her finger in the English page in case there were dishes she could not translate.
With her bottle of spring water came a glass of white wine for Cam, a basket of crusty bread and a dish of alioli to spread on the bread.
‘When I was in my teens, alioli was always made on the premises,’ he told her. ‘But then an increase in salmonella caused several bad cases of food-poisoning and restaurant hygiene regulations became a lot stricter. Now it’s not homemade any more and doesn’t have the same flavour.’
Liz sipped the refrigerated water and looked at the view. There was no denying that it was nicer being here, sitting in the sun with an interesting companion, than having lunch by herself at home.
‘Were your father and grandfather journalists?’ she asked, remembering what he had told her before, and what she had read about him online.
The question seemed to amuse him. ‘Definitely not, and they didn’t approve of my choice of career. They wanted me to follow them into the foreign service but fate decreed otherwise. Do you believe in fate?’
‘I don’t know. Do you?’
‘No, actually I believe in chance. The chance that led me to break the family tradition happened in Addis Ababa…if you know where that is?’
‘Of course…it’s the capital of Ethiopia in north east Africa.’
‘Your geography is above average. You’d be surprised by how many people I meet who have only the haziest idea where places are outside their own country. It happened during a vacation while I was at college. I was in Ethiopia when a munitions dump blew up, killing a TV reporter and leaving the cameraman and sound recordist without a front man. I persuaded them to let me stand in for the guy who was dead. I had beginner’s luck. The reports we did were good enough to get me a place on the payroll as soon as I got my degree. How did you get your start?’
‘As an office dogsbody. Then I worked up to being PA to the magazine’s crafts editor. Needlework was my hobby. They were always short of good projects and they took some of my ideas. After a bit I was promoted to assistant crafts editor. I might, eventually, have succeeded her. But after…There came a point when I suddenly realised I hated the twice-daily commute and the whole big city thing. I’d had enough of northern winters and unreliable summers.’
‘That’s the way I feel. I’d like to spend nine or ten months of the year here, and the rest of the time networking in London, New York and wherever else I needed to keep up my contacts. That said—’ He broke off as the proprietor came back, expecting to take their order.
When Cam explained they hadn’t decided yet, he gave an accommodating shrug and turned away to greet some new arrivals.
‘We had better make up our minds. What do you fancy?’ said Cam.
‘I’d like to start with a salad and then have the roast lamb, please.’
‘You’ll have some wine with the meal, won’t you?’ Liz nodded. ‘I like wine…but I can’t knock it back like some of the expats I’ve met.’
‘Oh, the drinks party crowd.’ His tone was dismissive. ‘You find them wherever there’s a large foreign community. People who live abroad fall into two groups. One lot thrives in a different culture. The other never feels really comfortable. Have you met Valdecarrasca’s first foreign residents, the Drydens?’
‘I’ve heard them mentioned. I haven’t met them. He’s an American, isn’t he?’
‘Todd is one of those cosmopolitan Americans who has spent more time outside the US than in it. He used to be something important in the oil business and then, in his forties, he had a heart attack and nearly didn’t make it. They decided to downsize their lives and came to Spain, where Leonora discovered she had a genius for doing up derelict fincas and transforming them into desirable residences for well-heeled rain exiles.’
‘They live in that house near the church with cascades of blue morning glory and purple bougainvillaea hanging over the wall, I believe?’
‘That’s right. Leonora bought it years ago, when they were living on the coast near where Todd’s yacht was berthed. She bought up a lot of properties. Prices were much lower then. The hinterland was unfashionable. I expect you’ll be asked to the Drydens’ Christmas party. It’s when they give newcomers the once-over. Those who pass muster are invited again. Those who don’t, aren’t. Leonora doesn’t suffer fools and bores gladly.’
‘She sounds rather daunting,’ said Liz.
‘She’s a doer,’ said Cam. ‘She has no patience with people who aren’t. She’ll be impressed by your courage in coming here on your own.’
‘It wasn’t courage. It was desperation,’ she said lightly. ‘I was in a rut and I had to get out of it.’
Cam signalled to the proprietor, who came back and took his order. When he asked, ‘…y para beber?’ Cam turned to her.
‘Would you like red or white wine? Or they have a good rosado, if you prefer it?’
‘I’m easy,’ she said, without thinking, and then wished she hadn’t. Not that he was likely to read the alternative meaning into her answer. Or was he?
The order completed, Cam picked up her remark about being in a rut. ‘I feel much the same. I don’t know if there’s any scientific basis for the idea that our bodies go through seven-year cycles of change, but I think it’s a good idea to review one’s life every ten years or so. I don’t want to spend my forties the same way I spent my thirties and twenties. It’s been a lot of fun, but now it’s time for something new.’
The wine arrived. Here, Liz noticed, the usual restaurant ritual of pouring a little into the host’s glass and waiting for his approval was ignored. It was taken for granted the wine would be drinkable. This would have disappointed Duncan and her father-in-law, who had both enjoyed the pretence of being connoisseurs. It didn’t seem to bother Cam.
When both their glasses had been filled, he thanked the young waiter and said to her, ‘Here’s