Jane had wrestled the conversation away from New York once or twice, widening it to include him and, to some extent, Alfredo. Poor sod. He’d been charming in his smiles and gestures, but must have felt more isolated than Mike did. At least he understood the language. Well, most of it. After hours on the details of New York, Mike had wanted to sink into his strawberry flan and howl.
He’d spent the early hours bloated with indigestion and the month loomed ahead worryingly. Could his stomach take it? Had he been mad to apply for a place here, let alone invest it with the slightest potential?
Outside, the sky was an icy blue and on those abrupt hills, so common to the area, there was a thin covering of snow. The information sheet had warned him that January in Spain would be cold, but he hadn’t expected snow. Another surprise to add to the list, and he liked surprises. Well, some of them.
Under his window, the sun made a bright wedge of light on the old stone patio and the garden stretched out below him, full of shaded nooks and twisting paths. Sculptures and seats were threaded among strange exotic plants. A row of studios for the artists and sculptors sat neatly and separately alongside the driveway. It was too early for Silvia or the staff and the only car below him was Alfredo’s. After the deep English winter he’d left only yesterday, the world around him seemed alien but the sun was promising.
Below him, Jane was sliding one of the patio chairs into the sun. She was in jeans and a red jumper and, against the mellow stone, made a welcome splash of colour. He’d like to get to know her. He saved his document, put a warm jumper on over his t-shirt and hurried downstairs.
From all the cereals in the cupboard, he chose cornflakes, spilling the milk in his haste to get outside. More haste, less speed, his mother would have said as he stopped to clean it up.
This was what he ate at home. The same breakfast every day: cornflakes, milk, a level teaspoon of sugar. His sister criticised him about it when she visited. Amanda had criticised him when they lived together. But after last night’s dinner, he was in need of simple and familiar. He took his bowl to the patio. With any luck, Jane would take charge of the conversation. Women were good at that.
Jane looked up when the door opened. An interesting face, Mike thought, with prominent cheekbones and a long, determined jaw. Older in the clear morning light than he had thought last night. He wasn’t much good at working out people’s ages and usually guessed far older or younger than people actually were. Jane, he estimated, was in her early thirties, which, given his track record, meant she was either twenty or forty.
‘Good morning, Jane. I hope I’m not disturbing you.’
‘Not at all. Pull up a chair.’ She tilted her face to the sun, like a cat basking, and he gave up on the idea of her leading the conversation.
They sat in a comfortable silence in which Mike saw that the snow on the hills had already melted and that Jane’s eyes were closed against the light, her eyelashes thick against her cheeks. She was lovely and he knew from last night’s dinner that when she smiled her face lit up. He would like to see her smile. Finally he spoke. ‘How are you settling in?’
She blinked as though she had forgotten his presence. Her fingers, he saw, were free of rings. ‘It always takes a few days, don’t you think?’
No fuss. No boring details over things gone wrong, connections not made, essential things left behind, that, apart from all things New York, had dominated last night’s conversation.
‘I don’t know. It’s the first time I’ve done this.’
She gave him an assessing glance. ‘First nights are always difficult.’
‘I’m grateful for the chance,’ Mike said, rallying. ‘It’s the first time anyone has taken my writing seriously enough to put me up for a month and let me get on with it.’
‘Ah. The up-and-coming writer.’
A smile played on her lips. Was she teasing him?
He wasn’t sure how to answer. His tendency was to self-deprecation but this, he had learned to his cost, worked against you. If you played yourself down, other people did the same. The trick, he thought, was to talk yourself up without sounding like a conceited prig. How you went about that, he had no idea.
‘Well, let’s hope so.’
On the strength of a New Year’s resolution and the stunning prospect of the residency, he’d renounced self-deprecation forever. As his sister said when he had won first prize in the Pridemounts, it was time he took himself more seriously. Well, perhaps, but did the world really need another conceited writer?
Before leaving her room, Rose checked her stars. Her horoscope predicted an increase in energy and the possibility of romance. After the bust-up with Steven, she needed a lift in energy and, as for romance, bring it on. The layout of the bedrooms was such that two artists had access to a shared patio. Last night, when she was getting ready for bed, Alfredo had appeared in the window on the other side of her terrace and she’d watched him, unseen.
The light was behind him as he gazed out as though engrossed in the scenery. She knew from her own scrutiny earlier there’d be nothing to see except for a distant light, a few washed-out stars and the dark mass of the mountain they’d talked about over dinner. Not really a mountain, Rose thought, despite everyone going on about it. More a flat, misshapen hill.
According to Mike, when he had finally spoken up, it was once the site of a village, set high purposefully in order to see enemy armies coming across the plain.
‘I believe the only thing left of it is an old water cistern. It’s very deep apparently.’
Why was it that some men had to bore everyone with their knowledge? She had no intention of listening to a history lesson, especially from Mike, but looking at that bleak hill, the idea of people ever living there seemed impossible. So too, though, did the present-day town of Cabrera she’d come through yesterday afternoon. All those houses crammed together on a mountain, clinging to one another for support.
Alfredo turned on his phone. She saw a tiny square of blue light and him keying in a message. To his wife probably. He had the look of a married man.
She closed her laptop on the thought, dressed in working clothes and went downstairs for breakfast. After that, she’d claim her studio, number 4. Wherever that was.
Mike saw Rose in the kitchen and watched her with a mix of admiration and distaste. She’d dropped his hand last night like it was diseased. Here was self-confidence in spades or conceit by the bucketload.
He’d looked her, and everyone else, up before leaving home. Her CV glowed and yet, to him at least, her work seemed muddy, confused by too many disparate elements. Not that he was a good judge of art. The paragraph that described it was a load of pretentious wank. Why artists buried the concept of their work in words he had no idea.
Jane was watching him and he flushed. He’d hate her to think he was interested in Rose, but nothing showed on her face.
‘So, this isn’t your first residency?’ he asked.
‘I went to one in America a few years ago. It was … interesting.’
He had the impression she wasn’t talking about the residency at all but personality, and with Rose in the kitchen the sentence seemed to say a lot.
Interesting. He smiled and