‘Alfredo and I have been up Flat Mountain,’ Rose said over dessert. Thin slices of orange in a sweet tangy syrup that Mike had to admit was delicious.
‘Si.’ Alfredo must have recognised the expression. ‘Cabrera Vieja.’
‘The view was amazing,’ Rose said. ‘What’s the Spanish for view, Jane?’
‘Vista.’
‘Vista? Really?’ She turned to Alfredo. ‘Bonito vista, Alfredo.’
‘Si. Vista bonito.’
‘We should go again.’ She made a walking sign with her fingers and Alfredo laughed, seemingly delighted at the simplicity of the sign and the animation she gave to it.
‘Si.’ Alfredo mimicked her sign and smiled at Rose.
Mike checked his watch. Half past nine might be a reasonable bedtime in winter in England, on his own with a book to read or characters to consider, but not here. Not in this new place. Not with someone like Jane to talk to.
He thought about suggesting a drink by the fire, but didn’t want to issue a general invitation. If Jane didn’t want to stay on then he’d rather go to bed. He finished his coffee and considered the problem for a while and was surprised when Alfredo ended the evening in the same manner as last night.
‘Buenas noches.’ He dragged his chair back with a scrape that stopped the conversation. Everyone echoed his farewell. Alfredo mightn’t say much, Mike thought, but he was certainly effective.
‘Buenas noches, Alfredo,’ Rose said, pleased that Alfredo was watching her intently. What could she read in those dark eyes? Curiosity? Desire? Invitation? She poured another glass of wine.
Demon drink, Rosie. Her mother’s voice was so clear it could be her pouring the dark red fluid. It’ll do you in, girl.
This second glass was more than her usual strict allowance, but every now and then she went with it. What she intended tonight would go better with a drink.
Jane hadn’t moved. Mike looked at her directly and plunged in. ‘I might stay and finish the bottle. Would you join me?’
‘I’d like that. We could sit by the fire.’
‘We could,’ he said quietly, but felt like cheering.
‘Goodnight. I’m off to bed.’ Rose picked up her glass and took it with her.
Mike took some of the dishes into the kitchen as Silvia had requested and handed them to Annette, who had joined Marion at the sink. They weren’t required to wash up, but to leave things to soak overnight. Even without Rose, there were too many people in the room for the one small task.
He added another log to the fire and placed two light armchairs in front of it as though it was a movie screen. Should he ask Marion and Annette if they wanted to join them? It was the last thing he wanted, but good manners had been drummed into him as a child. It would be rude, wouldn’t it, to exclude them?
In the kitchen, the tap was turned off and the two Americans drifted back to say goodnight. On the stairs Annette laughed. He wondered what at. Rose, perhaps, and the sexual tension at the table. Himself, perhaps. Far too obviously keen to be with Jane. Well, let her laugh. It was a small price to pay for the pleasure of Jane’s company.
Rose undressed and hung her clothes up neatly. The room was warm, but she felt shivery. She slipped on her dressing-gown and tied her hair out of the way. She took out her contact lenses and put on her glasses then took them off again. What she planned tonight didn’t require much in the way of eyesight.
Had she read the signals at dinner? Those long looks. The feeling in the air. Alfredo’s abrupt end to the conversation. It would be better if Alfredo came to her. But if she went to him, the audacity might be a turn-on. She opened the door to the terrace and heard the faint sound of water running in the far room. Good. She liked a man freshly cleaned.
She gave him quarter of an hour and finished her wine. She enjoyed the heavy feel of it in her blood against the feathery excitement in her stomach. Her window looked towards Flat Mountain; around its dark bulk were a few faint stars. What they were she had no idea, but in the northern hemisphere everything was the wrong way up.
It was cold on the terrace. Alfredo’s door was a dark rectangle with a hem of light underneath. As she stood there hesitating, the light went off and the door stayed closed.
She crossed the space between them, her feet cold and silent on the tiles, but paused at the door. Was she starting something she’d regret later? But if you thought like that you’d never do anything, except knock yourself out with grog in front of the TV in the evenings, like her mother.
When she opened the door, there was enough light to make out the white pillows of his bed and Alfredo’s bulk against them. And then a flood of Spanish in which she heard her name and his surprise.
She touched his shoulder. He was warm from the shower and the bedclothes. ‘I thought you might like some company, Alfredo.’
‘Rosa.’ She could hear astonishment in his voice. So she had misread the signs. To stay or to go? While she hesitated, Alfredo lifted the blanket for her and she slipped beneath the covers.
She pressed her body against his and then his hands were moving and his mouth was on hers and she could taste toothpaste and cigarettes and wine before giving up on the details of the senses. There were far too many to take in and she lost herself in the pleasure of them.
3
Wednesday 5th January – Miercoles 5 enero. Mike opened his laptop to commit the details of yesterday to his diary. There was a lot to get down, he thought, as his fingers flew over the keys. One of the best things was the dawning appreciation that all the endless tasks of keeping alive – the shopping and cooking and washing – were being taken care of by someone else. Add to that the small miracle of his stomach feeling better.
Better again was the half-hour he’d spent with Jane after dinner. It had been easy and relaxed, with Jane filling him in on Rose and the studio switch. Below him, he saw her come out onto the patio and his thoughts changed direction. He tidied himself up and hurried downstairs.
On the patio at breakfast, Jane decided she liked the activity of the residence. She was back from her morning shoot, showered and hungry and enjoying her surroundings. The garden here was lovely, with its grapevines and fruit trees: almonds and olives, oranges and figs. She could smell the rosemary in pots along the terrace and realised a lot of the produce grown here would be used in the kitchen. She had planted her garden in Maroubra with grevilleas and banksias and calistemons, but when she got home she might find room for an orange tree alongside the old lemon. It would remind her of Spain.
The three members of staff had arrived half an hour ago and she could hear Luz at the dishes. Beatriz was hanging washing on the line, battling against a small breeze, the white towels flapping out in front of her. Her dark, sturdy body made a good contrast and the movement was dynamic and evocative of all the women who had done that particular task through the ages.
Silvia, she assumed, was in the office working on administration. No doubt, with the January intake bedded in now, they’d be working on February.
Alfredo was supervising a block of stone into his studio by means of a hoist and trolley. Jane took shots of it all, if not for art then for reference.
Interesting what the different artists had to bring to work here. She and Mike were the lucky ones. Mike’s work came contained in laptops and drives. Hers was much the same, but with cameras and lenses and battery chargers, all of which fitted in her backpack.
After breakfast she would bring up the images of Madrid she had taken on her way here. The city was