they didn’t hang about either. He spat the gargle out with a grimace of disgust. He’d kept it in his mouth too long and it tasted foul.
Rose checked herself in the mirror before crossing the terrace to Alfredo’s room. Again, that breathless feeling at the speed of things and the thought of the next half-hour. It seemed as if only minutes had passed since she left the dining room. Tonight the terrace door was ajar and she slipped in quickly.
Alfredo had bought a rose in the village and practised some English to go with it. ‘Bonita. Beautiful Rosa.’
‘Thank you, Alfredo.’ The colour was a rich scarlet, so dark it seemed tinged with black. ‘It’s beautiful.’ Only she hated people giving her roses. The gesture was too stupid for words.
She put it on the table, led him to the bed and stood above him, removing her shirt and then his. Last time he had worked on her more than she him. It was only fair to return the favour.
Alfredo watched her intently as though he was watching a film or committing every part of her to memory. Rose played it up. A bit much maybe, but she liked his steady appreciative gaze.
Jane ordered white wine and beer in halting Spanish, enjoying the moment when the waiter nodded to let her know he understood. El Techo was smaller and smokier and far more intimate than the bars at home. With the drinks came a plate of tapas. Four small snacks of potato and anchovy on bread.
‘Did you work out about Alfredo and Rose?’ Mike asked when he had settled into his beer and the tapas had been demolished.
‘Alfredo and Rose?’ She laughed in surprise, mixed with sudden certainty. Rose at the dinner table, glowing. Clearly the prospect of sex added more lustre to her shine. That was the word for Rose. Shiny.
Jane had wanted to invite Alfredo to go with them, but knew it meant she’d have to ask everyone. Lucky she’d held back.
‘It’s crazy to start anything at a residency,’ Jane said, considering the pitfalls of love she had seen during her ten days in America. All that attention taken away from work and the potential for it to go wrong. And, despite the language barrier, Alfredo came across as a shade too innocent to deal with someone like Rose. ‘She’ll eat him alive.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Mike said. ‘I’d say Alfredo can take care of himself.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Envy.’
‘Envy?’ she repeated. ‘Seriously?’
Mike hadn’t fully explored this thought. Yet he had the feeling that with Jane, unlike Amanda, he could say anything he wanted.
But there was surprise in her voice and something drier. ‘I didn’t realise Rose was your type.’
What an idiot he was. He’d been too busy considering the fact he could say anything, he’d said absolutely the wrong thing. He felt a rush of hot blood to his face. For god’s sake. He should stick to writing. At least with that you had days, if not months, to consider the impact of your words.
‘I didn’t mean envy of him … with Rose. I meant … the envy of making love with someone you …’ He trailed off.
Did love still go with sex as it had, or at least was meant to, when he was growing up? From what he saw on TV and film, and sometimes in the bar back home, sex seemed not much more than a handshake. He would like it to mean more than that. He would also like to move off this treacherous ground. ‘Rose is the last person …’
For a long moment, Jane seemed lost in her own thoughts, but then she was smiling at his floundering.
Mike put his hand over hers and grinned, bringing her back to the moment. ‘You were teasing and I need to get out more.’
‘Well, I could be wrong, but somehow I couldn’t imagine you and Rose—’
‘Nor me,’ Mike said, remembering the way she had dropped his hand. He had a mental picture of Alfredo at the dinner table, absolutely in tune with Rose, watching her like a schoolboy would a sporting hero, or a canary a cat.
‘I’m pretty sure the only person Rose loves is herself,’ Jane said quietly. ‘But Alfredo looks like he’d fall hard.’
‘So, not-so-lucky Alfredo.’ Mike had talked enough about Rose and the dangers of love. ‘What do you make of the rest of them?’
Jane raised an eyebrow. ‘Did you know Marion is an expert on antique silver? She’s quite a collector, apparently, and was telling us about tracking down a Georgian decanter and all the places it led her to. It was quite … interesting.’
He smiled at her delivery. He had tried to block Marion out, while Jane had listened and learned. It was contemptuous of him. And limiting too. If he was meant to be a writer, then he needed to start paying attention.
Who knew what would be important down the track? Perhaps some day he could work an expert on silver into one of his novels. Could Percy Streeton be a trader or was that too much work? He broke away from his thoughts. Jane was suggesting they order the stuffed almejas with garlic and parsley.
A sculptor’s touch, Rose thought, when Alfredo took over, indicating with a gesture that he wanted her still, positioning her hands and feet on the bed like the points of a star. Spread-eagled.
His tongue began at her throat, travelled slowly down the length of her body, lingering, teasing, exploring. His hands went before his tongue, measuring shape and distance, as if committing every inch and facet of her to memory.
Spread-eagled. The word evoked a game she used to play with Lily on Bondi Beach when they were kids, smoothing the sand with their arms and legs. Standing up to see the fan-like pattern in the sand, spoilt by inevitable feet marks. Strange where the mind could go during sex. She hadn’t thought of that for years.
Not a sculptor anymore, unless working on the small details, but a musician teasing pleasure in tiny responsive movements. She lost herself in the rapture of it, closing her arms down on him, locking him in, wanting to keep him there forever.
To Mike, the walk home was almost the best part of the evening. Town lights and house lights grew dimmer as they reached the narrow downhill path beside the gully. The light from his torch bobbed along in front of him, almost happily, as if catching his mood.
He put his arm around Jane, half-expecting her to pull away, but instead she leant against him. He wasn’t sure if she needed support against the drink or warmth against the cold. Whatever the reason, he liked the feel of her slim body and the reassurance of another person close to him.
Near the residence, his torch snaked out over the black of the gully into the amber eyes of a wild animal. Light and eyes held together momentarily, then just as he gripped Jane’s hand to show her the creature – cat or fox or something Spanish he had no idea of – it howled fiercely and sprang away into darkness.
Rose lay awake after Alfredo had slumped into an exhausted sleep, his body pressed against her, his arm resting heavily on her. He slept hot and the room smelled of sex and tobacco, and, past the initial rapture, she’d found herself wishing he wouldn’t do that thing with his tongue in her ear.
That was the downside of sex. The messy aftermath. The need of those who clung
