Survived first dinner, most of it in English which will helpme learn it finally. There is a nearby hill I’d like to climbthat looks like a child’s sandcastle. Goodnight, querida, andgood luck with the costumes and the play. More soon. Papá.
Her reply came within minutes.
Goodnight Papá. I’m so pleased it’s looking good. Thecostumes went down well at the dress rehearsal. I’ve beenasked to work on another play. P
He stared out into the dark valley and his thoughts drifted to Rose’s hand, which he had held less than twenty minutes ago. How warm and firm it was. How intimate her smile.
2
Mike Bailey began his first day at the residence by setting up his computer on the built-in desk near his bedroom window. He typed the date in English and, with the help of his bilingual dictionary, in Spanish.
Tuesday 4th January. Martes 4 enero.
Day One. Did Dickens ever feel like a complete fraud? Surely not.
Coming back to Spain had been exciting. The flight to Almería and the bus trip to Cabrera with only a few half-remembered words of Spanish. The scenery in Andalucía vastly different to home and to the long-ago resort in Torremolinos. The welcome refuge of his room and gathering himself before facing his fellow residents at dinner. The residence itself was more than he’d expected – an artist’s house originally, with so many doorways on the ground floor leading to the terrace that the outside felt like it was inside, only the inside was warm and comfortable. The rooms were spacious and lined with books and bits of old pottery.
Silvia Verdasco had welcomed them all charmingly in English, which was both a relief and a disappointment. Part of the appeal of Spain was the opportunity to learn the language and here they were pandering to the majority like it was a theme park. On the plus side, the ground rules were few. Breakfast and lunch were help-yourself, but they were expected to dine together in the evening and discuss their work in progress. That mightn’t sound too difficult, but making conversation with strangers wasn’t Mike’s strong suit.
Beatriz had announced the various dishes as she laid them down, but her Spanish was rapid and incomprehensible and he had no idea what was on his plate. Everyone else gushed appreciatively but all that oil and garlic was repulsive.
The only person he’d liked the look of was Jane, the photographer from Sydney, where Rose also lived. So two New Yorkers and two Sydneysiders at the dinner table. Boastful cities, both of them. What chance did Lincoln have in that self-important company? Alfredo, he knew, came from Valencia. He had never been there, but it sounded exotic and one day, if and when his ship came in, he would love to see it. The two Americans had struck up a friendship, which had been both irritating and welcome. All he had to do was pass the conversational ball around, but it had come his way only once when he’d laboured foolishly over some historical fact about Cabrera Vieja. Why he’d gone on he didn’t know, save a need to contribute something, anything, to the discussion.
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
