and then a long silence before it clattered onto rock. Just how deep was it? It sounded as if it went all the way to the valley floor.
Alfredo spread his coat on the ground and lit up a cigarette. They sat together, taking in the view. An aerial view, like being in a plane. The valley below them was flushed gold in the late-afternoon light, a mix of desert and plantations and harshness.
‘Bonita,’ Alfredo said. His shoulder was against hers and she could feel his warmth against the cooling air.
‘Bonita,’ she replied, not sure what it meant, but it was easy enough to guess.
Andalucía, Rose thought, besides its odd-shaped hills, reminded her of the countryside near her grandparents’ farm in New South Wales. Those childhood visits that were both holiday and safety. The simple pleasure of riding horses with her sister Lily, a passion that had lasted for half a decade. A long time in a child’s life.
Far below, she could see Mike and Jane in the narrow lane near the residence. Even from this distance and with dusk gathering they looked easy together. From what she’d seen so far, they were both hopeless and tedious and perfect for each other. Only she’d back it in, given Alfredo’s warm proximity, that she’d be the one having the most fun.
Lights went on in sequence. The gardener’s house. The streetlight in the lane. The residence itself in a sudden blaze of illumination. It reminded Rose of the pointer stars to the Southern Cross, the lesser lights leading the eye to the main constellation.
A faint fingernail of moon appeared in the sky and Alfredo stood up and reached for her hand. ‘Come, Rosa.’ It wasn’t dark yet, but it would be soon. She had anticipated the cold, but not the short winter days. If they came again, they’d need a torch.
Thirty minutes later and nearly at the house, Alfredo paused and loomed above her. Inside her jacket, Rose felt suddenly almost too warm.
‘Gracias, Rosa.’
What was it the Spanish said after thank you? De nada? But that seemed to say it was nothing when the experience was a long way from that. She had got lost up there in the colours and the silence and the vastness. As a first date, if that’s what it was, it had been more than she had expected.
Rose took his hand in her own and held it for a long moment. She liked the way he called her Rosa.
A whole fish, cooked in foil. Mike avoided looking at the head, but his stomach rolled anyway. The hazards of the meal apart, he seemed to have found the more comfortable role of observer and was handling the second dinner far better than the first.
There was definite hostility from Marion towards Rose and vice versa. The result, no doubt, of the row this morning over the studios. He’d been too slow to see it – by the time he’d come downstairs the shouting was all over. Rose, he knew, had come out on top and didn’t she look self-satisfied as a result? He wondered what Jane had made of the row.
Rose was less talkative than last night and he wondered if there was more to her smugness than getting one over Marion. Her focus was completely fixed on Alfredo.
For himself, it had been a good day. Courtesy of his indolent hour in a bar listening to various conversations, and a bit of effort with the phrasebook, some Spanish from the old holiday with Amanda had returned. Not much, but enough to give him the confidence to try a few words on Alfredo.
Jane, at the head of the table, was busy passing plates. She looked wonderful, he thought, with her ready, engaging smile. She was a plain dresser, but the colour of her shirt brought out the blueness of her eyes and suited her down to the ground. Cornflower blue. He knew this because he’d described it in his first completed novel, currently doing the rounds of the publishers with who knew what success. He closed off the thought, knowing it was like the proverbial kettle. If you watched it too closely it would never boil.
Not that he could talk about plain dressing. His habitual attire consisted of various shades of green that Amanda had bought for him and which he wore to the last inch of life, supplemented by his own thrift shop purchases. Maybe when he got home he’d ask his sister about that colour thing she’d mentioned a few times. That whole vast spectrum reduced to a comprehensible range that suited you. But then again, second-hand shops didn’t offer much in the way of choice.
Alfredo had brought an English phrasebook to the table and tried out a few questions about their work and was, Mike thought, included more in the conversation, thanks to Annette and Jane. He addressed Rose often, not for her expertise in Spanish, though, because she seemed to have the least and to care the least. Reassurance, perhaps? Connection?
‘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
