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 so different to Sydney it sat clearly in her mind. Splendid old buildings and wide thoroughfares and more Christmas decorations than she had ever seen. It had been festive and fabulous and she couldn’t get enough of it.
Today she would find the cemetery Mike had told her about. With any luck there’d be a funeral. She could position herself out of the way and use her long lens to capture faces and clothes and expressions. She imagined the women dressed in black, grave with grief. The men, sharp-faced and resolute.
Using people’s grief for art was callous, Jane thought, but she had worried about this before and let it go. Besides, weren’t all artists callous? If detachment was a virtue it was just as well it came to her naturally, even if she had honed it to an art form.
Mike collected his breakfast and went out on the patio. Jane was sitting with her face tilted to the sun again. Her hair was wet and he could smell the clean scent of her shampoo. Even though the morning was cold, it reminded him of sunlight and summer. Tendrils of damp hair curled around her ears. He would like to reach out and touch one.
‘I wondered—’
‘If I’d like a cup of tea,’ Jane finished. ‘Thanks.’
‘Well, that too, but something else.’ How to ask? Even in his twenties he’d been tongue-tied when it came to moving things along. Amanda, characteristically, had taken care of all that. ‘I wondered if you’d like to have a drink at El Techo after dinner? Escape from this place for a while. It has music.’
She looked at him for a long moment and he wondered what she was thinking. Was he pushing too hard to expect her company at breakfast and after dinner?
‘Why not?’
Mike’s pleasure at her acceptance was diminished by two thoughts. His pushiness and his opting out. He might have secured Jane’s company for the night, but he had made his motivation an escape from the residency rather than appreciation of her.
He didn’t much like himself for that small cowardice. He needed to be more courageous. This time, at least, there were compensations. He still had weeks to get it right and Jane had flashed him a brilliant smile.
Rose woke slowly, taking in the shaft of sunlight spilling into the room, wondering where she was and feeling pleasantly content. The memory of last night flooded in and she stretched in delight. It had indeed been memorable. Good sex. The
