in the narrow bed. The way he held her through the night, as if protecting her.
Alfredo had gone, but there was a note on his bedside table, written out in neat lettering, her name at the top. Beside it was a yellow daisy.
It was interesting to be in his room without him. It was tidy and ordered and on his desk was a tiny photo of a woman in an exquisite silver frame. She had soft brown hair and eyes. The word Isabella was inscribed on the frame. The wife, she assumed.
But last night he had been lost in passion, drowning in her like a starving man. Just how married was he? Inside his wallet a driver’s licence told her he was Alfredo Riera of Calle Flores 16, Valencia. His photo showed a younger version of the face that had hovered above hers last night.
His writing was fluid and this time he hadn’t bothered with an English translation.
Mi Rosa querida, gracias por esta fantastica noche. Caminara la Vieja Cabrera fue maravilloso al igual que el estupendoregalo que me diste. Una noche encantadora en brazos de unamujer maravillosa. Alfredo
‘Mi Rosa querida,’ she said out loud, liking the sound of it.
Alfredo Riera. Wonderful in bed. Hopeless romantic. She recognised a few words and took out her phrasebook to translate a few more. No need to do it word for word. Enough to know he liked what was on offer and was eager for more. Exotic, though, to have a love letter in another language.
She dashed off her own note and placed it on his bedside table, next to the photo and a packet of Ducados cigarettes in their blue and white box.
My pleasure. Rose
In his studio, Alfredo regarded the block of stone and whistled. He was full of regret not to be with Rosa when she first opened her eyes, but the delivery had to be supervised and she had his note to explain his absence and tell her how he felt about her. Rosa querida.
He slid his hand over the stone’s cool surface, pleased by its smoothness, and replayed the feel of the woman he had spent the night with.
Isabella, who had sat within his bones for the last four years, loosened her grip slightly. In place of a familiar desolation, warmth spread within him, soft and fluid as air. The stone had offered something up. He could see where Rosa’s head would fit, the shape of her limbs, one hand curled slightly like a flower.
Love made everything possible, Alfredo thought. In a rosy glow he saw the month ahead laid out before him. He would learn English. He would fall in love again. He would complete this new and special work.
He arranged his tools, setting them up in groups, largest to smallest, and took out his new sketchbook. He would ask Rosa to model for him, sketch her in various poses to help reveal her in the stone. He had a name for the piece. A simple one-word name that said it all. Amor.
He sent a brief message to Paola.
Inspiration has struck. Much love.
Rose might have dug in over the studio allocation, but she hadn’t yet picked up a brush. Instead she drifted around the place, taking in the landscape absently, her thoughts all over the place. In the afternoon, she settled with a book on her reader and napped for a while, justifying her laziness as tiredness after the journey, or last night’s lack of sleep.
Dressing for dinner, she selected a low-cut top that made the most of her breasts. Skimpy tops were a bonus, she decided. They took up hardly any space in a suitcase and gave an instant glamour. It was just as well she could look glamorous on a shoestring, and she’d had plenty of practice over the years.
A diamond on a chain drew the eye to her cleavage. It was her mother’s diamond and the only thing she had of hers. That and a string of pearls were the only things of value her mother hadn’t hocked before she died. Towards the end, her brain had turned to mush and the concept of hocking had been beyond her.
After a bit of persuasion, Lily had taken the pearls. Rose didn’t like pearls, with their insipid passive glow. She wasn’t mad about diamonds either, but it was valuable and well set and bright enough to draw attention.
Rose took her seat opposite Alfredo and considered the pleasures and pitfalls of the dinner table. It was vaguely amusing that Jane was trying to divert the conversation away from Marion, who was still going on about the wonders of New York that no one gave a rat’s arse about. Why either of them bothered she couldn’t imagine.
For her part, she was enjoying every well-cooked mouthful of a chicken dish that the Americans were trying to translate into English. No doubt, when that was done, they’d go on to translate every bloody thing on the table. Rose’s interest was that it tasted delicious and that, across the table, Alfredo was watching her closely.
To his great surprise, Mike was having a good time. He had lived on his own now for eighteen months and, apart from four shifts a week at his local, was forced out to find snatches of human behaviour to weave into his stories. Some of the exchanges around the table held his interest. And, at other times, the topic of New York left him free to pursue his own thoughts.
‘The best paella I ever had was in a restaurant in Brooklyn.’ This was Marion again, oblivious to the idea that paella was Spanish and she was in Spain. ‘The saffron was genuine. I know because I asked the chef. Most of the time it’s the artificial stuff they use. Even here, I imagine.’
Jane winked at him and he grinned. Annette knew the same restaurant and the conversation got bogged down in geography and cuisine. Rose and Alfredo had eyes only for each other. From time to time Marion scratched the back of her neck as if embarrassed. There were people who couldn’t stop talking. One of the teachers at Mike’s last school had been like that. An intelligent, perceptive woman, with this strange affliction that embarrassed her, but she couldn’t seem to change it. After a while, people, Mike included, took to avoiding her in corridors, darting into offices and toilets if she appeared in the distance. There was a limit to how much you could stand and nod or cut her off mid-sentence. There was a limit to how much time in any workplace you could give to one-sided conversation.
He finished his coffee, so absorbed in these thoughts he almost missed Rose sliding her hand under the table. Not significant in itself, but Alfredo’s reaction was the giveaway. He froze mid-movement, almost comically, in the process of lifting his glass.
Mike looked at Jane to see if she had noticed. She had finished her dessert and was sitting back listening to Marion. He couldn’t read her mood from her expression. Was she merely being polite? He took a leaf from Alfredo’s book, scraping his chair against the tiles as he stood up.
Everyone looked at him, surprised.
‘Jane and I are going to the village for a drink,’ he said, with no hint of wanting to extend the invitation. ‘That’s if you’re ready, Jane.’
‘I’ll get my jacket,’ Jane said.
Rose stood up too, as if eager to get dinner finished with. Thoughts of politeness would rarely cross her mind, Mike sensed. Lucky Rose. From the hands-under-the-table incident, she had a more imperative agenda ahead than a drink at the pub.
In his room, Mike cleaned his teeth and gargled with breath freshener. Somewhere in the house he heard a door opening and closing softly, a pause and then the sound of another door.
Rose and Alfredo at it already, taking advantage of their shared terrace and ease of access
