floor. The windows on the street side were small, with protective iron rejas, but those on the south side had been replaced with tall windows with no rejas to obstruct the view of the mountains. There was a large kitchen with a big family-sized dining table at one end. Folding doors connected this to a living room lined with bookshelves and paintings. There was also a bedroom-cum-study lined with more books and, next to it, a spacious bathroom.
‘This serves as the downstairs loo, and upstairs there are more bedrooms and bathrooms,’ he told her. ‘Let me give you a cup of coffee and then we’ll discuss the new arrangements.’
The daughter and wife of men with no domestic capabilities, Liz was always surprised by men who knew their way round a kitchen and could keep themselves fed and laundered without female assistance. Whether Fielding’s competence extended beyond making coffee, she rather doubted. Though perhaps it might if his life as a roving reporter for a television news channel had, from what she had heard, taken him to many of the world’s trouble spots where hotel facilities were not always available.
‘I expect to be down here more often in the next twelve months,’ he said, putting cups and saucers on a tray. ‘How often, in your view, does the place need cleaning to keep it in reasonable order?’
Liz leaned on the rose marble worktop that divided the working part of the kitchen from the dining area. ‘The kitchen and the bathrooms need more attention than the other rooms. I have no idea how efficiently Alicia cleans when she does clean. The most sensible plan might be for me to look in, say, every two weeks and suggest to her what needs doing.’
He gave her a smiling glance. ‘I notice you say “suggest” not “tell”. That sounds as if you have good management skills.’
Conscious of his charm, and resistant to it, she said, ‘Most people prefer to be asked rather than ordered. That’s just common-sense. For what you’re prepared to pay me, I’m prepared to make sure that the house is always ready for occupation. Though, obviously, some notice of your arrival is important as far as stocking the fridge is concerned.’
‘Give me your e-mail address and I’ll give you mine,’ he said. ‘That way we can keep in touch easily. You’ll find a notepad and pencils by the phone in the other room—’ with a gesture towards the living room.
Liz fetched the pad and wrote her address for him. While waiting for the kettle to boil, he wrote down his for her. Then he spooned coffee powder from a jar of instant decaff into the cups, filled them with water and carried the tray to the table.
‘I didn’t buy Alicia’s explanation of why the place was in a mess when we arrived,’ he said. ‘Hopefully, with you keeping an eye on her, she’ll pull her socks up. If she doesn’t, it may be necessary to find someone else. Perhaps you could make enquiries. I know a lot of the younger women have cars now and prefer to work in supermarkets and offices. But for the older women, without any transport, domestic work is still the only option.’
‘I’ll keep my ear to the ground,’ said Liz. ‘But it has to be said that cleaning an empty house for an absent employee is not much fun. Alicia may buck up a lot if you’re going to be here more often, and if I’m around to applaud her efforts. Housework is horribly repetitive and women who do it need to feel appreciated.’ She was thinking of her mother, whose excellent housekeeping had never been praised or even noticed.
He changed the subject. ‘Do you mix with the other foreigners round here? Have they been friendly?’
‘Very friendly…and so have the local people.’ But, as she had already learned in England, there was a world of difference between the life of a wife and that of a widow. The social world was set up for pairs, not singles.
The door to the terrace opened and Fiona joined them. She was wearing the briefest possible silver two-piece swimsuit. As Fielding rose, she said, ‘Is that coffee? Can I have some?’ Only as an afterthought did she toss a ‘hello’ at Liz.
For something to say, Liz asked, ‘Did you enjoy your night on the town?’
‘It was OK.’
Fiona’s indolent shrug made her breasts do a jelly-like wobble in their silver cups. Probably most men would find her nudity enormously sexy, Liz thought. But would a discriminating man? Wouldn’t he think she was overplaying her seductiveness. Still, presumably sex, and lots of it, was the only reason she was here. She didn’t give the impression of being a great conversationalist. She was not even good at the small talk that strangers tossed back and forth in situations like this.
Liz drained her cup. ‘I’d better be off. I have a lot to do today.’
‘Hang on a minute.’ Fielding handed Fiona her coffee, then felt in his back packet and produced a billfold. ‘You’d better have some money on account…both to pay Alicia and for yourself.’
‘That really isn’t necessary. We can settle up next time you’re here.’
‘Certainly it’s necessary. I might get my head blown off by a terrorist and then where would you be?’ He handed her some twenty mil bills. ‘Tomorrow morning I’ll call at the bank and arrange for the payments into your account to be altered. You also need the extra house keys I had cut. They’re in a drawer in the hall.’
Following him from the kitchen, Liz said, ‘Goodbye, Fiona.’
Fiona did say, ‘Bye,’ but she didn’t bother to mask her indifference with a smile.
She must be fantastic in bed for him to put up with her abysmal manners, thought Liz, as she marched down the street, the money in her pocket, the keys to La Higuera in her hand.
When Cam returned to the kitchen, Fiona said, ‘She ought to get that nose bobbed.’
‘What’s wrong with her nose?’
‘It’s too big.’
‘So is mine,’ he said, rubbing the prominent bridge inherited from his great-grandfather, Captain ‘Hawk’ Fielding. His features had been similar to those of the Afghan tribesmen against whom he had played the Great Game on the North West Frontier, eventually dying a hero’s death in Kabul in the early years of Queen Victoria’s reign. Cam had often thought it was probably a gene from his adventurous forebear that had dictated his own choice of career.
‘That’s different,’ said Fiona. ‘On a man a big nose is OK. On a woman it’s not.’
‘I only noticed her eyes. They’re the colour of speedwells.’ Realising that Fiona might never have seen a speedwell, he added, ‘They’re small wild flowers…the bluest of blues.’
‘She doesn’t like you,’ said Fiona. ‘Or me. She was looking down her big nose at both of us. But it didn’t stop her taking your money.’
‘Why do you think she doesn’t like us?’ Cam could guess why, but he doubted if Fiona could.
‘I expect she envies you,’ said Fiona. ‘You’re famous and rich and successful, and she’s a nobody living in a grotty little house with no money. I shouldn’t think she’ll ever get another husband.’
‘You’re a luscious piece, but you don’t have a kind heart, do you, Fifi?’ he said dryly. ‘My reading of Mrs Harris is that she likes her little house, she doesn’t want to shop till she drops, and she’s still in mourning.’
Fiona
