Читать книгу Dig Two Graves - Carolyn Morwood - Страница 10

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 resolution and the stunning prospect of the residency, he’d renounced self-deprecation forever. As his sister said when he had won first prize in the Pridemounts, it was time he took himself more seriously. Well, perhaps, but did the world really need another conceited writer?

Before leaving her room, Rose checked her stars. Her horoscope predicted an increase in energy and the possibility of romance. After the bust-up with Steven, she needed a lift in energy and, as for romance, bring it on. The layout of the bedrooms was such that two artists had access to a shared patio. Last night, when she was getting ready for bed, Alfredo had appeared in the window on the other side of her terrace and she’d watched him, unseen.

The light was behind him as he gazed out as though engrossed in the scenery. She knew from her own scrutiny earlier there’d be nothing to see except for a distant light, a few washed-out stars and the dark mass of the mountain they’d talked about over dinner. Not really a mountain, Rose thought, despite everyone going on about it. More a flat, misshapen hill.

According to Mike, when he had finally spoken up, it was once the site of a village, set high purposefully in order to see enemy armies coming across the plain.

‘I believe the only thing left of it is an old water cistern. It’s very deep apparently.’

Why was it that some men had to bore everyone with their knowledge? She had no intention of listening to a history lesson, especially from Mike, but looking at that bleak hill, the idea of people ever living there seemed impossible. So too, though, did the present-day town of Cabrera she’d come through yesterday afternoon. All those houses crammed together on a mountain, clinging to one another for support.

Alfredo turned on his phone. She saw a tiny square of blue light and him keying in a message. To his wife probably. He had the look of a married man.

She closed her laptop on the thought, dressed in working clothes and went downstairs for breakfast. After that, she’d claim her studio, number 4. Wherever that was.

Mike saw Rose in the kitchen and watched her with a mix of admiration and distaste. She’d dropped his hand last night like it was diseased. Here was self-confidence in spades or conceit by the bucketload.

He’d looked her, and everyone else, up before leaving home. Her CV glowed and yet, to him at least, her work seemed muddy, confused by too many disparate elements. Not that he was a good judge of art. The paragraph that described it was a load of pretentious wank. Why artists buried the concept of their work in words he had no idea.

Jane was watching him and he flushed. He’d hate her to think he was interested in Rose, but nothing showed on her face.

‘So, this isn’t your first residency?’ he asked.

‘I went to one in America a few years ago. It was … interesting.’

He had the impression she wasn’t talking about the residency at all but personality, and with Rose in the kitchen the sentence seemed to say a lot.

Interesting. He smiled and she smiled back, which changed her face entirely, lighting up her eyes. He felt himself relaxing, as though the word had united them. Togetherness. Togetherness on the strength of a single word and a dazzling smile.

He finished his cornflakes, tipping the bowl to pour the last of the sweet liquid into his spoon. A habit that used to irritate Amanda.

‘Can I make you a cup of tea, Jane?’

He liked her name. ‘Jane Goodman’ was unfussy and a long way from Amanda Brigitte Catherine Downer and his ex’s pride in having an unworkable handle like that. The initials ABCD had been a family thing she had thought cute and he absurd. He shook his head. He hadn’t thought about Amanda for months now and here she was popping up all over the place.

‘Thanks. Black, no sugar.’

He was smiling when he walked into the kitchen. From small things bigger things grew. His mother had said that. His mother the professor, who had been careful to instil in him good diction and a love of language and literature. She had said a lot of things when he was growing up that flashed up even now. He used to think they were trite, but all these years on they seemed increasingly profound.

Alfredo consulted the list of residents that the Fundacion had sent him weeks earlier, but read just the one listing.

Rose Sinclair. Sydney, Australia. Pintora.

He had seen Sydney on TV when the Olympics were on. A city full of sunshine and sea and yachts. Rose would suit it, he thought, with her sea-green eyes and bright hair.

There were a few small images of her paintings that he studied closely. They showed a few clear objects looming out of an unclear background. A woman’s hand. Half a face. A dark curved shape, like a sickle.

Rose. The word was similar in Spanish. El Rosa. The most stunning of flowers. Last night, Rosa, until tiredness set in, had been alive and charming, holding her own in a conversation that moved between cities and things he couldn’t understand.

He liked the way she used her hands when she spoke, as if to demonstrate her point and include others in the conversation. He liked that when she asked a question, she turned her head to the side. A vain woman but captivating too. Every now and then she would turn to him and smile, as if commiserating over his exclusion.

Alfredo wrote a sentence in Spanish, and with the help of his phrasebook, transcribed it into English. He had a day to settle in before the stone arrived. Why not settle in with Rose?

Rose picked up her art case and went to find her assigned studio. Each studio was separated by a tidy stretch of gravel and an orange tree. Studio 4 was furthest from the house and, as such, the quietest. It was spacious and full of light and, all things permitting, she should work well here. She put her case on the bench.

Through the doorway, the orange tree was heavy with fruit which glowed in the morning light like Christmas baubles or tiny suns. Could she use them as a motif in a series of paintings or was that the worst cliché?

She had promised Veronica, the manager of the Terrace Gallery in Randwick, at least another five paintings to fill out her component of the ‘Exotic and Surreal’ exhibition that she was to share with Peter Lin at the end of April.

Sharing had been Veronica’s idea. Cross-pollination, she had called it. Rose had been persuaded because it guaranteed her more exposure in the art world. And Spain was surely the perfect place to come up with ideas on the exotic, even if the name of the exhibition was ridiculous.

There was some traction in the idea of oranges. That they thrived in a desert certainly seemed exotic, if not surreal, but a familiar voice sprang up in her mind.

Oranges, for Christ’s sake, Rose. Next you’ll be painting flowers. One step away from the mad world of your mother.

She shook the voice away and followed Silvia’s directions to the village. The path was uphill and led between a gully and an orange grove. When she’d come through Cabrera she felt it would take a while to appreciate it. All those whitewashed houses seemed almost too contrived to believe, although that also fitted her artistic brief. Only it was the last thing she wanted to paint.

From the village you could see the residence in the valley below. The wide low building with red roof tiles and ochre walls. In the other direction, down a long and sloping road, was the sea. The Mediterranean, that place of myth and story and fable. When she came to it finally, she was disappointed that any sea could be so ordered. The day was still and the sun had slid behind a cloud so that the light was muted. The view was laid out in stripes: the grey of the road, the yellow sand, a dull blue band of sea.

Hotels and resorts and golf courses stretched out endlessly along the beach road, with names that switched between Spanish and English. The Emperador. Hotel Atlántico. The London, with its banners of Union Jacks.

She returned to the village, found a café and ordered, by way of gestures, coffee and a pastry. The proprietor looked right through her and Rose felt her faint hostility. What was that about? Foreigners in general or her in particular?

Back at the residence she said hello to the gardener who was watering the orange trees, while a small dog looked on impassively. From Silvia’s speech, this was Carlos, who didn’t speak English, but was integral to the running of the place. He was one of those swarthy Spanish types, heavy-set and older than she’d thought a gardener might be. The light glinted on his glasses and he didn’t look at her, let alone reply.

Silvia came out of the front door to greet her, making a little tsking sound as she approached. ‘Rose, there’s been a mix-up with the studios. You’ve taken the one assigned to Marion. Yours is studio 2 at the other end of the driveway.’

Rose thought about studio 4: the garden and the view and the lack of noise. She thought about Silvia, who disapproved of her, and Marion, whose conversation served no point other than to fill the silence.

As far as she knew all the studios were the same and Marion could work in 2 just as easily as 4. Bugger Marion and bugger moving, even if it only meant shifting her case. She proceeded to dig in.

Alfredo took his chance to use his carefully transcribed question when he saw Rose sitting on the bench seat outside her studio, staring into space. She looked as if she was seeking inspiration. He knew about inspiration and the lack of it, as did every artist. He was pretty sure that interrupting her wouldn’t take her away from considerations of work.

Rose read his note, seemingly pleased he had sought her out and taken the trouble to find the English.

‘Walk Cabrera Old?’

‘Si.’ Alfredo pointed to the mountain and then his watch and held up three fingers.

‘Three o’clock?’

He nodded. ‘Si.’

Alfredo hesitated, wanting to say more, but he didn’t know how. He headed back to his studio to put his tools in order, his mind full of the sunlight on Rose’s hair.

In the afternoon, Mike spent a few hours exploring the village and ended up at a bar in the plaza, drinking beer. He wanted to listen to some Spanish and have a quiet think. He knew exactly what his work entailed for the month ahead. He’d dug out a half-completed manuscript he’d given away some time ago that had, this morning, assumed a few possibilities. Thin possibilities, admittedly, but there were moments where he’d glimpsed his through-line, moments where he’d forgotten to judge and got lost in his own story. His character, Percy Streeton, had never been to Spain and that was something he could bring in to reinforce the fish-out-of-water aspect of the novel.

That he, Mike Bailey, should be here in this high plaza, in southern Spain, looking out over the sunlit valley below and listening in to people’s conversations, felt amazing. On the wall near the travel agent, posters advertised music at a club called El Techo. If he’d translated correctly, El Techo was open every night of the week. The Spanish, the poster and the beer all added to his sense of wellbeing.

Wandering back to the residence in the late afternoon, he saw Jane in the lane ahead of him, walking slowly in the dark shadows of the orange trees. He hurried to catch her.

‘Been out walking?’ Mike asked, then felt a rush of self-loathing. Of course she’d been out walking.

‘Just getting a feel for the place.’

She talked about her day. Her marking out of certain places to return to at first light. The small carved figures she had seen in the gift shops, which held a rainbow and were meant to bring good luck to people’s houses.

‘Indalos,’ Mike said. He’d seen them too. They ranged from cheap plastic to delicate glass and heavy, carved stone.

‘The village is pretty but touristy,’ Jane said. ‘What did you make of it?

‘I liked it.’ He’d felt a tourist himself, basking in the sun of the plaza and a transitory feel of affluence. ‘Have you found the cemetery? That wasn’t touristy.’

He told her about the long rows of crypts along the outside wall and the inner blocks in their neat patterns. An orderly warehouse of the dead and so different to the cemeteries at home; he’d been fascinated. He didn’t know how Australia arranged such things, but to his mind the cemetery had been utterly Spanish. He paused. Did he sound macabre?

‘Go on.’

When he forgot to be self-conscious, Jane thought Mike described things well. The writer’s eye, she supposed, similar to the photographer’s, looking for patterns and things that stood out. He had a formal way of speaking, which was intriguing, and his voice was soft and pleasant to listen to. Both Jane and her daughter, Charlotte, were suckers for an English accent, and had, embarrassingly, swooned over Colin Firth in Pride and Prejudice countless times.

It was restful to listen to Mike and it left her free to study him.

He was tall and thin and slightly gangly. Beneath his dull green jumper she could make out pointy elbows and sharp shoulderblades. She guessed he was a few years younger than her. She would like to strip him down and capture the fine knotty bones of his collar and rib cage. He’d be winter-pale and against a sunlit ochre wall the image could be strong. She suppressed a smile at the thought of asking him to strip. He’d be shocked to the core.

‘I could show you if you like?’

She thought momentarily he’d read her mind, but of course he was still talking about the cemetery.

She gestured to the darkening sky, and they both laughed.

‘Stupid of me,’ he said, but without embarrassment.

‘Another day.’

‘Another day.’ He looked content.

Already she was enjoying this residency much more than the last. Ten days in America with travel time had meant a long absence from Charlotte. Two weeks of feeling pulled and torn. And then the love affair between two of the artists, which had been distracting and ridiculous. But Charlotte was older now and independent, and she could afford to relax.

Alfredo was dressed in a leather coat and solid boots that, to Rose’s mind, made him look like a bear. At the base of the mountain, there was a fine sprinkling of cactus and pale, tall grasses. They found the main path, picked out by other walkers, and some smaller tracks running here and there. Goats, perhaps, but if so there was no sign of them.

Every now and then Alfredo offered his hand and they would stop to catch their breath and look out over the landscape and each other. Was the language barrier a problem or a boon? After Steven, who didn’t know how to be quiet, the silence between them felt restful.

When they reached the top, half an hour later, there was only dust and shale and rocks and the crater they had heard about last night at dinner.

She dropped a stone into its mouth and listened to it scurrying through bushes and vegetation 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 to soak overnight. Even without Rose, there were too many people in the room for the 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.