The Man From Madrid. Anne WealeЧитать онлайн книгу.
lying down in the shade for a siesta. Having read The Wandering Scholars until the church clock struck three this morning, he decided to take a nap under the drooping branches of an old fig tree.
When he woke up it was cooler. He went back inside the house and prowled its large empty rooms, considering various possibilities for its future.
When the guests assembled for pre-dinner drinks that evening, they all had tales of their days’ activities to tell.
Fred and Peggy had had lunch at another casa rural an hour’s drive away. ‘But we didn’t like it as much as yours,’ Peggy told Douglas Haig. ‘It was modern. It had no atmosphere.’
Tonight she was wearing a clinging red dress and dangling diamanté earrings which Cally felt were over the top for the setting which was rustic rather than glitzy. She suspected that Peggy was hoping to make an impression on Nicolás, which seemed ridiculous in the light of their respective ages. But perhaps Fred didn’t give her the attention she craved. He seemed the down-to-earth type. Cally would have expected Peggy to be married to someone more dashing: the kind of man who, when going out in the evening, wore a blazer with a foulard cravat inside the collar of his shirt and had a moustache or a carefully trimmed beard.
When Nicolás appeared and came to the bar, he was wearing the shirt she had washed and ironed for him.
‘Did you press my shirt?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Thank you.’
She used the phrase often heard in Spain when someone was responding to thanks. ‘De nada. It’s part of the service. What would you like to drink?’
‘A glass of the house red, please.’
As she filled a glass for him, she asked, ‘Did you have a good day? Where did you go?’ She assumed he had a map of the area and would know where his route had taken him.
‘An excellent day…and I enjoyed my lunch. It’s years since I had any pan de higo.’
‘It’s one of my weaknesses. I like fresh figs best, when they’re available, and dried figs are good too, but the local dried figs are small and at this time of year the figs imported from Turkey tend to be past their best, so I go for pan de higo. But it’s dangerously more-ish.’
Because his English was as idiomatic as her own, she took it for granted he would understand the expression.
‘It doesn’t appear to be doing any damage to your figure.’ Switching to Spanish, he added, ‘I’m sure all the somewhat overpadded ladies behind me have looked enviously at your slim waist.’
To her annoyance, Cally felt herself blushing. She had always thought of Italian and French as being more musical languages than Spanish, but when Nicolás spoke castellano, in that caressing tone of voice, it sent a quiver down her spine.
She was relieved when her father joined them. It was not until many days later that she remembered that Nicolás had not answered her question about his day’s route.
For dinner that night, instead of serving a first course, Juanita and Cally handed round big dishes of hot and cold tapas including barquetas de espárragos which were boat-shaped pastry containers filled with parsley and chive sauce topped with asparagus tips.
‘Mm…I’d like the recipe for these,’ Cally heard Peggy say to Nicolás. They were both eating chorizo puffs, she noticed.
‘They’re good, but they’re seriously fattening I’ve heard,’ she heard him answer.
Peggy gave a little shriek of dismay. ‘Why did you have to tell me that? Still, men like a curvy woman, don’t they?’ The flirtatious look she gave him made Cally feel embarrassed for her.
‘I don’t think most of us are attracted by model girls’ figures,’ was his reply. Then Cally had to move out of earshot.
When everyone moved to the table, he sat next to her father, leaving Peggy to exercise her femme fatale manner on one of the other men. Cally sat at the other end of the table, as she had the night before, but this time with different neighbours. Fulfilling her role as hostess and watching to see that everyone was enjoying their food and had wine in their glasses prevented her from listening to more than an occasional snatch of the conversation at the far end of the table. But she did observe that her father was in what she thought of as his Expert on Everything mode, and Nicolás was listening but saying little himself.
When the meal was over and Juanita had gone home, the guests seemed inclined to stay up later than they had the night before. When she felt her absence for quarter of an hour wouldn’t be noticed, Cally went to the office to pick up her email.
Every day she received an email news update from The Bookseller, a weekly magazine that was the bible of the British book trade. What she read in the latest update about the firm she worked for made her groan aloud.
Edmund & Burke sees sales and profits dive. The third-quarter figures will increase fears that E&B will be forced into a period of retrenchment by its US parent. Results released show that sales at E&B fell 7% in the three months ended 30th September. The previous year’s figures had been bolstered by the inclusion of one of its titles in the Oprah Book Club selection (see Media Watch below).
Cally scrolled down to the Media Watch section. What she read made her even more depressed. According to a report in the Financial Times, Edmund & Burke’s parent company would have to cut costs by two hundred million dollars over the next twelve months. Inevitably drastic cuts would have to be made by the UK subsidiary.
She read the update again. Then, too upset to open the rest of the emails, none of which was important, she logged off. For three or four minutes she sat slumped in the chair, knowing that by the time she returned to London the imprint she worked for would have been axed and her name would have been added to the long list of editors made redundant in recent years.
And where else, when publishing was awash with unemployed editors and other publishing industry discards, was she going to find another niche to suit her particular talents?
Cally returned to the lounge only because she felt she ought to be around in case anyone wanted more coffee or drinks. She didn’t join the cheerful group sitting on the comfortable chairs and sofas, but slipped unobtrusively behind the bar to be there if she was wanted but unnoticed if she wasn’t.
A few minutes later, while she was pretending to read the paper but thinking about the dire news from London, Nicolás came over.
‘Are you all right?’ he said, as she looked up. ‘When you came back, you looked upset.’
‘You imagined it,’ she said lightly. ‘I’m fine. Like another drink?’
‘No, thanks. What I’d like is to go with you up to the roof terrace and talk about books. Will you come?’
‘I can’t. I’m on duty.’
‘You’ve been on duty all evening. I’m sure your father can cope. Come on…let’s get some fresh air,’ he said persuasively.
At that moment Peggy gave a screech of raucous laughter that made Cally wince. Fleetingly, she saw the same pained expression on his face. Suddenly the thought of the peace and quiet of the terrace, with a congenial companion, was irresistible.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘Why not?’
But even as she said it, several reasons why it wasn’t a wise move occurred to her. She ignored them.
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