A Spanish Honeymoon

‘You’ll have some wine with the meal, won’t you?’ Liz nodded. ‘I like wine…but I can’t knock it back like some of the expats I’ve met.’

‘Oh, the drinks party crowd.’ His tone was dismissive. ‘You find them wherever there’s a large foreign community. People who live abroad fall into two groups. One lot thrives in a different culture. The other never feels really comfortable. Have you met Valdecarrasca’s first foreign residents, the Drydens?’

‘I’ve heard them mentioned. I haven’t met them. He’s an American, isn’t he?’

‘Todd is one of those cosmopolitan Americans who has spent more time outside the US than in it. He used to be something important in the oil business and then, in his forties, he had a heart attack and nearly didn’t make it. They decided to downsize their lives and came to Spain, where Leonora discovered she had a genius for doing up derelict fincas and transforming them into desirable residences for well-heeled rain exiles.’

‘They live in that house near the church with cascades of blue morning glory and purple bougainvillaea hanging over the wall, I believe?’

‘That’s right. Leonora bought it years ago, when they were living on the coast near where Todd’s yacht was berthed. She bought up a lot of properties. Prices were much lower then. The hinterland was unfashionable. I expect you’ll be asked to the Drydens’ Christmas party. It’s when they give newcomers the once-over. Those who pass muster are invited again. Those who don’t, aren’t. Leonora doesn’t suffer fools and bores gladly.’

‘She sounds rather daunting,’ said Liz.

‘She’s a doer,’ said Cam. ‘She has no patience with people who aren’t. She’ll be impressed by your courage in coming here on your own.’

‘It wasn’t courage. It was desperation,’ she said lightly. ‘I was in a rut and I had to get out of it.’

Cam signalled to the proprietor, who came back and took his order. When he asked, ‘…y para beber?’ Cam turned to her.

‘Would you like red or white wine? Or they have a good rosado, if you prefer it?’

‘I’m easy,’ she said, without thinking, and then wished she hadn’t. Not that he was likely to read the alternative meaning into her answer. Or was he?

The order completed, Cam picked up her remark about being in a rut. ‘I feel much the same. I don’t know if there’s any scientific basis for the idea that our bodies go through seven-year cycles of change, but I think it’s a good idea to review one’s life every ten years or so. I don’t want to spend my forties the same way I spent my thirties and twenties. It’s been a lot of fun, but now it’s time for something new.’

The wine arrived. Here, Liz noticed, the usual restaurant ritual of pouring a little into the host’s glass and waiting for his approval was ignored. It was taken for granted the wine would be drinkable. This would have disappointed Duncan and her father-in-law, who had both enjoyed the pretence of being connoisseurs. It didn’t seem to bother Cam.

When both their glasses had been filled, he thanked the young waiter and said to her, ‘Here’s to us…an escapee from the rat-race and a would-be escapee.’

Liz responded with a polite smile, not entirely comfortable with a link that seemed tenuous, to say the least.

She was even less comfortable when, after they had both tasted the wine, he proposed a second toast. ‘And to your new venture as a website designer…with me as your first client.’

She put her glass on the table. ‘I think we need to discuss that before we drink to it. That’s why we’re here…to talk business,’ she reminded him.

‘Certainly, but business goes better when it’s combined with pleasure, don’t you think? For me, it’s much more enjoyable having lunch with an attractive, elegant woman than with a teenage or twenty-something techie who knows all the IT answers but not much else.’

Liz decided it was time to put her cards firmly on the table. ‘As long as it’s clearly established that business is where it begins and ends. You have the reputation of being a—’ she searched for the politest term for it ‘—an habitual ladies’ man and, in the last four years, I’ve found that a lot of men think a widow is a sitting target. I just want to make it clear that I’m not.’

As soon as she had made this statement, she felt she had gone too far and the lunch, far from being enjoyable, would be ruined by deep umbrage on his side and acute embarrassment on hers.

‘I’m sorry if that sounded rude. It wasn’t intended to. I only want to avoid any…misunderstanding. It’s not that I have an inflated idea of my attractiveness. I don’t. Compared with Fiona Lincoln…’ She felt she had said enough and left it at that.

While she was speaking, Cam had leaned back in his chair, watching her with an expression she could not interpret. Now the flicker of a smile appeared at the corners of his mouth.

‘It must be very annoying to have passes made that you haven’t encouraged,’ he said mildly. ‘You’ll be relieved to hear that I never do that. I only make passes at women who indicate, beyond doubt, that they would welcome a closer relationship—and not always then,’ he added dryly. ‘So now you can relax, señora. If I tell you I like your clothes, it will be a straightforward comment like saying that I like the shapes of those mountains—’ with a gesture at the craggy crests to the south of the valley.

At this point, to her relief, their first course arrived. Liz’s salad was more imaginative than the standard Spanish restaurant salad that often consisted of lettuce, tomato, onion and a few olives. Here, the chef had added hard-boiled egg, grated carrot, sweetcorn and pickled red cabbage, the last perhaps a concession to the taste of German patrons.

Cam had chosen canelones and they came in a small round glazed clay dish, hot from the oven or, more likely, the microonda.

A combination bottle containing oil in one section and wine vinegar in the other was on his side of the table, its surface covered by a white paper cloth anchored to the undercloth by plastic clips. Cam passed the bottle to her, and the pepper and salt.

‘Thank you.’ Liz loved olive oil, especially the green-gold first pressing that was not always provided in restaurants, although it was in this one.

Cam said, ‘When my grandparents came to Spain it was easy to get cooks and maids. They had a wonderful cook called Victoria who didn’t only cook the specialities of this region but dishes from the other provinces. Spain is intensely provincial and they all think their ways are the best.’

He spoke as if nothing had happened to disturb the ease of their conversation. He broke off a piece of bread and dipped it into the red sauce covering the three stuffed rolls of pasta that were his starter. Putting the bread in his mouth, he chewed for a moment, then gave a satisfied nod. ‘This isn’t out of a bottle. Now…to business. You asked, in an e-mail, about the purpose of my website. I suppose what I want is a CV, but also something more than that…’ He began to elaborate.

Their discussion of his requirements went on through the rest of the meal, only occasionally interrupted by remarks on other topics.

He had also chosen lamb for his main course and, when it was served, Liz said, ‘One of the things I love about living here is going up to my roof and seeing a shepherd and his flock and his dogs passing somewhere near the village.’

‘Have you noticed how they lead their flocks, not drive them? As a boy, I knew a shepherd. He was a gentle sort of guy who hated having to take his sheep to the matadero, the slaughter-house.’

‘At least they enjoy their lives while they are alive,’ said Liz. ‘It bothers me when animals are kept in unnatural conditions. Do you eat out a lot when you’re here? I’m sure Alicia would cook for you, if you wanted it.’

‘I can cook, if I need to. Victoria taught me how to make a caldo and a tortilla. Sometimes foreign correspondents find themselves stuck in situations where they need practical skills as well as the gift of the gab.’

He topped up her glass, making Liz suddenly aware that the bottle was three-quarters empty and he hadn’t had the lion’s share. She had drunk more than she’d intended and must be careful to make this glassful last. She had never had enough to make her tight and wasn’t sure what her limit was.

‘I don’t do puddings,’ said Cam, when their plates were being removed. ‘But don’t let that put you off. The flan here is home-made, not served in a plastic pot.’

‘I don’t do puddings either. Too many calories. Why don’t you eat them?’

‘I’m a cheese man, and generally speaking the cheeses of Spain aren’t wonderful. Cabrales, a goat’s cheese wrapped in leaves, is good, but it’s rare to find it in restaurants and you don’t see it often in supermarkets.’ His glance took in as much of her figure as he could see. ‘You don’t look as if you have a weight problem.’

‘I don’t, but I think I might if I didn’t watch it. I walk on the lanes through the vineyards every day, but that, and a bit of gardening, is not a great deal of exercise. Most of the time, I’m sitting.’

‘Talking of the garden, let’s go back and have our coffee there. I have some ideas for improving it that I’d like your opinion on.’ He signalled for the bill.

In the light of his assurance that he never made passes without encouragement, and assuming he was a man of his word, Liz had no grounds for feeling uneasy about going back to his place for coffee in the middle of the day. It would have been different at night, but then it was most unlikely they would ever have dinner together. Nevertheless she did feel slightly uneasy. Mainly, perhaps, because he was agreeable company and she didn’t trust herself to remain impervious to his charm if they were together too often.

When they reached his house, he said, ‘Sit tight while I open the garage.’

He unlocked the metal up-and-over door and swung it open. Earlier, watching him eat, she had wondered how he kept fit. Inside the garage, she saw a mountain bike and a shelf bearing several pairs of heavy walking boots.

Before he closed the outer door of the garage, Cam unlocked the door to the terrace for her. She did not offer to help with the coffee but left him to deal with it while she went down to the steps to the garden and settled herself on one of the two park benches with metal arms and wooden seats. The bench at the west end of the garden was close to two huge lavender bushes that were in flower with a score of bees working on them.

She had sometimes sat on this bench for a few minutes at the end of her gardening sessions. She wondered what changes he wanted to make, and then her thoughts drifted back to the garden of the suburban semi-detached where she and Duncan had lived together for thirteen years, slightly more than a third of her lifetime.

Cam came down the steps carrying a folding table that he set up in front of the bench. Soon afterwards he reappeared with a tray. As well as the coffee things there were two liqueur glasses and a bottle on it. Liz’s doubts about his intentions reactivated.

‘I mustn’t stay long. What are your ideas for the garden?’ she asked.

Instead of answering the question, he said, ‘What’s your hurry? Why not relax for the rest of the afternoon?’ He checked the stainless steel watch that circled his muscular wrist. ‘It’s past three o’clock now.’

‘I want to type out the things we discussed about your website while they’re still clear in my head.’