The Spanish Promise Read online

  Marina was staring at her with a confounded expression. ‘. . . And what is that?’

  ‘That you make no further contact with his father. At all. Carlos Mendoza is a very sick man; these are his final weeks and the family wish to spend together what time he has left. They should not be worrying about legacies and legalities at such a moment. I’m sure you can appreciate that, Marina. I’ve met you enough times now to see you’re a good person.’

  Marina didn’t reply. She didn’t look like she could. The colour had drained from her face and she looked even more tired than she had before.

  ‘Señor Mendoza has taken a great deal of time and effort trying to put together an offer that he believes both fairly rewards the happiness you have brought his father in his final years, and also allows you to live your life without any financial concerns whatsoever. And I have been authorized to work closely with you to help you transition to your next phase, for, believe me, your world is about to change in ways you couldn’t possibly imagine. You will never have to bring a basket of wet clothes home from the laundry ever again. You won’t have to save up for a new washing machine. You won’t even have to see your new washing machine because you can have staff who do the laundry for you.

  ‘And that’s not even a fraction of it. Everything is going to change, Marina, for the better. Life is going to become so much easier now. I know how hard you work. I know it’s a struggle.’ She stared across the coffee table, seeing how Marina’s eyes were still, that she was barely blinking. She was in shock. ‘Marina?’

  Slowly, Marina slid her gaze up to her. ‘Carlos Mendoza is an old man.’

  ‘. . . Yes.’

  Her voice was quiet. Charlotte wasn’t surprised. Being told you were being given ten million euros would do that to most people. ‘Why are you so certain . . . ?’

  ‘That you’re involved with him?’ Charlotte paused, knowing she had to choose her next words carefully, judiciously. ‘Because before he fell ill last week, he was instructing his lawyers to make financial provisions for you.’ She could not lie, but neither could she admit the whole truth; no one yet knew whether Marina was aware of the full scope of Carlos Mendoza’s intentions and Charlotte couldn’t afford to let it slip here. ‘His wishes were very specific: Marina Quincy, Apartment 8, 94 Calle del General Garcia de la Herran, Cara-banchel, Madrid.’ She looked up at her. ‘That is you, right? You are Marina Quincy? This is your address?’

  Marina nodded.

  ‘Then congratulations – you’re about to become a very rich woman.’ She reached into her bag and pulled out the contract that Mateo’s lawyers had drawn up. She set it down carefully on the table, watching how Marina’s eyes drifted over it – catching on the words ‘ten million euros’ which had deliberately been set in bold type.

  ‘I know this is a lot to take in,’ she said, wondering privately whether it really was, or whether Marina was still acting the ingenue here; her mask hadn’t slipped once, not in any of their meetings. ‘But this isn’t a joke. This is a legally binding document, bequeathing the sum of ten million euros to you’ – she was careful to keep repeating the words, making them real. ‘From the Mendoza family trust. Let me be clear: this is not a loan; there are no tricks. Spend it, save it, give it away – the money is yours to do with as you wish. The only conditions upon you, as I have said, are that if you accept this offer today, you can have no further contact with Mr Mendoza at all; you must cut all contact with him. And you can never make any future claims on the Mendoza estate. This settles your account, if you like, once and for all.’

  Marina stared from her to the contract and back again.

  ‘All you have to do is read it and sign, Marina. It’s that easy.’

  Slowly, Marina reached forward and took the contract from her, looking down again at the white paper, crisp and bright in her hands, and with the power to change her life. Her eyes moved down the sheet, snagging on the baffling legalese she could never have encountered before.

  Charlotte sat back in the chair, watching her. ‘If there’s anything you don’t understand, please ask. I can explain it to you. You must be absolutely sure you understand what this means in its entirety.’

  Marina read it in silence once, two times, no doubt looking for tricks, something in the wording that was going to take it all away from her again. Finally her gaze came back up to Charlotte’s again. ‘I’m going to need time to think about it.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Charlotte shook her head firmly. ‘You can take as long as you need to read through whilst I am here but this is a one-shot offer. You either sign today and the money will be in your account within five minutes; or you don’t, and the offer is withdrawn. I will leave here and everything will be the same as it ever was.’ She gave an easy shrug, hoping Marina wouldn’t stop to think and wonder what this offer might actually be obscuring, for it was a glittering unicorn of a deal, there to dazzle and distract her from the real prize, which although bigger was by no means guaranteed.

  She watched as the sinews in Marina’s neck became more pronounced, the stress building, and as her hesitation stretched, Charlotte saw that Marina had known more than she had let on. She knew she was having to decide whether to take this or hold out for more and play for all of it. If she didn’t know that was even an option, there wouldn’t be a decision to have to make and that contract would have been signed already – for who would turn down ten million euros, unless they knew there was the potential for even more?

  ‘Do you need a pen?’ Charlotte asked her, holding out her own, a silver Mont Blanc, engraved with her initials.

  Marina took it, her hand trembling slightly.

  Charlotte stood up and stepped back, ostensibly giving her a final moment’s consideration, not wanting to crowd her. But as she quietly paced away towards the windows – her hand trailing on the bookcase, gaze tripping lightly over the photographs there – she felt her own tension pitch, for a signature on that contract did more than change Marina’s life; it would change hers too. With the offer secured and the Mendoza fortune firmly protected within Steed Bank’s vaults, she could leave here tonight and return to London, to Stephen and to the life she had carefully, quietly curated until this week.

  She would never see Nathan Marling again. He had left without a backward glance and so must she; it had been a last tumble into bed for old times’ sake, a chance to say a final goodbye, that was all. Their lives had moved on and she didn’t belong here, she didn’t belong with him, no matter what her heart said. His life was in Madrid, hers in London. One signature and she could go home . . .

  She felt her heart hold its beat as she heard the first scratch of the nib make contact with the paper and she closed her eyes, waiting for the axe to fall.

  Marina handed her the helmet but Charlotte just looked at it. ‘I’m not getting on that thing until you tell me where we’re going. What is this all about?’

  ‘The truth.’

  ‘The truth about what?’

  ‘Just trust me.’

  ‘Marina—’

  ‘I am not signing unless I am clear what is going on and you said I cannot have time tonight to consider it.’ She shrugged. ‘Therefore you must come with me now.’

  Charlotte sighed, exasperated and frustrated. It had been a long and devastating day and she had needed this evening’s meeting to be a coup de grâce on this whole Madrid episode, not a drawn-out torture. ‘This is crazy.’

  Marina put her own helmet on, fastening it under the chin as she pinned her with a wry look. ‘You think this is the crazy part? It’s all nuts to me,’ she quipped.

  Charlotte pulled the helmet on and straddled the back of the moped.

  ‘Have you ever been on one of these before?’ Marina asked over her shoulder.

  Charlotte looked down at the dented, scratched black moped with a Greenpeace sticker on it. ‘Not sober.’

  The older woman chuckled. ‘It is easy. Just hold on.’

  ‘How far are we going?’ she a
sked, loosely lacing her arms around Marina’s waist as the bike roared into life and Marina kicked out the stand.

  ‘Only a few hours or so.’

  ‘A few hours?’ Charlotte spluttered. It was hard to tell whether it was Marina laughing or the vibrations of the engine that she could feel, but regardless, they glided out of the narrow side street and back onto the main drag. They passed the Ronaldo mural and the football fans’ cafe, the laundromat where Charlotte had inadvertently found her, the warring couple now long gone.

  The breeze over her skin felt delicious after the cloying humidity of the apartment and she felt herself relax momentarily. So much for making a clean getaway. She still couldn’t believe this wasn’t a done deal already. Marina had been so close to signing, the first pen stroke already on the paper, the money all but hers. Charlotte had thought she was hearing things when Marina had said those two little words: I can’t.

  They zipped through the rush-hour traffic, Marina expertly angling the bike and somehow managing to make all the green lights. The city still steamed, its colours rich and deepening in the late afternoon glow, but its citizens moved differently now their working days were done. Coffees in cafes were replaced with beers in bars, women swapping shift dresses for shorts and men pulling the ties from their suits. Everything was loosening. Breathing out.

  The city became a blur; she had lost track of where they were, as Marina nipped down side streets and alleys, popping out onto distinctive boulevards before going off-grid again, but it was only ten, fifteen minutes before she felt her begin to slow and look for somewhere to park. She came to a stop beside a bollard and kicked down the stand.

  Charlotte jumped off, her muscles surprisingly trembly from the ride; it had always felt the same when she was a little girl, dismounting the horse after her lesson. ‘Where are we?’ she asked, looking up at the vanilla-coloured apartment blocks. Plate-glass windows reflected the world back on itself, striped canopies over the balconies deflecting the worst of the sun’s rays. The buildings, while not run-down like Marina’s neighbourhood, had a faintly sour tang, like turned milk; they had been there just a little too long.

  ‘Vallecas.’

  Charlotte didn’t know it. ‘And why are we here?’

  ‘You’ll see.’ Marina took the helmet from her and locked both in the underseat storage. ‘This way.’

  Charlotte followed after her, musing on the change between Marina now and half an hour earlier. The woman in that apartment had been resistant, stunned and then overwhelmed; she had been tempted. So what had stopped her? And why, with every step, was she becoming somehow stronger, as though she was growing sure of something?

  Charlotte followed her in through a set of double doors. Inside was a lobby with a terracotta tiled floor, some eighties blue sofas and a depressingly poor framed print of Van Gogh’s Sunflowers. A woman at the reception desk looked up as they walked in and Marina pointed questioningly towards another set of doors, not stopping.

  ‘Oh, hey, Marina. Yes, down there.’

  Charlotte caught the woman’s inquisitive stare as they passed by and knew she looked incongruous here: too manicured beside Marina (still in her slippers), too flashy in her dressed-for- Casino lunch outfit.

  They pushed through the double doors and down a corridor. It was unremarkable – closed doors on both sides, nothing whatsoever to identify it, just a fire evacuation plan and more inferior artwork on the walls.

  Marina stopped at a door, so suddenly that Charlotte almost stepped on her heels.

  ‘Oh.’

  Marina knocked and waited, after a while pressing her ear closer to the door. She knocked again. After another pause, she turned the handle and looked in.

  Charlotte stood on the threshold behind her, waiting to see what was going on.

  ‘You can come in,’ Marina said, turning back a few moments later.

  Barely able to conceal her curiosity, Charlotte followed, stepping into a dim room – the curtains were pulled to, not quite meeting in the middle, so that a seam of light crossed the floor, over a bed and up the far wall like a transverse axis.

  ‘She’s resting,’ Marina said in a quiet voice, stating the obvious, as Charlotte’s gaze came to rest on an elderly woman asleep in the narrow bed. A quick glance around the room told Charlotte this wasn’t a hospital – there were too many personal effects around: photographs on surfaces, more of those coloured crochet doilies, a bag of knitting . . . ‘But don’t worry. She’ll be awake soon. She never sleeps for long. Just catnaps really.’

  ‘Right,’ Charlotte nodded blankly. ‘And who is she?’

  ‘My grandmother.’

  Charlotte struggled to keep her patience. Why had they just driven across the city to pay a visit to this sleeping old lady? ‘Marina, I’ve got a plane to catch. Why are we here? Surely your grandmother doesn’t have anything to do with whether or not you sign the contract?’

  ‘Actually, she has everything to do with it. That money is meant for her.’

  Charlotte sighed. Had this woman missed the entire point of what she’d been telling her? ‘Look, if you want to spend the money on your grandmother’s care, then you can. There are no restrictions on how or when or where you spend it.’

  ‘No, you don’t understand. That money isn’t meant for me. It can’t be. I’ve never met old man Mendoza. It must be for her.’

  Charlotte closed her eyes, her dream of getting back to London and Stephen tonight, of escaping Nathan’s casual abandonment, inching out of sight. They were back to square one. ‘I don’t know how I can say this any more plainly. It’s for you, Marina.’

  ‘It’s for Marina Quincy.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Charlotte said, exasperated now. Weren’t they agreeing exactly the same thing? ‘Marina Quincy. Apartment 8, 94 Calle—.’

  ‘And I already told you that was my parents’ apartment before it was mine. And my grandmother’s before them. It’s her apartment.’

  Charlotte frowned, trying to keep up. ‘You’ve lost me.’

  ‘I keep telling you – I’ve never met old man Mendoza. Or any of them. So all the facts you’ve got about me living at that address might be right, but you’ve made one mistake – the birthdate.’ She jerked her head towards the sleeping form in the bed. ‘My parents named me after her. She’s Marina Quincy too.’

  Charlotte’s jaw dropped down. ‘What?’

  ‘Yeah. So if that money’s meant for either one of us, it’s got to be her.’ Marina looked down at the sleeping woman, stroking the back of her hand tenderly. ‘For some reason, Carlos Mendoza wants to make my grandmother a multimillionaire.’

  Chapter Eleven

  Ronda, late June 1936

  Even by her family’s standards, this was something else. Nene stood by her window and looked out at the party, the bodies of the guests swaying lightly to the music, the ladies’ dresses billowing in the breeze. She had never seen her home look so beautiful before; always imposing, tonight it was transformed: thousands of white gardenias had been threaded onto cord and strung in an intricate lattice between the orange trees that lined the courtyard; rows of long tables were decked with candles, the crystal and silverware glittering like fireflies as the dusk lengthened. Her eyes flitted to the stone fountain – her father had seriously considered having it replumbed to flow champagne for the night, the statues carefully spotlit in the corners.

  Everything was beautiful, elegant, opulent yet refined – like her mother. That had been her father’s brief: tonight had to reflect his exquisite wife. He had bought her a white satin Schiaparelli dress from Paris especially for the occasion and it skimmed over her lovely figure, her long dark hair worn swept to the side and secured with a comb of fresh gardenias. Nene too had had a new dress: violet dotted cotton with puff sleeves and an empire waist, a garland of pale yellow rosebuds made especially for her hair.

  She had seen the approving way her mother had nodded and looked at her as she had gone into her bedroom for a quick appraisal before
the guests arrived, knowing Felix Lacuna was expected tonight. His family owned most of the land between Huelva and Seville, and Nene knew her parents had hoped she would catch his eye. And perhaps she had for he had spoken at length to her about boar-hunting, which he seemed to find fascinating.

  But if dull, he was certainly handsome, with a clean-cut appearance that matched hers these days, for she was changed beyond recognition from the girl she had once been, free and running around the estate with Santi. Everything had changed when he had left, the fun falling out of all the activities she used to love to do with him – even Arlo, sweet, gentle Arlo, couldn’t engage her, though he had tried; but he was too scared of their father, too quick to appease and play by the rules to be any fun. His spirit was trussed up in chains and though she loved him, she despaired of his weakness. And so, her wild, girlhood curiosity had gradually been replaced by a numbed sedation. There were never scrapes on her knees any more or dirt beneath her fingernails, her hair was always brushed and pinned up, her skirts firmly untucked from her knickers, and her mother believed this meant she had become a lady at last.

  But if losing Santi the first time round had stripped her of a comrade, losing him the second time had taken her spirit; she felt as though a light had gone out of her, the shame of what her family had done, what they were, dimming her into obsolescence.

  He was lost to her, she knew that. She understood it too. Since the funeral eleven days earlier, there had been nothing from him: no messages passed, not a word uttered. Every night she stood by her window, looking for a dark shadow running across the fields or standing by the trees. And every day she looked to see if he had put the shark’s tooth in their secret hiding spot, his only way of forgiving her for being a Mendoza. But the deafening silence was intimidating and instead left her listening for footsteps behind her or bracing for confrontations on the steps of Señor Martin’s office as his father had done. Her eyes searched for him everywhere. She knew he was still in Ronda – instinct told her – but she did not dare return to the old town. The flash of threat in his eyes that day had been enough to ensure she hadn’t left the latifundio since.