The Spanish Promise Page 18

  ‘But she’s very elderly too.’

  ‘Naturally. But you said she is in generally good health? We’ll fly them down in the family jet. It will be so comfortable, they will scarcely realize they are travelling.’

  Charlotte shifted awkwardly. ‘When were you thinking for this?’

  ‘As soon as possible. The day after tomorrow? Time is against us.’ He stared into space briefly. ‘She must be important to him. Marina’s name was the first word he said when he came round.’

  ‘I didn’t know that,’ she murmured sympathetically. ‘The thing is, I’m afraid that’s going to be tricky for me. I have plans for this weekend that can’t be changed.’

  He looked displeased. ‘What could possibly be more important than resolving this crisis?’

  Charlotte swallowed. ‘Well, I’m getting married next week and my fiancé’s parents are hosting a formal dinner at the Savoy on Saturday night. I’m afraid that, as the bride, I am very much obliged to be there.’

  ‘Hmm, yes, I can see that you would be,’ he said, reluctantly looking at her closely, as though it was fascinating to consider she might have a life outside of managing his. ‘. . . Congratulations.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He lapsed into thought again. ‘When would you need to be there by?’

  ‘In London? Well, the dinner’s at eight.’

  He thought for a moment. ‘Okay. So then you could still accompany them down there in the morning and get them settled in? I will be in Seville, making arrangements for my father to be discharged and sent home to recuperate, but I’d be happy to put the plane at your disposal to get you back to London for early evening.’

  Her heart sank. If she had a private plane at her disposal, how could she refuse? On what grounds? There were none. Her mother would freak, Stephen would sulk, but what else could she do? It would work. Just. ‘Okay, thank you.’

  ‘Of course, I’d want you back here the next day. What day is the wedding exactly?’

  ‘Um, it’s a civil ceremony on Thursday but I really will need to be in London next week for final—’

  ‘Yes, yes, we’ll have you back in good time for all of that, but I’m sure you understand the imperative of making sure the reunion proceeds smoothly. If this is, as you said, my father’s dying wish, then we must all do what it takes to make it a success. You, Charlotte, are a vital cog in that wheel.’

  She suppressed a sigh, forced a smile. ‘I have an appointment on Sunday morning but I can be back by the lunchtime?’

  ‘Good. Our two Marinas trust you, your being there should put them at their ease and help them settle in till my father is well enough to join them,’ he said, looking pleased. ‘I really feel that between you and Professor Marling we have the best chances of successfully resolving this matter, one way or the other.’ He tapped his finger restlessly, staring into the middle distance. ‘I will certainly be intrigued to get to the bottom of it all. If they’ve been estranged for so many years, then there has to be a good reason for it. That is a long time to hold a grudge.’ He looked at her, perplexed. ‘I mean, what exactly could have happened that was so bad it lasted both their lifetimes?’

  *

  She stared at the number she had scrawled in red pen on the back of the receipt as Rosie dictated it down the phone. It was just a random jumble of digits and yet it was more than that – it was the hotline to him, the golden thread that could connect her to him wherever he was in the world. It brought him into her life, his voice into her ear. It made him real and flesh and blood again.

  Was he expecting her to call? Or after the way he’d left, so abruptly, with such finality, was that supposed to have drawn the line in the sand between them?

  With a deep breath and closing her eyes, she pressed dial and brought the phone to her ear. It rang once, twice, three times . . .

  ‘Diga!’ His voice burst into her consciousness and he was so fully formed to her, it was like he was standing right in front of her. In the background she could hear music, voices, laughter. A woman laughing. Where was he? ‘. . . Hello?’

  ‘Nathan, it’s me.’

  The silence that followed was like a gun crack. ‘. . . Charlotte. I didn’t expect to hear from you.’

  Expect? Or want? His words hurt and she closed her eyes, pinching her temples as she swallowed hard. ‘Really? Why not?’

  Another pause, but this time his voice – when he spoke – was harder. ‘I would have thought that was perfectly obvious.’

  ‘You didn’t let me explain—’

  ‘Because I didn’t want you to. It never should have happened.’

  ‘You don’t mean that,’ she said quietly but her voice was feeble, weak.

  ‘I’ve never meant anything more.’

  Such simplicity. Such brutality. She felt winded by his words and she didn’t know how to reach him. He wasn’t the boy she’d once known. ‘I don’t regret what happened between us—’

  ‘There is no us.’

  She faltered again. ‘Nathan, please . . .’

  ‘Yesterday was a mistake, Charlotte. This conversation is a mistake. Don’t call again—’

  ‘Wait!’ He couldn’t hang up on her.

  ‘What is it?’ She heard the frustration in his voice. The irritation that she was still there.

  ‘It’s not that simple . . . We still have to work together.’

  He gave an astonished laugh but he didn’t sound amused. ‘You’re joking?’

  ‘No.’ She swallowed and tried to rally, to pull her voice into shape again. She might not pull off bored right now, but she could do professional. ‘I’m calling to see how your report’s coming on.’

  ‘There is no report!’

  ‘Really? Why not?’

  There was a stunned silence. ‘Charlotte, we cannot work together. It’s impossible.’

  ‘Do you want to explain that to the client?’ she asked quietly.

  He didn’t reply and she realized the background din had become muted. Had he moved away, into another room? Outside? She wandered over to the balcony and looked out over the still restless city as though she might just catch a glimpse of him. She wondered where exactly he was. A mile away? One block?

  As the silence lengthened, she listened to the sound of his breathing, the pain between them twitching like a raw nerve.

  ‘Look, it doesn’t add up anyway. The entire thing is absurd,’ he said finally. It was a second before she realized he was talking about the client and not them – able to just click off from her, do what had to be done. ‘Even from just an initial read-through, it doesn’t ring true that he’s donating his estate to his mistress. If he was in his sixties or seventies even, it might be plausible, just, but two years off a century? I don’t think so.’

  ‘Yes, it jarred with us too but we had to work with what we had,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s since transpired we were working with inaccurate information.’

  ‘Inaccurate how?’

  ‘Birthdate. There are two Marina Quincys: the one we were targeting; and her grandmother, after whom she’s named.’

  There was a long silence, her embarrassment at the idiotic error only lengthening in the vacuum.

  ‘Right. Well that immediately makes more sense. And how old is Marina Quincy Senior?’

  ‘Ninety-eight.’

  ‘The same as Carlos Mendoza.’

  Charlotte rolled her eyes. It would be just like him to have memorized the entire bloody file.

  ‘Is she a former girlfriend then? First wife? There’s no mention of another marriage.’

  ‘She’s his twin.’

  ‘. . . No mention of that either,’ he said tersely, as though they’d been deliberately wasting his time.

  ‘We only discovered it ourselves in the last twenty-four hours, but you can see how that changes things.’

  ‘Hmm,’ he reluctantly agreed, but she could hear from his tone that his interest had been piqued again, his academic brain wanting to solve the puzzle. ‘
Well, this at least makes more sense. But if they’re estranged siblings then it dramatically changes the potential timeline. It’s one thing researching his life for the last twenty or thirty years but this break between them could have happened anytime from childhood. If they’re both ninety-eight, then . . .’ his voice trailed off as he did the maths. ‘That means going right back to when they were teenagers or even kids from the 1930s onwards . . .’ he exhaled, working out dates. ‘It’d mean trawling through stuff from the Civil War, the Second World War and any time after in the Franco era, right up to the present day.’

  ‘You’re going to be busy then,’ she said flatly. ‘Mateo is putting a lot of store in your research capabilities. I told him you wouldn’t let him down.’

  There was another long pause. ‘. . . Look, Charlotte, this isn’t a good idea.’

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ she said. ‘But I didn’t go looking for this; I thought I was hiring Jose Ferrante. If the situation could be changed, I think we’d both jump at it, but it’s too late now. Mateo wants you.’ She cleared her throat lightly, the strain getting to her. ‘So tell me where you’re up to.’

  He was quiet for a long while, clearly looking for a way out – and finding none. ‘Jose had done a preliminary trawl through records for Marina Quincy here in Madrid – birth, confirmation, marriage, electoral register . . . Clearly none of that’s now relevant given he was working with the wrong date of birth so I’ll have to start again on all that. As she’s his sister and there’s a family history, it’ll probably mean going down to Andalusia too; the Mendoza estate, La Ventilla, is just outside Ronda so I’ll need to base my searches there as precious little has been digitized. A lot of information was lost during the Civil War; and what does remain, well – when it comes to Franco’s version of history, let’s just say revisionist doesn’t begin to cover it. I’ll need to see source material myself which will mean flights, a car, hotel, food etc . . .’

  ‘Whatever you need, just do it. Money isn’t a problem.’

  ‘On the contrary – money’s always the problem,’ he snapped.

  His words hung in the air, sparkling between them like chandeliers, beautiful and true.

  ‘You should know things on your side have become a lot more urgent since I . . . saw you,’ she faltered. Had it really only been yesterday afternoon that the two of them had raced across that street, hand-in- hand, seemingly running towards their destiny? ‘Carlos Mendoza is hopefully being discharged from hospital this weekend and Mateo has offered to fly Marina and her granddaughter down to Ronda in the family plane, ready for a reunion. I’m accompanying them down for the journey tomorrow morning. You are welcome to travel with us if it would help.’ Her voice sounded stilted, formal. Like her mother’s.

  Another silence. ‘Fine.’ He could hardly argue for a seat on a commercial flight if they were taking a private plane.

  ‘Fine. I’ll arrange for the driver to collect you at ten, then.’

  Another unhappy silence. ‘. . . Fine.’ And he hung up.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Charlotte sat in the back of the car, trying to look calmer than she felt. It was a black stretch Range Rover and had looked like a presidential motorcade when it had pulled up outside her apartment. Mateo had arranged for his driver to collect Marina and then her grandmother first – Charlotte couldn’t imagine how it had managed to turn down Marina’s street – and they were already sitting in overwhelmed silence when she first climbed in.

  A little small talk – health, the weather, was the glass really bullet-proof? (yes) – had tided them over for the first few minutes, but they were all nervous and soon lapsed into distracted silences.

  ‘Where are we going now?’ Marina asked. ‘The airport is that way.’ She pointed right as they swung left.

  ‘Yes. But we are also collecting my colleague. Professor Nathan Marling.’

  ‘A professor?’ Señora Quincy enquired, like her nephew – an eye for the details. ‘What kind of bank is this, that has counsellors and professors?’

  ‘My clients try to be . . . holistic in their approach,’ Charlotte said lightly, not wanting to give too much away about Nathan’s work. She didn’t think Señora Quincy would take kindly to knowing her past was being thoroughly investigated.

  ‘And what is he a professor of?’

  Too late. Charlotte swallowed. ‘History.’

  The old woman’s eyes narrowed with immediate displeasure and it was evident she knew exactly what was happening behind her back. They sank into a stiff silence, looking out of the windows instead.

  The Las Letras district had none of the flashy townhouses of Salamanca, nor the trendy condos of Goya. Rather it had a bohemian vibe, with boldly painted buildings veering from the usual umber and ochre palette to terracotta reds, hot pinks and oranges. The buildings were functional rather than beautiful – in spite of their exotic colours – and crowded so close together Charlotte thought it must surely be possible for people to stand on their balconies and touch the fingertips of their neighbours across the street.

  The car slowed to a crawl as the driver looked for the address, pedestrians having to squeeze past to get by, glancing down at the blacked-out windows with both annoyed and curious looks.

  Señora Quincy looked uncomfortable. Perhaps it was the attention, but, more likely, it was the stress of what they were embarking upon – a return to her old home for the first time in . . . well, no one yet knew how many years. In spite of the ivory quilted aniline leather upholstery and the air-conditioned seats, she looked as uncomfortable as if she was wearing a wool dress in a heatwave – her shoulders twitching, hands clasped tightly together, eyes pressed shut as though if she couldn’t see it, it wasn’t really happening. In fact, she was perfectly attired again – wearing a teal linen shift dress, a pale-pink plastic bangle at her wrist and pink-rimmed spectacles. Forget ninety-eight, Charlotte thought – watching her eyes flicker behind her glasses – she could have passed for a woman twenty years younger, easily; only the utter transparency of her thin, fragile skin betrayed a body that was older than the spirit.

  ‘The address is across the plaza there but I cannot turn into the street,’ the driver said, turning slightly so that his face was in profile to her. ‘Nor can I park here.’

  ‘It’s fine, I’ll knock,’ she said in a thin voice, undoing her seat belt. ‘What is the address?’

  He told her, pointing to a corner apartment above a tapas bar on the opposite side of the tiny square.

  ‘Okay, I’ll be right back,’ she murmured, her eyes already fastened to it as she hopped down. People stared at her as she emerged from the vehicle, clearly wondering if she was famous, or at least powerful, but she didn’t register their interest. Only one thing was running through her head: this is where he lives. His life is here now.

  His fingers intertwined in hers. Sunlight streaming in. The middle of the afternoon. Twisted sheets—

  Her eyes scanned the plaza as she walked quickly, taking in the espresso bar (did he get his morning coffee there?), the old bookshop (he would definitely browse there at the weekends), the artsy jeweller’s, selling turquoise and silver earrings (no). There was a gallery too, a long thin bronze sculpture of a man on a pedestal in the window.

  ‘. . . Let’s skip the party.’ His voice low. Slow.

  ‘And do what?’

  A shrug. ‘Go to the cottage. Be alone. Just the two of us for once. No one else—’

  She was at his door. It was set off to the side, away from the steel tables and plastic-wicker chairs that crowded at the building’s base. There was nothing to mark the significance of the place, nothing to indicate that he – once the most important person in her world – lived and ate and slept here.

  She pressed the buzzer for Apartment 3, as the driver had told her, and she stepped back, feeling her body brace with the anticipation of seeing him again. The visceral shock of it.

  His kisses on her eyelids, the tip of her nose, the dip at the base o
f her ear…

  She waited, then waited some more, trying to allow a respectable amount of time for him to answer, but she felt twitchy and jumpy. Was he doing this deliberately? Had he seen her cross the square, was he deliberately making her wait?

  ‘These parties are all the same. Everyone getting wasted, Fairfax leching over every girl that isn’t you . . .’

  ‘You sound jealous,’ she grinned.

  ‘Not jealous. Just bored of him trying to turn it into some kind of war between us. Why won’t he accept you’re with me because you want to be . . . ?’

  She buzzed again – just as the green door opened and, suddenly, there he was. It was the same every time she saw him: that sensation of the world tilting abruptly, like a car on a rollercoaster swooping the thrillriders into the next convex whirl.

  ‘Hey,’ he mumbled, managing to make it sound unfriendly. He was wearing jeans and a cream linen blazer, holding a black holdall in one hand and, almost immediately, he slid on a pair of sunglasses, creating a barrier as thick as any wall.

  She managed only to nod in reply, just as a sudden burst of static made them both startle.

  ‘Diga.’ The voice flickered, sounding almost mechanical through the ancient intercom, but it was undeniably female.

  Charlotte felt her heart constrict. It was the reply to her extra call up to his apartment. Her gaze immediately flew back to him but he was already leaning forward, urgency in the movement. He quickly, quietly spoke into it, his Spanish faultless and rapid. ‘It’s fine, I’m down here now. I’ll call you when I get there.’

  Charlotte stepped back once, twice – her feet wanting to move, to get her away from here, knowing her composure was deserting her. Already. Not even thirty seconds and she was thrown, undone – for the picture was suddenly startlingly clear. She was why he had all but sprinted from the bed. She was why he hadn’t wanted her explanations about Stephen. Was she his girlfriend? Wife?

  He looked up. ‘Ready when you are,’ he said simply, but there were tiny red spots on his cheeks as though he was angry. Angry with her? For finding out? Did he think she would tell her . . . ?