A Spanish Honeymoon. Anne Weale
than Beatrice did. I don’t think I’m paying you enough. If you were willing to oversee Alicia’s work, I’d be happy to increase your fee.’
He then suggested an amount, in pesetas. It seemed such a massive increase that, at first, Liz thought she must have made a mistake converting it into pounds. Even after six months here, she still tended to think in sterling except with small everyday transactions.
‘If you feel that isn’t enough, I’m open to negotiation,’ he said, watching her with those curiously penetrating grey eyes.
‘It’s enough…more than enough. But I need time to think it over. I’m not sure I want to take on the double commitment. For one thing, my Spanish is still pretty basic. I get by with the man at the bank who comes from away, but the village people seem to have a problem with my accent. Do you speak Spanish?’
He nodded. ‘Try out your Spanish on me.’ He suggested some sentences for her to translate and, when she had done her best with them, said, ‘You’re coming along very well. Remember that the people here speak Valenciano, the regional language, from choice and Castilian Spanish to communicate with outsiders. Nowadays, with supermarkets everywhere, the expats who live near the coast can get by without learning any Spanish, and most of them do.’
‘How did you learn the language?’
‘My grandparents retired here after spending most of their lives abroad. My parents were also abroad a lot and I used to come here during the school holidays. Children pick up languages faster than adults do.’
‘Was La Higuera your grandparents’ house?’
‘No, they lived on the coast, before it became overcrowded. When my grandfather died, he left their house to me. But by then it was surrounded by elaborate “villas” with swimming-pools, so I sold it and bought La Higuera for when I retire.’
Liz picked up the critical note in his voice. ‘What have you got against swimming-pools?’ she asked.
‘In a country like this, with a chronic shortage of water, they’re an unsustainable extravagance. The main blame lies with the planners who, up to now, haven’t introduced legislation to make it obligatory for all new houses to have cisternas filled by rainwater, not mains water. People without cisternas should swim in the sea, or have very small exercise pools and swim against power-jets.’ He finished his drink and stood up. ‘We’re here until Saturday evening. When you make up your mind, call me. The number is in the book.’
She saw him out. Returning to the kitchen, she was uncomfortably conscious that she would have liked him to stay longer. Yet, apart from his looks and his charm, what did he have to recommend him? Nothing. He was just like her father, a despicable charmer whose infidelities had caused her mother years of anguish. Even as a parent, Charles Harris had been unreliable, the pursuit of his numerous affaires often taking precedence over his paternal responsibilities. Though she hadn’t discovered until later the reason why he broke promises to attend school plays and other functions.
Closing her mind to thoughts of past unhappiness, Liz washed Fielding’s glass and put it away in a cupboard, as if removing the evidence of his presence would eradicate him from her thoughts. But, try as she might to concentrate on other matters, the impact of his personality, and the extra income he had offered her, continued to preoccupy her throughout her solitary evening meal.
It was the sort of wage that people paid for domestic and garden help in London, and no doubt he could well afford it. People who worked in television seemed to earn massive salaries. But was it right for her to accept it? It would certainly make a big difference to her somewhat straitened finances.
At eight o’clock, when Spanish telephone charges became cheaper than during the working day, she went up to the larger of the two small bedrooms which was now her workroom and where she used her computer.
After checking for incoming e-mails, her link with colleagues and friends now far away, she clicked on her Internet browser and went to a favourite website. The World Wide Web offered an escape from the problems of the real world. Sometimes she felt she might be becoming a Web addict, but at least it was a harmless addiction, not like taking to the bottle as some lonely widows did.
On Friday afternoon she rang his number.
‘Cam Fielding.’
She would have recognised the distinctive timbre of his voice if he hadn’t given his name. ‘It’s Liz Harris. If your offer is still open, I’d like to give it a try.’
‘Splendid…that’s excellent news. If you’ll come round, I’ll give you a set of keys and a quick tour of the house.’
‘Now?’
‘If it’s convenient.’
When, five minutes later, he opened the door to her, he was wearing a coral linen shirt and pale khaki chinos.
Unlike her little house, his had a spacious hallway and a staircase with a beautiful wrought-iron balustrade that looked antique.
‘Fiona is in the garden having a siesta,’ he said, as he closed the door. ‘We went to a nightclub on the coast. I hope our return in the small hours didn’t disturb you.’
‘A car wouldn’t wake me,’ she said. ‘In the summer, when the nights were hot, the local dogs were a bit of a nuisance.’
He showed her around the ground floor. The windows on the street side were small, with protective iron rejas, but those on the south side had been replaced with tall windows with no rejas to obstruct the view of the mountains. There was a large kitchen with a big family-sized dining table at one end. Folding doors connected this to a living room lined with bookshelves and paintings. There was also a bedroom-cum-study lined with more books and, next to it, a spacious bathroom.
‘This serves as the downstairs loo, and upstairs there are more bedrooms and bathrooms,’ he told her. ‘Let me give you a cup of coffee and then we’ll discuss the new arrangements.’
The daughter and wife of men with no domestic capabilities, Liz was always surprised by men who knew their way round a kitchen and could keep themselves fed and laundered without female assistance. Whether Fielding’s competence extended beyond making coffee, she rather doubted. Though perhaps it might if his life as a roving reporter for a television news channel had, from what she had heard, taken him to many of the world’s trouble spots where hotel facilities were not always available.
‘I expect to be down here more often in the next twelve months,’ he said, putting cups and saucers on a tray. ‘How often, in your view, does the place need cleaning to keep it in reasonable order?’
Liz leaned on the rose marble worktop that divided the working part of the kitchen from the dining area. ‘The kitchen and the bathrooms need more attention than the other rooms. I have no idea how efficiently Alicia cleans when she does clean. The most sensible plan might be for me to look in, say, every two weeks and suggest to her what needs doing.’
He gave her a smiling glance. ‘I notice you say “suggest” not “tell”. That sounds as if you have good management skills.’
Conscious of his charm, and resistant to it, she said, ‘Most people prefer to be asked rather than ordered. That’s just common-sense. For what you’re prepared to pay me, I’m prepared to make sure that the house is always ready for occupation. Though, obviously, some notice of your arrival is important as far as stocking the fridge is concerned.’
‘Give me your e-mail address and I’ll give you mine,’ he said. ‘That way we can keep in touch easily. You’ll find a notepad and pencils by the phone in the other room—’ with a gesture towards the living room.
Liz fetched the pad and wrote her address for him. While waiting for the kettle to boil, he wrote down his for her. Then he spooned coffee powder from a jar of instant decaff into the cups, filled them with water and carried the tray to the table.
‘I didn’t buy Alicia’s explanation of why the place was in a mess when we arrived,’ he said.