‘I told him the truth.’
‘I know, and I’m grateful.’ He paused, and tilted my head up until he was looking into my eyes. ‘Most of all I’m grateful that you did not try to give me a more personal alibi.’
‘I thought about it. Sorry.’
‘Don’t be,’ he said. ‘I might have thought about it too, if the circumstances had been different and there had been no other way out. You never know how strong your will is, until it’s tested.’
‘I’d have backed you up, but it would have been a waste of time. Nobody would have believed us. You’re not the type to two-time Jesus.’
Sixteen
Gerard had just gone when Tom returned. Remembering what I had promised Ben earlier, I called him and told him what had happened. He seemed genuinely shocked; if the fact that his problem had gone for good crossed his mind, he gave no hint of it. All I heard in his reaction was concern for Angel Planas.
That might have been all there was to it. Indeed I thought it was, for around twenty-four hours.
Tom and I had a small disagreement over dinner, when I told him he’d already had his ice cream allocation for the day, but otherwise we spent a quiet evening. There was a Spanish league football match on telly, Barcelona against Osasuna; Tom’s a Barça fan, as are most of the kids around here. The local L’Escala team even plays in the same colours. It was a late kick-off, with a school day looming, but I didn’t want two fights in one night so I let him stay up to watch it.
I had an eye on it too, but not too closely. My mind kept wandering back to the scene in Planas’s garden, filling with the sight of the swollen, flyblown corpse of the detestable little man with whom I’d had such a bitter confrontation, less than a day before he died. I thought about Angel too, and the look on his face when he’d arrived in the garden. His father might have cut him out of his life, but clearly, the animosity hadn’t been mutual. Just before half-time in the game I went into the kitchen, found his number in the telephone directory and called him.
I’d half expected his phone to be on answer mode, but he picked up. I told him who was calling, and how sorry I was.
‘That’s kind of you,’ he said. ‘I believe you mean that. I’m sorry also, for the trouble that my father caused you. I guess that will be resolved now.’
‘It had been anyway; an accommodation had been reached.’
I heard him gasp, then laugh softly. ‘You made my father compromise?’ he exclaimed. ‘I’m impressed. You must be a formidable woman. How did you do it?’
‘We negotiated.’
‘Ah, then there was money involved. . or did you play cards for his approval?’
‘He laid down a condition; I don’t think he believed that I’d accept it, but I did.’
‘My poor old papa; his face must have been a picture. No wonder he had a heart attack.’
I was surprised. ‘You’ve had the autopsy result already?’
‘No, but the police officer came to see us earlier this evening. He said that it was almost certainly the cause.’
‘When will you hold the funeral? I’d like to attend.’
‘I can’t plan anything until the police release the body, but I’m hoping for Wednesday morning, at the latest.’ He chuckled. ‘Do you want to make sure that he doesn’t climb out of the coffin? I suspect that many of the mourners will be thinking that way.’
‘I’ll attend out of respect, nothing else; respect for you and your wife.’
‘She may not go herself. I’m trying to persuade her, but the choice will be hers. She has every reason to stay away. I won’t hold it against her if she does.’ He took a breath. ‘Senora, this problem you had with my father. . nobody’s going to hear of it, are they?’
‘Not from me, I promise you.’
‘That’s good. It’s my family name that he discredited, after all.’
‘Then I’ll do nothing to blacken it.’
I told him I’d see him at the funeral, and hung up. Then I remembered Mac’s call. I went into the study, switched on my computer and went online as soon as it was booted up. (Tom has his own, but I supervise its use.) I had three emails waiting for me, one from my sister, one from my friend Shirley Gash, who was on a cruise from Dubai to Singapore, and as he’d promised, one from Mac. I left the others for later, and went straight to his. It confirmed that he’d be landing at Girona late afternoon on the following Tuesday, and ended, ‘Remember, keep it a surprise for the wee man.’ I smiled, thinking that he might be surprised himself when he saw how much the ‘wee man’ had stretched since his last visit, then closed down.
The teams were on their way out for the second half when I went back to the television room. Barça were doing all right, but I couldn’t summon up any real interest. My mind was full of thoughts of wine fairs. . ‘Maybe I should find one and visit it, to understand better what they were all about’. . of wet weather plans. . ‘Is this house really big enough to hold all those stands, or should I try to persuade the mayor to let us have the old foresters’ house, on the other side of the church, as a back-stop in case it rains?’. . and inevitably, although I tried to push the awful image away, the scene in the garden of José-Luis Planas. . ‘After all that bloody drama, they’ve settled for the obvious. The old man was so pumped up by his battle with me, that his arteries seized up, he had a wobbler and he fell over the garden wall. And if that’s so, Primavera, does that mean that you were responsible for his death?’
‘Not bloody likely,’ I said aloud.
‘What?’ Tom asked.
‘Nothing. Sorry, I was talking to myself.’
He shrugged, as if that was normal adult behaviour and turned back to the game, leaving me back in old Planas’s garden, trying to put my finger on something about the scene that was not quite right.
Seventeen
Tom was as bright as the sun next morning, as usual. Late nights don’t affect him at all. In truth I was the grumpy one, as I’d had a rough night, interrupted, unusually, by some pretty bad dreams from the recent and more distant past.
I didn’t let him see that though, as I gave him breakfast, then waved him goodbye as he set out for school on his bike, along the car-free seafront passageway. One or two other kids live along the way, and by the time they get to the only proper road they have to cross. . and that’s supervised. . they’ve formed a small peloton.
Once he’d gone, the niggly feeling came back. I fought it off by catching up on some housework; my usual Monday chores. . changing the beds, laundering sheets and pillowcases, and doing the rest of the weekend’s wash. . then, when I was finished, slipping on a bikini, and going down to the beach to swim. That didn’t last long, for there was a heavy swell coming in, probably the aftermath of a storm far out at sea. I went back home, stripped off my damp suit, and stretched out on the lounger on my private terrace, hoping that I might catch up on some of my lost sleep, but someone was working on the renovation of a house in the village, and the din of their machinery put paid to any chance of that.
Finally, I gave up and settled for feeling like a pre-menopausal hag for the rest of the day. I showered, dressed, switched on my computer and cleared my mailbox, sending a reply to Shirley that said in essence, ‘Jealous as hell!’ and one to my sister in Los Angeles, that was an exchange of kid information, and some forward planning. It’s only when I speak to Dawn, or email her, that I feel the lack of a man in my life. . in the fullest sense. Hers is great; even if he was an ordinary Joe, a bus driver, a computer salesman, whatever, he’d be great. The fact that Miles is one of the most famous men in the entertainment industry is irrelevant. . almost.
Once my box was clear, Charlie and I left the house and went down to Ben’s wine shop. (The ‘Closed’ sign had been up all morning on the information booth, but there are very few callers on Mondays in the low season.) I still had the best part of two hours to kill before I was due at the town hall to collect the signed permission, and it had occurred to me while tossing on my lounger that now that the venue for the fair had been tied up, we’d better get on with the minutiae. Ben was having a quiet morning and so we were able to have a fairly productive hour, doing some rough planning of the layout of the stalls in the fairly confined square and working out what we were going to need in terms of glassware, tables, covers, and parasols. . these would be essential to keep the sun off the stock. Ben also called Mercé, the designer who was working with him on the format of the tickets. She has a studio in the next street to the wine shop, so she was able to sit in on our impromptu conference and agree the last details.