Dark Mirrors (30 page)

“No, not at all,” Esmée replied truthfully, disorientated and disarmed by the unexpected charm of her surroundings. “I’m a little stiff perhaps but it was a beautiful drive.”

She turned with a smile to acknowledge her driver, to whom Isabella immediately spoke in Spanish. The pace of the exchange was mesmerising and, once complete, the man turned to Esmée and dipped his head.

“
Adiós, señora
,” he said and left the way they had arrived.

“Come,” Isabella instructed, walking to the writing desk that sat in between the two windows, which had their shutters partially closed to protect from the blistering afternoon sun. From one of its drawers she extracted a thick ledger and, flicking through its well-worn pages, spread it open and invited Esmée to sign against her already inscribed name. There was no other detail on it apart from the day’s date.

Esmée did as she was bid and returned the pen to its owner.

“Isabella?” she enquired anxiously. “Can you tell me who made this booking?” Then she added, “Who told you I was coming?” to make sure her question was understood.

But she needn’t have worried. Isabella understood perfectly and offered her a shrug of her slender shoulders.

“We wonder also.” Her smiling eyes were wide with curiosity. “I receive a letter telling me of your arrival and with it a request to take you to the restaurant outside the fortification this night at seven o’clock.”

Replacing the ledger, she then placed a guiding arm behind Esmée’s back to lead her through the second door and exit the room.

“The letter did not say who it was from,” she continued as they walked side by side through the cool corridors, their footsteps echoing against the hard stone floor to bounce back at them from the pale tiled walls. “So, a mystery!” she exclaimed gleefully, clapping her hands playfully. “How romantic! Maybe a boyfriend?” She smirked with raised eyebrows while Esmée smiled, as was expected, nodding her head politely. “Well, tonight we will know!”

At the end of the hallway they turned to ascend a second flight of stairs and then a third to the top of the house, stopping finally at the sole door on the landing.

Taking a key from the pocket of her skirt, Isabella inserted it into the lock, turned the handle and invited Esmée to enter the dim room before her. Following her in, she walked to the window to pull back the muslin drapes and push out the shutters, revealing the vast valley below.

“I hope you like your room – it is simple but comfortable. If you like to go walking I put some information cards here, but it is very hot today.” She indicated the dresser which had a delicate lace covering. “The town is very hot but beautiful with many shops to stop and look. If you need anything please use this bell.” She pointed to an old-fashioned porcelain button on the wall beside the bed. “My husband Pedro, he will come for you at six forty-five and take you to the restaurant.”

Esmée was staring at the mahogany four-poster bed.

Isabella noticed her interest. “This bed,” she said, unable to disguise the pride in her tone, “is the wedding bed of my grandmother’s parents. It is very old. My great-grandfather made it.”

It was indeed beautiful, Esmée agreed, admiring the delicate craftsmanship of the hand-carved headboard but hoping that the mattress wasn’t an original part of the heirloom – she avoided the rude temptation to press down on it. Her hostess left the room, placing the key on the bedside table as she left.

Alone finally, catching her breath for the first time that day, Esmée walked to the window, feeling the threat of tears bite painfully behind her eyes. She was tired, utterly bewildered, and more than a little bit scared. With only a vague idea of where she was, she cursed herself for not listening to her brother. She sat into the window seat, pulled her knees to her chin and stared out at the beautiful but intimidating valley that stretched out shimmering in the afternoon sun.

If it was Philip who summonsed her here, he would probably know by now that she had arrived. And, it would appear, would be joining her for dinner.

It was hot and she was sticky, the impending storm adding to the tension.

She stepped into the shower and let the water
wash away the salty remnants of the journey, cooling her down and freshening her up. Throwing her bag onto the bed, taking the opportunity then to test its age and constitution, she pulled out a skirt with matching top and flat sandals. That should see her through, the fabric comfortably light against her skin. She checked the time – it was still early and the jitters in her legs and uneasy thoughts chasing through her head were telling her that she couldn’t sit there all afternoon, no matter how hot it was outside. She had to get out or she’d go nuts, and in search of real distraction decided to explore.

Isabella was right: it was blistering outside. The heat was arid, forming a sheath around her as she strolled through the rise and fall of the narrow undulating streets, doing her best to remain in the shade wherever possible. The place was buzzing; even mid-siesta it felt like a fiesta. She watched people scurry like late mad March hares while others ambled aimlessly, taking in the sights just like her. Some were laden down with bags of groceries, while others seemed happy to stand and chat despite the heat of the sun. The contrast was charming. It just seemed so alive, so upbeat. For a moment she wanted to be part of it, wanted to communicate demonstratively, laugh loudly and chatter wildly and belong to a place so beautiful perched high in the mountains. She wanted to forget her trepidation and melt into the surroundings, to forget the real reason why she was there and imagine another.

Every now and then she would stop to look. Using the chaotic shop windows as a pretext she would browse and then cast her eyes back the way she had come. But no one stood out, she saw no one person twice. Safe in the knowledge that she didn’t appear to be followed, she wandered up to the old city to discover the ruined ramparts. In its time it had obviously been a grand castle, central to a rich and important rural community, and had stood, like a lion at the gate, protecting its subjects from harm. Much of its structure was still intact with a flurry of businesses supporting it. There were gift shops ablaze with a tussle of pleats and plumes, flamenco dresses and sombreros, donkeys and prettily painted pottery, ice-cream shops, flower stalls and cafés. She was enamoured of it all – the smells, the colours, the people, the place: it was electrifying.

She chose a spot in a small-canopied café to sit, watch and just think. Alcohol, although tempting, was dangerous so she selected instead a safe but equally satisfying alternative. Her
café con helado
arrived in an espresso cup accompanied by a tall glass filled with ice; the woody aroma of the coffee mixed with the warm smell of the street was intense. And as the heat of the dense liquid swallowed the ice, like a body into quicksand, she sank deeper with it. Gone. Suddenly the beauty of her surroundings served only to amplify her feelings of desolation and abandonment. She hadn’t felt like this . . . well, not since her dad died. Self-pity took all flavour from the now tasteless coffee that she sipped, practising silently what she had to ask and say to Philip, if he showed up. She remained static, watching everything else move on without her.

Chapter 22

A church bell rang in the half hour with a single heavy chime. Her afternoon sheltering from the heat of the Spanish sun was over. It was time to go. A chill wind had begun to blow and the sun began to weaken as the clouds drew nearer. She settled her bill with the handsome waiter who smelt like lemon zest, claimed the last sip of her drink and took herself back to the streets. She was in no hurry with at least two hours before her rendezvous.

Making her way back to the hotel the afternoon heat seemed less oppressive, the breeze a welcome coolant. She planned as she walked, visualising what she would wear and what her first question would be. Somewhere in the back of her head the theory that it might not be Philip at all raised itself again and Brady’s grinning features came to mind. But instinctively she knew that wasn’t the case and spent the short journey back telling herself not to lose her head.

Thankfully there was no sign of her hostess when she opened the door of the hotel. She wasn’t in the mood for idle chat and managed to find her way with great stealth to the top floor room uninterrupted. Under the spray of the shower she rinsed the salt from her body and let the refreshing jets cool her down. The pulse of the drops hit deep into her skin, opening up the channels to relieve her tension and stress.

You’re here now, Esmée, she told herself. Now stand up and be strong.

She knew she couldn’t let him manipulate her any more. She had to stand up to him. She had questions that needed answers so the attitude of an insecure weakling was not the one she needed to adopt.

She had thought long and hard about what to bring to wear and standing in her underwear surveying the outfit she was glad of her choice. Philip was supposed to be dead, and she was supposed to be his grieving widow and that is exactly who she needed to be.

She brushed her long hair till it was silky smooth, letting its natural shape create soft swirls at the ends. It fell heavy over her shoulders in layers like rich chocolate, its colour catching the light as she moved. Outside her open window the sky was dark and the rumblings of thunder created an empathetic air of anticipation: like something big was about to kick off.

A black lace shirt, tied demurely at the neck in a bow, her knee-length black skirt, black-patent stilettos and black lightweight mac together delivered a sombre but sophisticated look. She stared back at her alien reflection with butterflies in her stomach: this was it. The humidity was too high for make-up but she finished off with a scarlet lipstick – he hated that colour. She was ready to go.

Downstairs, she couldn’t help but notice the curious look her outfit received from the ever-beautiful Isabella, but no matter. She intended to play by her own rules.

Pedro had no English and communicated through smiles and exaggerated gestures along their fifteen-minute walk through the almost familiar narrow streets. The rain was beginning to fall and streetlights were already flickering in the unusually dark summer evening. Every now and then he pointed at something that he assumed should be of special interest to her, rattling on spontaneously in his native tongue, and even though she had no idea what he was saying Esmée returned his grins and impossible words with an encouraging nod and the occasional “Ahh!” and “Ohh” and “Yes, I see – beautiful!”

The restaurant revealed itself as they rounded a corner and entered a small flagstoned square. Framed on two sides by the high walls of buildings, there were cafés and shops buried deep in its arches, with tables diffusing into the square. Esmée’s destination was marked on the opposite side by a bright red awning that stretched out into the square to protect the customers from the sun and now the rain. Waiters busily placed candles on the tables, creating a tempting ambience that shimmered in the descending moist evening light.

Pedro left her at the edge of the square and, waving her onwards, yapped a succession of indecipherable words, then left with a cheery “
Adiós!
” Quiet but impassioned guitar chords mixed with garlic aromas wafted persuasively across the square. She stood for a while just to look, bracing herself for whatever was about to come. Slowly she made her way towards the pretty tables, her footsteps echoing loudly in her ears. Was he already there? Was he watching her now? The butterflies in her stomach danced with nervous excitement and dread and her knees trembled slightly. There was no one sitting outside and, as she approached the door, she saw only a few groups at tables across the dark air-conditioned interior. A waiter approached her to offer her a table. Her mind raced as she weighed up her options. Inside or out? Corner or mid-floor? Hide or be seen? Sensing her indecision, he took the lead and showed her to a corner table outside with a good vantage point of the square.

“The best table in the house!” he exclaimed proudly in perfect English, the sweet intimacy of the setting somewhat wasted in the context of her “meeting”.

It was early to eat by Spanish standards but she
was glad of the solitude and ordered a bottle of the house red. She watched the handsome waiter pour the ruby liquid into her glass, its aroma promising fruity delights as she inhaled deeply before sipping it. Dutch courage, she promised herself as she touched the glass to her lips again and this time took a generous sip, feeling its effect almost immediately: calming her nerves as she waited patiently for something to happen.

Chapter 23

She checked her watch. He was late. Had she come all this way for him not to even bother to turn up? Typically, her impatience prolonged the agony. Promising herself the limit of the time contained in a single glass of wine, she sat on, sipping her drink.

She was preparing to leave when she heard him, heard his familiar step, the slight drag of his left heel and heavy fall of his right as lazily he strolled towards the restaurant. She knew if she looked up she would see him but was frozen in fearful anticipation, unable to move, unable to breathe. By the sound of it he was in no hurry. She could feel his gaze burn into her as he approached. Her eyes closed in apprehension and behind the lids she could imagine his face, the same face that pushed her out of her house, the same face that sneered as she grappled with the ground. Her legs shook visibly when his footsteps came to a stop. He was standing in front of her. She placed a firm hand on her knee to halt its movement, unable to bring herself to look up, afraid of what was coming next. Without trying she could see his torso and legs. He wore sandals and no socks, with light linen trousers. His toes were tanned and manicured.