13
Elaine is waiting for me in the courtyard of La Fuente the next morning, a bunch of yellow flowers hanging limply in one of her hands. I take a deep breath before approaching her, trying my hardest to expel all the hurt, anger and confusion that are simmering away in my gut like emotion stew, and her smile as she sees me is so enchanting that I almost cry with gratitude.
‘I picked these for you on the way down,’ she says, kissing each of my cheeks in turn and handing over the bouquet. ‘But I’m afraid they’ve already started to wilt. It’s so hot today, isn’t it?’
She’s not wrong. I was woken by the sunlight streaming in through the balcony doors of the apartment a few hours ago. There are no curtains in the main living space, and of course I had banished myself to the sofa all night.
‘They’re beautiful,’ I say, genuinely touched, but Elaine looks immediately concerned.
‘Are you feeling okay, Hannah?’ she asks.
No, I’m not. I’ve got a bad case of sister hatred coupled with a raging hangover.
‘Of course, I’m fine.’
‘You look a bit peaky,’ she says, peering into my no doubt bloodshot eyes. ‘We can reschedule if you like?’
I think about going back up to the apartment to face Nancy and her latest number one fan, also known as Claudette, and hurriedly shake my head.
‘No,’ I tell her, smiling with what I hope is enthusiasm. ‘I’d honestly rather spend my morning with you than with anyone else.’
And it’s true, I would. Even the thought of Theo’s company is not as alluring now that Nancy’s here. He’s bound to say that she can stay, but he’ll inevitably also think it’s highly unprofessional, and all the steps I’ve taken with him since we arrived in Mojácar will be forgotten. I’ll go back to being the lowly researcher that he has to leave in the office rather than take on location. It’s so horribly unfair that I feel like throwing myself down on to the dusty tiles and wailing like a toddler in a tantrum, but instead I let Elaine lead me away towards the road.
‘Do you still want to go over to the artists’ studio?’ she asks, pausing by the crossing.
I nod, and she points ahead of us down the hill.
‘We’ll need to get the bus,’ she says, and I see the stop in the distance.
‘Fine by me.’
Luckily we don’t have a long wait, and it’s actually a relief to clamber into the air-conditioned vehicle and put the heavy camera bag on the floor. The bus moves away and I close my eyes, resting my hot head against the cool glass of the window.
‘Beer or wine?’ Elaine asks, and I have to smile.
‘Both – and some sangria.’
‘Never a good combination,’ she says, patting my arm. ‘We should stop off at the beach so you can swim – everyone says that’s the best cure.’
‘I’ve never heard that,’ I manage weakly.
‘And I’ve never tried it,’ she admits. ‘You know,’ Elaine says, lowering her voice conspiratorially. ‘The people from around this area often refer to Mojácar as “the village of witches”.’
‘Do you know why?’ I ask, wishing I was recording our conversation.
‘There used to be a lot of healers living here,’ she explains, leaning into me as the bus veers around a corner. ‘When I first arrived, people used to come and ask them to make cures for all sorts of things.’
‘Did you?’ I want to know, but Elaine laughs and shakes her head.
‘Not me, no. I never really believed in witchcraft and spells.’
‘So, these healers were witches?’
‘I think probably they were simply good at listening,’ Elaine replies. ‘But people will always believe what they want to believe. If, for example, you visited one of these healers and asked for a spell that would make a man fall in love with you, then perhaps you would be given a set of instructions that sounded magical, but were in fact just good sense. Is that, then, real magic? Or is the simple belief that you will get what you want the real trick to it?’
Naturally, as she’s been talking, my mind has switched on Channel Theo, and now I’m imagining myself casting a spell on him in his sleep, only for him to wake up and find himself in love with me. There’s probably more likelihood of that happening than him coming to such a realisation on his own.
‘I like that idea,’ I tell her. ‘The idea of a spell, I mean. It would be a lot easier than actually having to go on loads of dates with someone.’
‘Ah, but with true love there are no short cuts,’ Elaine sighs. ‘Love has to be planted like a seed in the earth, then nurtured and tended over time. All the conditions must be perfect, or it will wither and eventually die. But if you do this, if you look after your love every single day, then eventually it will bloom.’
I glance out through the window at the straggly palm trees lining the road. They’re all still standing after so many years, but they’re hardly in a condition that I would describe as perfect.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Elaine says, pressing the bell and getting ready to stand up. ‘You’re thinking that there is not much love in Mojácar.’
‘Oh no, I wasn’t. I was just … Oh, I don’t know what I was thinking.’
‘Love isn’t always sitting in plain sight,’ she says, while I heave the camera bag up on to my shoulder. ‘Love is in every place and at every time – it is then, it is now, and it is always – but you can never snap your fingers and simply conjure it up.’
I think about her words as we clamber off the bus. Aside from my mum, who I know must love me in that everlasting way, nobody else can claim my love to that degree. I loved my dad once, but now? And have I ever loved Nancy? I suppose I must have as a child. And in my head, I love Theo, but will I love him forever? Is that what I’ve been building up to since we met?
‘Hannah,’ Elaine says, gently breaking apart the complicated web of emotion that I’ve become entangled in. ‘We’re here.’
The next two hours pass by in a blissful blur of relaxed chatter, as Elaine tells me more about the Mojácar of old. She talks about why it’s become such a Mecca for artists, who are drawn by the history and then stay for the natural palette of the place, the many hues of white in the Old Town and the vibrant blues of the sea and sky above it. The light here is unlike any other, she explains, telling me that even the sunshine of Mojácar is no match for the burning whiteness of the Moorish architecture, and it’s this canvas – this pure, crystal whiteness – that provides such a stunning counterpart to the Spanish greens, pinks and reds.
‘I could never get tired of painting this place,’ she says simply, and I realise that I understand exactly why.
I wish I hadn’t waited so many years to come back to Mojácar. The magic of the place, which I let under my skin as a teenager, could have been so much more powerful a feeling if I’d gone through with the promise Rachel and I made to each other about coming back here every single summer. Now that I’m here again, it’s as if my senses have memories – my eyes are looking at things in more detail, my nose is working extra hard to pick up the strange and alluring scents, and all the while I’m straining to hear the waves and the persistent breeze. I had been starting to relax and feel more confident – even in front of Theo – but now that Nancy has arrived it’s as if a dark cloud is overshadowing everything.
It’s with a heavy sense of impending doom that I gather myself up to go. We arrange to meet again in a few days, at La Fuente. I say my goodbyes and leave Elaine happily tucked in behind an easel at the studio. The heat wallops me like a wrestler, and I’m glad that I selected a dress this morning instead of my habitual denim shorts.
After fishing my shades out of my bag and putting them on to shield my eyes from the mighty sun, I switch on my phone. A message comes through immediately from Rachel:
Tom told me about Nancy. Call me!!! xx
If anyone knows how much I can’t stand my half-sister, it’s Rachel. During those teenage years of friendship, where we spent literally hours of our time just talking to each other about everything and anything, I tried my best to explain why I had such a problem with her. Rachel has always been a pragmatist, and generous with her sympathy, but even she eventually began to appreciate where I was coming from in relation to Nancy. Tom had never really understood it, but I always felt that Rachel did.
Despite all this, however, I can’t quite face calling her yet. My hours spent with Elaine have calmed my frantic misery down to a dull ache, and speaking to Rachel now will only bring everything to the surface again. Instead, I settle for a text message, telling her what happened and promising her that I’ll call later in the evening.
I get about three metres along the pavement before a reply pings back through:
She snogged Diego? TROLL!
It’s accompanied by a winking emoji face, which makes me smile. It’s easier for her to see the funny side of the situation, what with being in London and having a serious boyfriend. What happened between Diego and Nancy last night reminded me of just how bad it felt to be rejected by him all those years ago. And, unlike me, Rachel no longer has to worry about dying alone on a dusty shelf with all the other spinsters. Then again, I think I’d rather that than end up with Paul.
It’s been tough watching her fall for him, and it’s not just because I think he’s the biggest plonker to walk the earth. Rachel has always been the one I tell my biggest secrets to, the one who has seen me at my very worst but still loves me anyway, and who comforted me every time I fell head over heels for a boy that wasn’t interested in me.
Since she met Paul, however, there’s less room in her life for me. Rachel will allow me to gabble on about Theo for ages, but not once has she ever disagreed with my protestations that it will never happen. She says it’s because he’s not good enough for me, but that’s just what people say, isn’t it? I’d say the same thing to her if Paul dumped her, only I would actually mean it.
I picture the two of us as teenagers now, sitting side by side in our shared bedroom here in Mojácar. I’m sobbing because Diego has just very gently, but very firmly, told me to ‘go home and sober up’. This was after I garbled something about seeing our shared future in the stars and promptly vomited on his feet. Now, in between tears, I’m bemoaning the unfairness of it all and demanding to know why he doesn’t fancy me.
To her credit, Rachel is managing not to laugh at me, and is instead drawing devil horns and fangs on to the crumpled photo of Diego that I had taped up next to the bed, and telling me loyally that he’s ‘probably got wrinkles on his bum skin anyway – he’s at least thirty’. I can remember how devastated I was, even in the face of such brilliant support, and it’s silly really, because in every other respect I’m pretty tough. I don’t cry at sad films, I’m stoic in the face of injury and I shout right back at anyone who attempts to ruin my day by getting pushy on the bus. Rejection, however. Well, that is my kryptonite.
The undergrowth is twitching with life as I make my slow way back up the hill. It would have been quicker to get the bus, but I have no desire to hurry, which is unlike me. Tom’s camera bag is imprinting a welt on my shoulder blade and I can feel my feet rubbing inside my sweaty shoes, but still I keep trudging. My mood may be in the gutter, but I feel my spirits lifting as the uphill path curves around and Mojácar appears above me. It doesn’t matter what time of day I make this journey, be it dawn or dusk, the view is always just as enticing, and I realise in that moment how very fortunate I am to be here.
Okay, so Nancy is like a bee sting in the behind of my plans, but I can be mature about this. I didn’t want her here, but I can’t get rid of her now that she is. I have two options: either I can ignore her completely and make her life hell, or I can try my best to rise above her spoilt behaviour and remain calm and professional. I ponder this as I reach the steepest part of the hill, the sun no longer the only thing causing my legs to burn, and decide that yes, I can rise above it all. I am the older sister, after all, and Theo is here. I want him to see just how measured and mature I can be – and the best way to do that is to throw myself into this project with even more enthusiasm.
As I fish my keys out of my bag and prepare to open the apartment door, however, I hear a high-pitched squeal of laughter coming from inside and shudder with irritation. Nancy is not going to make this easy for me.
‘Hannah!’ she trills, leaping up from where she’s been lounging on the sofa. The very same sofa she claimed was too uncomfortable for her to lie on. Oh dear, up go my hackles.
‘Hello,’ I say carefully, putting down my bags and heading into the kitchen, where I find a small vase and fill it with water from the tap.
‘Those are, um, nice,’ Nancy says, eyeing Elaine’s tired-looking bouquet of yellow blooms as I do my best to make it look attractive.
‘Have you had breakfast?’ I ask.
She shakes her head. ‘No. I don’t feel the best, to be honest. Probably the sangria.’
And the Spanish tongue, I think, but don’t say.
‘Well, help yourself to whatever’s in the fridge,’ I tell her. ‘It’s all mine, anyway – except the nail varnishes. Those are Claudette’s.’
‘Thanks,’ she says, then hesitates. ‘Hannah?’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m sorry for just showing up like this.’
Bloody hell – has she had a lobotomy?
‘Right …’
‘I did honestly want to see you, like I told Tom.’
I’ve screwed my face up so much now that I must look like a sat-on Chelsea bun.
‘And I’m sorry about Diego.’
‘Oh, don’t worry.’ I manage a snuffle of laughter. ‘It’s not as if I like him any more. That was about a hundred years ago.’
‘Even so,’ she says, fiddling with the frayed bottom of her denim shorts. ‘It wasn’t cool.’
She’s definitely had a lobotomy. Or perhaps a personality transplant. Are they offering those on the NHS these days?
‘It’s fine,’ I reassure her, checking the time. We really have to go soon, or we’ll be late to meet Theo. ‘It was just a bit of a shock, that’s all. I honestly don’t care.’
I don’t hear her reply, because I’m shouting Claudette’s name over the sound of the bathroom taps running. There’s an irritated snarling noise, and then she yells back to ‘give her a bloody minute’. A minute is all I’ll give her, I think ruthlessly.
‘We have to go to work now,’ I tell Nancy, collecting my notebook from the table and packing it into my bag. ‘If you walk out with us, I can point you in the direction of the beach?’
Nancy looks at her feet. ‘Well, I, erm …’
‘She’s coming with us,’ announces Claudette, who has just emerged from a fog of hairspray and perfume.
‘No, she isn’t,’ I say, feeling my earlier resolve to be mature crack like a dropped egg.
‘I told Claudette about my plan to become a TV presenter,’ Nancy says, her voice small. ‘And she very kindly said I could come along and observe. You know, see a real professional at work.’
‘She may as well learn from the best,’ puts in Claudette, modest as ever.
‘Wouldn’t you rather go to the beach?’ I plead, thinking of the look on Theo’s face when we turn up with an interloper.
‘We can do that later.’ Claudette is adamant. ‘Now come on, Hannah – I don’t want to be late.’
I wish Mojácar was a village of witches, I think darkly, closing the door behind the three of us a minute later and shooting an evil look at the back of Claudette’s legs as she starts up the steps. If it was, I’d hunt one down and buy a spell that would turn a certain small French person into an actual frog.