16
Dawn has just broken when I slip quietly out of the front door and tiptoe up the steps, taking the steep slope opposite the apartment that will lead me into the depths of Mojácar Pueblo. There are jacaranda trees hugging the sides of the small white houses all the way along this hill, and the lilac petals of their flowers are a near-match for the light lavender tint in the fresh morning sky.
I can feel the familiar burn in my calves already, but it’s almost a welcome sensation, one that I’ve become so accustomed to in the eight days we’ve been here. I like to think my legs don’t hurt as much as they did on that first weary afternoon, but perhaps they do and I’ve simply got used to the pain. I’m wearing a new floral dress that I picked up from one of the boutiques in the village, which is shorter than I usually go for and tighter, too, but I don’t mind showing off a bit more leg now that I have some colour. Claudette always looks impeccable and Nancy so effortlessly feminine, and my tatty shorts and vest ensembles were making me feel like a poor third.
Claudette did, of course, as I had grimly predicted, bring Carlos back to the apartment last night – but not until at least three a.m. Given that I was on the sofa again having deposited a bleary-eyed and oddly quiet Nancy into my bed, there wasn’t much I could do to avoid being rudely awoken. There was no sign of his handsy mate Ignacio, though, so I could at least be thankful for that.
It’s a puzzling feeling, this protectiveness I seem to have developed over my half-sister. I can barely remember a time, not even when we were children, where I felt the need to step in and look after her. That was how it felt last night, though. Something deep in my gut signalled to me that Nancy was in distress, and I acted accordingly, removing her from the clutches of that Spanish boy and taking her somewhere safe. Well, relatively safe. We are staying in an apartment clinging to the side of a vast hill after all.
But this morning I want some time alone. Hell, I need it. I want to work through the script and see where we will be filming over the next few days, and I’m also craving space in order to devour each morsel of memory about the kiss that Theo gave me. It wasn’t just the softness of his lips as he pressed them against my cheek, it was the way he looked at me before he did it. Something passed between us by those steps into the beach bar and I’m convinced that it came from a place way beyond simple friendship.
I’ve reached the top of the slope at last, and pause to catch my breath. The houses in this part of the village are packed together so tightly that the people living in them are probably able to visit their neighbours for dinner without ever leaving their front rooms. Perhaps this is why so many Mojácar residents grow miniature forests on their balconies, the pots full of flowers and twisted leaves providing a barrier to prying eyes. Whatever the reason, I’m glad they do, because every time my eyes travel upwards they are greeted with a veritable rainbow of blooms. The reds, yellows, pinks and purples look all the more vivid set against the sheer white backdrop of the buildings, and the smell is heavenly, too. While the walk down to Mojácar Playa is scented heavily with earthy pine and lemon, up here the aroma is overwhelmingly floral. In the midday heat it can become close to cloying, but at this time of day I’m happy to inhale deeply and let the fragrant perfume wake up my senses.
What a place, I think, as I always do, urging my eyes to seek out every dusty corner and roam across even the smallest details. Glancing upwards as I turn a cobbled corner, I see from the street sign that I’m on Calle Indalo, not far from Plaza Nueva. I’m not drawn to the viewing platform today, though, because I’m craving a bit more solitude, so after a pause I cross the wide, flat stones that make up the floor of the square and head uphill again.
There was a bar up here, once upon a time – Rachel and I used to head there on the nights that Diego’s place was shut – but I discover that it’s long since closed down. The outside still looks the same, though, and I experience a flutter of amused déjà vu as I make my way past the dusty blue shutters and the faded paintwork on the sign outside. La Barra de la Vela, it was called, which I remember translates as the Candle Bar, and it used to be full of candles, too. They were set in little glass jars, which were strung up in the interior and around the outside seating area, and there was one in the centre of each table. In hindsight, I imagine each and every one of them was a citronella candle to keep the mosquitoes away from the customers, but the two of us had found the whole set-up charming and sophisticated; something that Rachel and I – at that age and with those levels of alcohol in us – were definitely anything but.
We would turn up after midnight, dressed in cheap Lycra miniskirts and brightly coloured boob tubes that showed off our strap marks in stark detail, and clatter up to the bar in our high heels. The barmen, who were only a few years older than us, would lean over the polished wood to kiss us on either cheek, then look us up and down and make loud exclamations in Spanish. At the time, we assumed they were admiring us, but in truth they were more likely just amused. The flirting that would go back and forth was all very genuine, though, and Rachel would always be the one to step in if she thought one of the boys was getting a bit too amorous. The bar would close at three or four in the morning, and we would take off our painful shoes and walk arm in arm back down the hill, whispering to each other about the night we’d just had. I had felt invincible in those days. Well, I did until the night I threw up on Diego’s feet.
Leaving the sad shell of La Barra de la Vela behind, I use the final bit of strength in my legs to make my way up the steps to the Mirador del Castillo – the highest point in Mojácar. There’s a large, square-shaped veranda up here offering uninterrupted views out towards the sea, and in the corner furthest from where I’m standing, a café is nestled under a tall wooden shade. Feeling extremely cheeky, I hurry across and extract one of the stacked metal chairs from outside, hooking it over an arm and making my rapid way over to the outer wall. My plan is to sit for a while, taking in the view, and I tell myself that the café owner wouldn’t begrudge me the use of his chair for such a simple pleasure.
The sky is a soft cornflower blue now, and the wedge of Mediterranean in the distance a sapphire scribble streaked with white. The sea is never calm and flat in Mojácar – something I had forgotten in the years since I’d last been here. It is stirred perpetually into a shifting unease by the persistent wind.
Despite being up so high, the breeze in this part of the village is more a gentle caress than a battering, but I know it must be different on the coast. Is Theo woken each day by the sound of waves crashing against the shore? The romantic side of my brain likes to think so, even if the dry-as-a-cracker side thinks it’s being a soppy idiot.
Oh Theo, Theo, Theo – had he wanted that kiss to lead to more last night? Had he felt the weight of it as I did, a metaphorical anvil sitting right on my heart? An anvil would not be a good thing to be lumbered with in Mojácar, I decide, idly doodling a picture of myself lying crushed underneath one in my notebook and chuckling to myself – not with all these hills.
Taking one long, luxurious last look at the view of the horizon, I fold open the script we’re using for today’s filming and wait for inspiration to strike. My boss may be a meticulous planner, who always knows exactly where he wants to shoot every single scene, but I know this place better than he does. I want to make sure that I have something to contribute, even if he dismisses me. What was it my teacher at primary school always used to say? Ah, yes – always be part of the discussion, and don’t be afraid to put yourself forward. Show willingness. To be fair, I doubt Mrs Wilson with her childlike voice and grey beehive was thinking of the same sort of willingness I was when I offered to accompany Theo home to his villa last night, but she’s never going to know.
Whilst almost everything in Mojácar feels like it was built in a bygone age, in fact much of the architecture was constructed in the 1960s. A combination of the Spanish Civil War, which ended in 1939, and a severe drought in the area, had decimated the population. Numbers of Mojácar residents had dropped from over eight thousand to just a single thousand, and many of those people were living hand-to-mouth in extreme poverty. The Indalo symbol may have been protecting them from earthquakes and the evil eye, but apparently it couldn’t turn the dry earth soft enough for crops. Mojácar was in danger of crumbling in on itself and being forgotten, and in the end it was the actions of one man that changed the future of Mojácar and helped make it thrive again. Theo has written a huge spiel about him in the script, and I read it again now, allowing myself to hear the words in his deep, accented voice.
‘In 1960, the Mayor of Mojácar, who was a man named Jacinto Alarcón, joined forces with a group of artists led by Jesús de Perceval, and he and this Movimiento Indaliano, as they were known, set about publicising to the wider world just how beautiful and unique Mojácar was. Jacinto promised that he would give land away free to those willing to move into the area and build a dwelling. It worked, and folk came from all across Europe and the world to settle in Mojácar. They dug wells for water and built homes and businesses that were in keeping with the Moorish style that set the place apart – and everything was overseen by Jacinto. By 1966, Mojácar had been awarded the prize of “Most beautiful and improved village in Spain” by the Ministry of Tourism and Information, and of course people began to visit.’
I bet every mother who lives in Mojácar calls at least one of her sons Jacinto, I muse, scribbling a note on the script to remind myself to try and find out. Elaine would be a good person to ask, given that she’s been here since not long after the tourist boom. In fact, there’s a chance she may even have met the original Jacinto, before his death in 2001, and I write myself another reminder in my notebook.
Leaning forwards in my pilfered chair and looking again at the view spread out below me, I find it extraordinary that only fifty years ago the place must have been a jumble of half-finished buildings and rustic scaffolding. There would have been donkeys laden with stones trundling up the hill, their big floppy ears coated in white dust, and bemused locals peering out from behind their curtains at all these strange foreign faces. They were all welcome, though, which is a nice thought. Mojácar is as delectably diverse and welcoming today as it must have been in the sixties, and it’s a trait that certainly makes it stand out. I have never felt like an outsider here, which is perhaps why I’ve been able to take the place into my heart and keep it there for so many years. I’ve always had this strong sense that Mojácar is a special and unique place, and it feels so good to be proven right.
Just as the church bells in the village below begin to chime the hour, I hear a commotion behind me and realise that the café owner has arrived to open up for the day. When I race back across the veranda with his chair, however, he merely gives me a friendly wave of acknowledgement. Back home, I would probably have been arrested. Not that you could borrow a chair in London anyway – they would all be chained to the floor.
Heading back down the dust-covered steps to the Plaza Nueva in search of strong coffee, I instead bump almost directly into a rather bewildered-looking Tom, who hurriedly looks over my shoulder as I approach him.
‘Is Nancy with you?’ he asks, before I’ve even had a chance to rib him about the state of his hair.
‘No. Why?’ I’m immediately suspicious.
‘Oh, thank God,’ he says, visibly relaxing. ‘I haven’t cleaned my teeth yet.’
‘Lovely,’ I retort, veering deliberately away from the hug of greeting that I had planned to bestow on him.
‘Feeling rough?’ I guess, taking in his bedraggled hairdon’t and his crumpled face. ‘You look like a pillow that’s been bashed in,’ I add, laughing as he scowls at me.
‘I woke up and there was no water in the apartment,’ he explains. ‘It was either venture out and find some, or die from dehydration.’
‘Those five extra beers you had probably weren’t the best idea,’ I tell him, not unsympathetically.
‘Did Claudette bring that bloke home again?’ Tom asks, as we cross the square and head towards the ice-cream parlour that also sells coffee.
I nod. ‘Of course she did. The two of them kept me awake half the bloody night.’
Tom emits a strange coughing sort of laugh. ‘Just him?’ he asks, ultra casually.
I narrow my eyes. ‘Tom, if what you’re asking is did my sister get it on with that Ignacio bloke, then the answer is no, she did not.’
He looks sheepish at this, but I detect relief in his eyes.
‘You don’t actually fancy her, do you?’ I’m saying it in a jokey way in the hope that he’ll laugh along with me and deny it, but he doesn’t. Horrifically, he looks utterly contrite, as if he knows I’m about to tell him off.
‘We get on well,’ he says carefully.
‘You barely know her.’
‘Dos cafés, por favor,’ Tom tells the man behind the counter. I notice that he’s wearing a ‘Jacinto’ name badge and smile to myself.
‘I know her well enough to be sure I fancy her a bit,’ he replies, counting out some euros.
‘It’s just a bit weird, I suppose,’ I tell him, wishing he wasn’t making me point it out. ‘Because she’s my sister. I told Claudette the same thing.’
‘Don’t you trust me?’ Tom looks hurt as he passes me my coffee. ‘I’m not one of those arseholes that picks women up and drops them for no reason.’
‘I know you’re not,’ I sigh. ‘But Nancy’s only just broken up with her boyfriend, remember? She’s probably on the rebound, hence her getting off with Diego – and that’s not something you want to get tangled up in.’
‘Hmmm,’ says Tom, sipping his hot drink.
‘And anyway, you’re practically my brother,’ I add, keen to lighten the mood and sound less like I’m telling him what to do. ‘It would be like a weird kind of incest if you two got together.’
We’ve crossed the square again now and climbed the steps to the viewing platform. All around us, Mojácar is coming to life – shops are opening and café chairs are being scraped across the stone floor as tourists settle down for breakfast. The sun is steadily making its way upwards like a fiery kite, and a sentry line of tiny birds are perched on the railings ahead of us, warming their feathers in the dappled light streaking through the trees.
‘Is that really how you think of me?’ Tom asks now, turning to look at me instead of the view. ‘As a brother?’
‘Sometimes I do,’ I admit. ‘Theo said to me the other day that he thinks of us in that way.’
‘Does he?’ Tom is surprised.
I nod, tasting my coffee for the first time. It’s rich and thickly layered with flavour, and the bitterness immediately makes me feel more alert.
‘So, you two talked about me on your little date?’
‘It wasn’t a date!’ I correct, although the colour of my face is in danger of betraying my real feelings.
‘He took you for a day out, just the two of you,’ Tom replies. ‘Sounds a lot like a date to me.’
‘I don’t think he saw it that way,’ I admit, sounding like a grumpy teenager. ‘I honestly think he was just trying to be nice.’
Tom looks at me without speaking, his concerned expression filling in the gap.
‘Just be careful,’ he says eventually, keeping his eyes fixed on the flat-topped hill in the middle distance. ‘I know how much you like him.’
‘Don’t be silly!’ I reply, but it’s obvious Tom suspects me. For a beat, I consider telling him about the kiss Theo gave me, the buzz of electricity that I felt in the air as he looked at me, but the words grind to a halt in the back of my throat. If it were any other man, I probably would, but this feels different somehow. Theo is Tom’s boss, too, and the thought of confessing makes me feel mildly sick. The more people who know about my crush on Theo, the harder it will become to conceal, and I take so much comfort from keeping it as my own little secret. If it gets out, it could end up hurting me, and I can’t risk that.
‘You don’t need to worry about me,’ I say instead, finishing my coffee and looking around for a bin. ‘I’m a big girl.’
‘If you say so.’ Tom shrugs as we make our way back down the steps. ‘But promise me you’ll tread carefully around Theo?’
The way he’s saying it, you’d think Theo was an irritable alligator rather than the sexiest man to ever walk the Earth, but I promise anyway just to cheer him up. Privately, however, my mind is taking a very different path, and as I send Tom off to clean his teeth and brush his ridiculous hair, I let myself relive that kiss one more glorious time.