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‘They love her too. Oh, if she tried to take their mother’s place they might have resented her, but Mady never could, never thought of trying. They can see that she’s genuinely sweet and rather helpless. They’re pleased that their father has someone in his life, someone to look after. Gustav is the sort of man who likes to take care of people.’
‘Are his sons married?’
Freddie gave her a dry look. ‘You’re so sharp! No, neither of them is married yet. If they were, it might be another story.’
‘I expect it would be, if Gustav is very rich,’ said Bianca. ‘If his sons had wives and children of their own, I imagine they would be afraid that your sister might have children. Then Gustav would probably leave
some of his money to his new family. Money is what families usually quarrel about.’
‘I’m sure you’re right,’ agreed Freddie, laughing. ‘You are good about human nature, aren’t you? But I don’t think Mady will ever have a baby. I know she doesn’t want one. Oh, she likes children, but she is too much a child herself; she couldn’t take the responsibility of having a baby.’
The more she heard about Mady, the more Bianca sympathised with Gil; his marriage must have been a disaster. She could not imagine him being happy with a wife like that.
After lunch she and Freddie walked back through the gardens together and parted outside Bianca’s apartment. She was glad to notice a security man in a blue uniform walking past them on the path; it made her feel safer.
She closed her shutters, took off her dress and, wearing only her bra and panties and a thin silk slip, lay down on her bed in the shadowy half-light. Outside birds called in the trees; there was the far-off sound of the sea, and children’s voices as they played on the beach. Bianca lay still, listening, trying not to think; she had barely slept last night and was mentally and emotionally exhausted; sleep crept up on her within minutes.
She called in at the reception desk later that afternoon and booked herself on a coach trip to Granada and the Alhambra Palace the following day, then she walked over to the hotel shop and bought a range of food—salad, eggs, cheese, fruit, bread, coffee and tea, breakfast cereal, orange juice and marmalade. She carried two heavy shopping bags back to her apartment and put all her purchases away, reflecting that she had no need to eat in the hotel dining-room for some days now. She could have light meals in her own apartment and keep out of Gil’s way. She hadn’t wanted to cook while she was here on holiday, but preparing a salad was no problem.
That evening she ate a boiled egg with toast followed by some fruit, and went to bed early. In spite of having had a siesta that afternoon she slept well; she must have been even more tired than she realised.
She woke very early, though, and showered, dressed in a full, flared dark green cotton skirt and a very pale green T-shirt, put sandals on her bare feet, brushed her hair and put on a light make-up, then ate breakfast on her balcony in a pale primrose light. The early morning was cool, the birds calling as they flew from tree to tree across the hotel grounds, the black shadows of cypress and cedar diminishing as the sun rose higher, the blue sea veiled in a haze of mist. A few people came out to swim in the pool below her apartment and she watched them dreamily, deciding she would get up early tomorrow morning and swim there herself.
At eight-thirty she was on a coach en route to Granada through the Sierra Nevada, the mountains rising behind the coastal strip of the Costa del Sol. The road through the dramatic, rough grey slopes of the bare mountains was tortuous, winding, often badly maintained. Bianca’s heart was in her mouth as they climbed higher and higher, sometimes so close to the edge that she found herself looking down into steep, plunging valleys, the coach turning a bend so sharp that the end of it would stick out over the edge. Several times she just shut her eyes, tensely twisting her fingers together, and prayed.
The Alhambra stood on a mountain overlooking the city of Granada. It was an enormous complex set in magnificent gardens known as the Generalife.
Both fortress and palace, a place of power and strength, but of beauty too, the Alhambra was the home of the Nasrid royal family, Islamic kings who fought the Spanish Christians throughout the thirteenth century. The Moorish palace was a maze of courtyards and rooms, austerely sensuous, rich with mosaic arches and walls—geometric designs where every single shape had a symbolic meaning... this wavy line water, that triangle a tree... their colours often as bright as day because the tiny stones set in the mosaic had not faded with time—they were pin-sharp. Stone fountains in the courtyards filled the air with the sound of water, flowers in the gardens scented the morning, great stone columns and windows filtered misty light into the shadowy rooms where once beautiful women had lain on silken cushions, bathed together, sung, or men fiercely argued for peace or war, or haggled over trade. They were all silent now, and empty, those great echoing rooms, except when the tide of tourists washed through them during daylight hours.
Bianca wandered dreamily after the coach party, half listening to their guide, her eyes and ears intent on the beauty of everything she saw and heard, both in the palace and in the gardens, with their spring flowers and scented roses and the great black shadows of the cedars and cypress trees.
She was one of the first to emerge through the gates and walk down towards the hotel coach.
As she wandered over the broken cobbles she heard a motorbike engine idling, and started. She looked around the crowded car park and saw the bike at once— two men sat on it, both in black leather, both wearing helmets with black glass in the visor, which hid then-faces. She couldn’t see their eyes, yet she was certain they were staring at her.
Bianca stopped dead, her nerves jumping. She knew that the men who had attacked her were safely locked up, back in Marbella, many miles away—it couldn’t be the same men.
All the same, she couldn’t move; she was paralysed for a minute, her blood beating in her ear. As she stared, the rider kick-started the motorbike and it roared into life and shot forward, straight for her.
Bianca turned to run back up the hill towards the Alhambra, and met a group of her fellow passengers from the coach coming downwards. They stared at her, exclaiming.
‘Are you all right?’ asked a middle-aged man she had seen get on the coach at the hotel.
‘She’s as white as a ghost,’ his wife said in a soft Scottish accent. ‘Aren’t you well, dear?’
The motorbike swerved away and the male passenger stared after it, then looked at Bianca. ‘Was it them? Did they try to grab your bag? That happened the other night, you know; one of our people from the hotel was mugged in Marbella. That’s their technique... they ride around town on motorbikes and snatch handbags from tourists.’
Bianca mumbled something. ‘I thought they might... Stupid of me, but I was nervous.’
‘I don’t blame you,’ said the Scottish woman. ‘You never know, do you, these days? You’re not safe anywhere.’
Bianca shivered.
‘You’re scaring the life out of her!’ scolded the man. ‘Come along, my dear; get into the coach; you need to sit down quietly for a while.’
She gratefully sank into the front seat on the coach. Leaning back, she closed her eyes, waiting for the coach to drive back down the mountain to Granada itself.
Of course it had not been the same two men on the motorbike; it was just a coincidence. All the same, the shock still reverberated through her.
