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A woman sat up to speak to him and he turned, smiling, his face in profile like the image of a Pharaoh in an Egyptian wall-painting, the black hair slicked to his head.
Bianca felt a stab of jealousy, and looked down to focus on her book, her breathing rapid. She had no right to care how he smiled at other women, she reminded herself; he did not belong to her.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ he said suddenly right above her, and she started, not having heard him coming.
‘Oh... did you have a good swim?’
‘Wonderful—you should try it! Don’t just lie in the sun all afternoon—get into the sea!’
‘Maybe I will,’ she agreed, her eyes briefly meeting his.
It was a mistake. She felt her mind dissolving in waves of sensual reaction and hurriedly looked away.
At what seemed a far distance she heard his voice a moment later, saying curtly, ‘See you at dinner tonight, Freddie.’
She heard him moving away and couldn’t look; she was still fighting to get over the swimming feeling in her head. Instead, she stared fixedly at her book and pretended to be reading.
/> She had to get away from him. She couldn’t bear much more of this. If anything, it was getting worse. Just seeing him made her body clamour terrifyingly.
She planned frantically... She would go tomorrow, while he was in Nerja. She would make all the arrangements about her flight and a taxi over the phone in the morning, pack, eat a light snack in her apartment at lunchtime, and wait until she was sure Gil had left before she went over to the hotel to pay her bill and wait for the taxi.
Once she got back home and picked up her life where she had left off she would soon forget all about this holiday, and about Gil.
Of course, she would have to come to testify in the court case when it was finally heard, but that probably would not come up for months. For the moment she could forget about that.
She could forget about Gil, too.
It sounded so easy, so simple and reasonable. Why then did she find herself gripping the edge of her book so tightly that her knuckles had turned white? And why couldn’t she see the printed words on the page, except through a blur of tears?
She rang home that evening and told Vicky and Tom that she was coming home early.
As she expected, they were not wild with enthusiasm. ‘Tomorrow? Why...? When tomorrow? We’ll have to tidy up; why didn’t you let us know earlier?’ moaned Vicky.
‘I only just decided,’ said Bianca. ‘You hadn’t got a party planned or anything?’
‘No,’ Vicky said, sounding warily devious.
‘Had one already? House still in a mess?’ asked Bianca.
Vicky was sulky. ‘What is this—an interrogation? Well, if I’ve got to tidy this whole house up tonight I’d better start right away, and Tom is doing his share of the work too. Most of the mess is his anyway.’
Bianca put the phone down, smiling to herself. She could imagine the panic in the house this evening. They would be screaming accusations at each other as they rushed about. She was glad she wasn’t there.
She didn’t sleep that night, and was up early next day; she began to pack immediately after breakfast. She rang the airport and was able to book herself on to a flight at five-thirty. She rang a local taxi firm and ordered her taxi for two o’clock. Gil should have left by then, but it would give her plenty of time to drive to the airport and check in.
She was intensely nervous, afraid all the time of Gil appearing and discovering her plans, but everything went like clockwork. She checked out of the hotel, got her taxi and promptly at five-thirty took off in the plane, landing at Heathrow as scheduled.
She got home after dark and found Vicky and Tom waiting for her and the house looking immaculate, smelling of lavender furniture polish and daffodils. Every room downstairs had a vase of daffodils in it, their yellow trumpets lifting the heart.
‘Everything looks wonderful,’ she said generously, giving her two children a hug.
They looked smugly pleased with themselves. How long had they had to work to restore the house to normal? she wondered, but didn’t ask. Instead, she produced the presents she had bought for them during her time in Marbella. Vicky was delighted with her hand-painted fan and her silk-fringed Spanish shawl, and Tom seemed very happy with his shirt and hand-made leather belt.
‘Gosh, you’re brown, Mum,’ he said, staring at her. ‘Mum... are those bruises on your face?’
She put a nervous hand to them, as if to cover them up. She was wearing heavy make-up, but even that couldn’t hide the bruises entirely, although they were fading now.
‘I’ll tell you about them over supper,’ she said.
