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‘So we’re both free birds, living in the moment.’
Rob grinned. ‘Looks like it. What would you most like to do right now?’
I’d like to park the car, climb on top of you and kiss you for about an hour, thought Hannah, feeling a blush creep up her neck.I’d like to be the kind of woman who doesn’t get attached, who has holiday flings with gorgeous men, then goes back to her life.
They navigated a bend and the view opened up ahead of them – a huge blue sky and sparkling water beyond the lemon groves. The temperature gauge on the dashboard told her it was a perfect twenty-three degrees.
‘Don’t know about you,’ said Hannah with a happy sigh, ‘but I quite fancy some tennis.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
‘Google says there’s a community tennis court in Salobreña,’ said Rob, studying his phone. ‘It looks like a really nice place, it’s got a castle and everything. We could play there, then have a wander round and get some lunch.’
‘Sounds great,’ said Hannah. ‘Let’s take a look.’
‘Do you realise we’ve never actually played each other?’
‘It’s not a fair match,’ she said with a fake pout. ‘You’re much better than me. You’ll have to play right-handed.’
‘You’re still the best female player I’ve ever coached. And I’m not just blowing smoke so you don’t kick me out of the car.’ He glanced over at Hannah’s legs, brown and inviting in a hot pink tennis skirt, and wondered how on earth he was going to get through the next two weeks. It felt like some kind of endurance challenge; but if she could do it, so could he.
‘Turn right here,’ he said, checking his phone. ‘It says there’s a supermarket near the court too, so maybe we can get some food. I’ve got two bottles of water and some chocolate wafers, but that’s it.’
‘Not enough to sustain two elite athletes,’ said Hannah. ‘I’m hoping for an award-winning tapas bar, but I’ll settle for a Mercadona.’
She turned the corner and the picture-postcard village of Salobreña appeared on the horizon, with hundreds of whitewashed villas built into the hillside leading up to a red stone castle. Rob was already itching to get out of the car and explore, but some tennis with Hannah felt like a pretty great start to their road trip.
‘There,’ he said, pointing to the tennis court set back from the road on a patch of scrubland behind a wire fence. ‘Looks like there are people using it, though.’
‘Let’s park and see how long they’re going to be,’ said Hannah. ‘See if we can find some food while we’re waiting.’
She pulled into a space on the side of the road and they both climbed out and stretched, neither of them used to being still for any length of time. The coastal breeze felt fresh and inviting, and Rob ambled over to the chain link fence to watch the two men play for a minute. They were good – the one at the far end had a solid forehand and a loose, confident style, and his opponent was fast and powerful.
A noise to his right caught his attention, and he turned to see a scrawny grey dog under a tree. It was tied to a short, frayed rope and was straining to reach him, panting furiously with its front paws flailing in the air.
‘Shit,’ said Rob, forgetting about the tennis and slowly approaching the dog with his hand outstretched.
‘Be careful,’ said Hannah, crouching down in the dust next to Rob and tentatively reaching out to stroke the dog’s back. It was filthy and smelled terrible, and Rob could feel how dry its tongue was as it licked his hand.
‘Is it OK?’ whispered Hannah. The dog squirmed with happiness under Rob’s gentle attention; he could see some patches of fur were missing from its legs and belly, the skin wrinkled and scabby.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘It’s definitely thirsty, and that rope is far too short.’ The dog licked the palm of his hand again and pawed at his arm. ‘Can you pass me a bottle of water?’
‘Who do you think it belongs to?’ asked Hannah, rummaging in her bag. Rob looked around, but there was no one other than the two men on the tennis court. He made a bowl with his hands so Hannah could tip some water in; the dog lapped frantically, so Hannah kept pouring until the bottle was empty.
‘Look at its ribs,’ said Rob, checking round the back end. ‘It’s a he. Poor thing needs a good bath and a decent meal.’
‘Oye!’ shouted one of the men on the tennis court, running towards them and waving his racquet in time with a barrage of angry Spanish. Rob couldn’t understand much of what he was saying, but it was reasonable to assume he was less than happy.
‘Is this your dog?’ he asked, pulling himself up to his full height and searching for retained scraps from a long-forgotten Grade D GCSE Spanish. ‘Tu perro?’
The man ignored the question and shouted some more Spanish. His friend arrived by his side, and Rob realised that they were teenagers, maybe sixteen or seventeen. They were stocky, but Rob was taller and stronger than both of them. The boy turned to his friend and spat a few more phrases, and Rob caught the wordInglés.
‘It is his dog,’ said the second boy, taking a step closer to Rob but staying beyond arm’s reach. ‘It’s called Pendejo. Leave him alone.’
‘He needs food and water,’ said Rob firmly. ‘And the rope is too short.’
The second boy translated for his friend, who started yelling and waving his arms around again. ‘He says it is none of your business. The dog will not eat, he isloco. Crazy.’
