It Never Rains in Colombia (12 page)

             
“A bomb?” Harlow asked startled.

             
Her grandmother nodded grimly. “No one claimed responsibility. Everyone assumed it was the Farc. But Christian's father had a lot of enemies. He was a crusader. He took a very hard line on the drug lords. He tried to clamp down on drug trafficking and some people think the government was starting to listen to him. He wasn't a rich man, but he was very intelligent; he had a plan and a good heart. In the end, he wielded a lot of influence in government circles.”

             
“So they killed him? That's awful.”

             
“It was really terrible, I remember seeing it in the news.”

             
“He's never said anything.”

             
“Christian would have been a child when it happened. I expect he doesn't remember much about his father.”

             
“We don't talk much now. He's always rushing off,” Harlow said as they made their way back down to the house, coming closer to the fragrant rose bushes outside the garden doors.

             
Julia slid the glass doors open. “Lunch must be ready by now.”

Chapter 9 - The Thing About Christian

             
Christian rifled through his bag, pushing aside the book on the Spanish-American war and took out a notebook.

             
Patrick leaned over, “I thought it would be pink and fluffy.”

             
Christian laughed. “I don't think she's the type. She's very serious.”

             
Patrick shrugged. “What did you find? Come on, the suspense is killing me.”

             
“Me too,” he admitted.

             
“You didn't read it?” Patrick asked in an exasperated tone. “I went to all that trouble to steal it and you didn't read it?”

             
Christian flipped the red notebook over in his hands. “I didn't ask you to,” he said sheepishly.

             
“
Orrrrr
,” Patrick said, “maybe you wanted this to happen. She won't know, just have a look, then you can have some peace once and for all.” He took the notebook and began to read, avoiding Christian who at first tried to snatch it back then sat down as if spellbound, as Patrick read:

“September 28
th
– I stopped talking to Sophia/ liar whatever her name is. Our friendship is over. She's sided with Amy over this Roberto thing. I get that it's her brother but she clearly has no moral compass. He was in the wrong.”

“October 1
st
– Had Maths today. It's the only thing that I'm actually good at.”

He paused.

“Christian seems a bit down. I think he's avoiding me. It's probably this Sophia thing. I have to find a way to fix the situation.”

              “Wow.” Patrick said, “That was mundane. God, what happened to the good old days of one-night stands and lesbian love affairs?”

             
Christian recovered his senses and snatched the diary from Patrick, “Umm, it only happens in films,” Christian suggested. He sank back into the chair, into the desperation he had been immersed in for days. He held the diary close to him.

             
“It's a book, dude, it's not her. Why don't you just ask her out?” Patrick suggested.

             
“She wouldn't go out with me.” Christian replied miserably. “She's so perfect, you know.”

             
“No,” Patrick said, “I don't. She's average, ok some days Harlow looks hot, but there are so many other girls out there.”

             
“I want this one,” Christian admitted sadly. “I don't mind being friends but...”

             
“That's where you're going wrong.” Patrick insisted, “You need to set the parameters straight away. Right now you're trapped in the friend zone. Harlow sees you as another one of her girlfriends. You have to break out man.”

             
Christian interrupted his polemic, “She wants Roberto.” Christian continued, “The whole school knows, I was there.”

              “So who cares?” Patrick insisted. “Crushes are temporary.”

             
Christian sat up, paying attention, “People change their minds all the time,” he said. “Harlow could change her mind. Roberto,” Christian almost spat the name.

             
“What kind of name is that?” Patrick joined in, “Dude sounds like a fairy.”

             
“I don't understand it, he treats people like dirt and they're all over him like white on rice,” Christian continued.

             
“Give me more Roberto,” Patrick mimicked pretending to flick his hair. “Here, slap me, Roberto, I don't care. I love you, you're great. I love your accent, what are you, French? OMG!”

             
“What does he do?” Christian asked, infuriated by Patrick's mimicry, the innuendo too close to truth. Christian wondered with gall why Harlow liked Roberto, why any of them did. Roberto seemed to be a perfect waste of time. “He's never worked a day in his life. I come to classes early to revise, work my ass off to get good grades, then do night shifts in a bar just to keep the lights on in my house. And
he
does nothing while they fall at his feet.” By they, he meant her.

             
Patrick shook his head, “It's disgusting. This guy sits around combing his hair, taking the mick out of hard-working people and gets all the girls. It's not right,” Patrick said, his Irish accent rolling over the words. Christian placed the notebook back in his bag, continuing in irritation, “and all....why?” He searched for the answer, then not finding one, he announced, “Because he's French.”

             
“Unbelievable,” Patrick muttered angrily, “half French, half Colombian, how could any man compete.”

             
“It's not on,” Christian said, packing up his stuff. They left the private study room. Christian was filled with energy. “I've had enough,” Christian whispered as if to Roberto, a silent challenge. He recalled the image of Roberto sliding an arm around Harlow's waist in the hallway and then flashbacked to Harlow falling, humiliated, into the lake, and anger rose unbidden as they entered the main reading area.

              Sophia was hard at work practising the routine before sound check began. She moved gracefully in sync with the dancers behind her, twirling around right on cue. She loved the freedom of performing.

             
“Ok, cue music in five.” The backing dancers behind her dissipated, breaking the circle formulation they had been in, running to their places at the edges of the stage. Sophia remained at the front of the stage, only shifting her position slightly to clutch the microphone.

             
“Three, two, one,” the stage manager Eric's voice bellowed before the music blasted out on all sides, soaring to the ceiling. “Fireworks, fireworks,” he said, but nothing happened as he had expected, vocally directing her and the others on what would happen at the actual concert. “Guitar,” he shouted, then Joe began the riff that made Sophia's song so distinct. Eric pointed straight at her with a tense nod. He was glad to have her back, without Sophia there was no show, she could see it written all over his face; sweet relief. This knowledge brought a smile to Sophia's face when she sang the first verse.

             
Christian watched from the back of the crowd of dancers, technicians, personal assistants, and other staff that had gathered in the arena a few feet away from the stage. When Sophia finished her set he clapped the loudest. Despite his efforts when Sophia saw Christian her face fell in displeasure.

             
“You again,” she said haughtily in Spanish, rushing past him as Ellie handed her a bottle of water. A small troop of people followed behind her. One handed her a towel; the other repeated the phone messages he had taken as Christian walked casually past the bodyguards to walk beside Sophia at the front of the troop. She nodded at the bodyguards to let Christian pass and they continued their conversation in Spanish:

             
“You're really back on form,” Christian commented.

             
“I've never been off,” Sophia said matter of factly.

             
The troop left the arena, heading backstage at a near jog.

             
Christian raised an eyebrow, “There were a few pitch problems,” he remarked.

             
Sophia stopped abruptly at the door of her dressing room. “You can go,” she said, flicking her hand dismissively at the train of personal assistants, PR people, vocal coaches and bodyguards. The two of them entered the lavender-scented dressing room. “I didn't think you would come.”

             
“I can't resist a free show,” Christian replied with an easy smile, going over to sit on the white couch.

             
“So what's up, then?” Sophia went over to the costume rack and began removing the restrictive corset.

             
“Nothing.”

             
“You came all this way to see me dance and critique my singing? You've never done that before. Not even when I asked you to,” she said, throwing the silver corset over the steel costume rack. “Bullshit, you're up to something. Come on, what is it?”

             
Christian laughed, “Why do you always think I'm plotting something?”

             
“Because you are. I've seen that look a hundred times,” she said, simply slipping into the blue dress. “Can you?” Sophia asked, turning her head toward him and indicating the zipper.

             
Christian was sprightly. He zipped the dress up quickly but remained standing next to her. “You're so wrong about me,” he remarked sadly.

             
“I know you,” Sophia said with a smirk, “When you see someone grow from a child to an adult, you begin to see how they think.”

             
“You do know me,” Christian admitted. “And seeing as we share such a long and winding history, I'm sure you're just dying to invite me to your after-party.”

             
“Is that it?” Sophia pressed wanting something more. When nothing was said, she relented, “Of course. You could have just come.”

             
Christian snorted derisively in his geeky way. “Would you have let me in?”

             
Sophia couldn't help smiling. “That was a misunderstanding.”

             
“Once bitten, twice shy,” Christian said, wryly wiping his glasses with a corner of his shirt.

              At the Contessa restaurant:

Amy whispered, “What's he wearing?” as the waiter came out of the kitchen. Her friends fell into a fit of laughter. He discussed something with a woman behind the till and then looked around the tables for waiting diners. “What the hell is this?” Amy whispered to her friends. “He's making the uniform look bad,” she said staring in horror at the trousers that stopped two inches before his ankles, showing off his skinny legs in white socks. “Seriously, why would you do this to yourself?”

              He came over to their table holding a notepad in his left hand and adjusted his thick glasses, pushing them back onto his face. “Hello, I'm Christian. I'll be your waiter today,” he smiled, taking the pen from his shirt pocket, “are you ready to order?” He appeared not to recognise them.

             
  “Uh, hmm,” Amy said, giving him a cruel once-over and flicking through the menu aimlessly.

             
Sarah ran her finger down the page looking for something to eat. “Can I have…”

             
Violet began, teasing, “Waiter, waiter, waiter, can I
haveeeee
, umm. Waiter, can I have...”

             
Christian waited patiently for her to continue, then she began reading the menu again. He thought that maybe it was some type of joke.

             
“Waiter, can I have ... the egg fried rice?”

             
“Any drinks?” Christian asked.

             
“Yes, waiter, Diet Coke.”

             
“I'll have number thirty-nine,” Amy said dismissively, “and waiter, bring me some water,” she announced before Christian could ask.              

             
He scribbled down the details nodding, “Stir-fried shrimp with noodles?” he asked, then looked up when Amy didn't reply.

             
Amy nodded, “Yes, number
thirtttttty-nineeee
,” she enunciated as if she were talking to a fool.

             
Christian, as always calm and patient, didn't care. He didn't flinch at her tone.

             
Christian turned to the other girl and she flipped over to the start of the menu again. Violet nudged her, “Sarah, it's your turn.”

             
“Huh, oh sorry, umm, she flicked through the pages slowly, aimlessly. He waited and waited to be released, and after what seemed like an hour and a half, she decided on number thirty-nine and water as well. Christian walked through the crowded dining room, weaving in between the packed tables, eager to get home.

              At home, Christian read every word carefully, at first rushing to take it all in. He spun around in his computer chair holding the diary firmly, as if it would run away if he loosened his grip.