Baby Blues and Wedding Shoes (22 page)

As if sensing her scrutiny, Marcio
turned and caught Helen’s gaze. For a moment everything but the two
of them ceased to exist. Helen became aware of a thudding in her
ears and found she was struggling to breathe. The relative at
Marcio’s side seemed to realise he was no longer being attended to
and reached out to touch Marcio’s arm. The spell was broken and
Marcio turned to resume the conversation.

Helen watched as only a few more words
were uttered before Marcio turned and headed towards her hiding
place under the olive tree. He caught her gaze again and his eyes
never left hers as he approached.

“Hello there, hiding already? Are my
family that scary?”

Helen smiled and patted the bench
beside her, flushing at her forward behaviour. Trying to cover the
moment she responded to his greeting without looking at him.
Instead she looked out at the people gathered in groups in front of
them.

“Not at all, your family are lovely. I
was just in need of some shade. I’m afraid this,” she picked up a
lock of hair, “means I’m not built for being out in the sun.”

“You do look a little pink. Do you want
to go inside? I’m sure Mother has some sun cream or a hat.”

The warm tone of concern in his voice
threatened to turn Helen’s face a deeper shade of pink. Reaching
down to adjust her dress, Helen let her hair fall over her face for
a moment until she felt the blush fade.

“I’m fine, thank you. I might go and
get a cool drink.”

“Wait here, my lady, I will have it for
you in but a moment.” Marcio jumped up and gave a deep bow, ending
with a flourish of his outstretched hand. True to his word he
crossed the garden in two strides and soon returned with a tall
glass of lemonade for Helen and a bottle of beer.

“Thank you.” Helen smiled and received
the glass gratefully. “Shouldn’t you be mingling with your family?
I don’t want to steal you away from them, particularly if you don’t
see them that often.”

“It’s fine, they can spare me for a
while. Besides, I know everything about them, whereas you I find
you intriguing.”

The flush began to creep again and
Helen cursed her fair skin. “Me?” She laughed, but it came out all
wobbly. “What you see is what you get. Quite literally.” She
gestured at her bump.

“Being pregnant doesn’t define you; it
is merely the current state you are in. There was a Helen before
there was a mummy-to-be.”

“A boring one, I assure you. Nothing as
exotic as being half-Spanish or writing novels for a living.”

“Neither is half as interesting as you
might think.” Marcio looked serious for a moment. “Being half
Spanish just means you don’t fit in in either place.”

“What made your family move back to
Barcelona when you were twelve?”

Marcio gave Helen an appreciative look.
“You were paying attention.”

Helen caught his eye then looked away,
her breathing uneven. She became acutely aware of Marcio’s body,
inches from hers on the bench. Trying to recall his last words, she
gave a brittle laugh and said, “I used to be a PA. We’re paid to
remember details. So, why did you?”

It was Marcio’s turn to lose the thread
of the conversation. His bewildered look made Helen long to reach
out and stroke his cheek. Instead she prompted, “Why did you move
back to Barcelona as a child?”

Shaking his head as if trying to clear
away fog, Marcio tore his eyes away from Helen and turned to look
at the vineyard.

“Mother’s father died and she inherited
this place.”

He looked thoughtful for a moment, lost
in memories.

“Father didn’t want to come; his roots
were firmly in England. He couldn’t abandon Mum to cope alone with
seven children, none yet teenagers, but it was with considerable
reluctance that he left his career behind. Considering how much he
loved Mum, and I know he did, he wasn’t that enamoured with
Barcelona.”

Distracted by his memories, Marcio
seemed far away. Helen studied his profile and allowed his warm
voice to pour over her like honey.

“Mum insisted though; she didn’t want
the vineyard to pass out of the family, we’ve had it for
generations apparently.”

As Marcio looked out across the hills
at the marching rows of vines, Helen wondered if he felt the same
attachment to the place as his mother obviously did.

“So, Dad stuck it out for a few years,”
Marcio continued. “In the end though he yearned for suburbia, for
the West End and English newspapers. They didn’t separate, in the
true meaning of the word. In his head he just left on an extended
business trip and never came back.”

Helen sensed Marcio’s shoulders
stiffen, as if admitting his father’s failings was to admit his own
fallibility. In a flash of insight she realised that Marcio had
taken Mia’s defection harder because he had already been abandoned
by his dad.

“How did your mother survive?” Helen
thought of her fear at raising two children alone; she couldn’t
imagine what it would mean to be left with seven.

“You know the saying; it takes a
village to raise a child? Well in Spain they take that seriously.
There were always plenty of aunts and cousins to help with the
harvest or mind us kids. And of course I was soon of an age where I
could help.”

“That must have been a huge
responsibility for you when you should have been studying, playing,
experiencing life.”

“I did all of that, don’t you worry!”
Marcio’s lascivious grin informed Helen which part he had enjoyed
most.

“Did you see much of your father after
he left?”

“I moved in with him when I was
nineteen.” He turned and laughed at the expression on Helen’s face.
“Don’t look so shocked. I didn’t really blame him for leaving. I,
more than anyone, understood the pull of the UK. You have to
remember I spent the first decade and more of my existence immersed
in English life.”

Unconsciously answering Helen’s
unspoken question from earlier, Marcio looked around and sighed. “I
love it here, but I do consider England as much my home. I went to
university in London and Dad was living there at the time so it
made sense to stay with him. I lived there on and off until the
end, as it turned out.”

“The end?” Helen spoke without
considering the new grey tinge paling Marcio’s complexion.

“He died. Cancer.”

“Oh god, I’m so sorry. Recently?”

“About two years ago now. That was when
I decided I wanted to be a writer full-time. Until then I’d been
working at Dad’s firm, but it didn’t really interest me the way it
did for him. His passing taught me to follow my dream, corny as
that sounds. It’s true what they say, that losing a loved one makes
you want to live every moment as if it’s your last. Of course you
forget that vow soon enough, but hopefully by then you’re on a path
to somewhere more meaningful than you might otherwise have
been.”

“What made you first know you wanted to
be a writer?” Helen turned to face him, eager for his answer: it
fascinated her when people were so clear about their vocation in
life.

Marcio thought carefully before
responding, gazing up at the olive tree for inspiration.

Turning to meet Helen’s eyes he
eventually said, “Words kept presenting themselves ready-made in my
head. I would verbalise experiences as if commentating on my own
life. Mia used to think I was self-obsessed: always analysing my
reactions to things, needing to explain everything in what she
called
clever
words.”

He looked back out to the hills,
purple-hued on the horizon, thinking about the question further.
“Words fascinate me. I love learning new ones although I do get
caught out sometimes, using them in the wrong way.” He chuckled, “I
blame it on being Spanish!”

Helen’s laugh rang out, lighting a fire
in Marcio’s eyes as her face came alive.

Focusing back on the conversation he
continued thoughtfully, “It's not always good, though, having a
constant internal monologue echoing round your brain, judging
everything. It's hard to get lost in the moment without wanting to
write it down, to record it for posterity.”

Helen felt herself nodding in
recognition. “I'm like that with photos. I feel like I haven't
truly experienced something unless I've seen it through a lens and
captured it forever. Sometimes I have to leave my camera at home to
have a hope of getting involved and connecting with what's
happening.”

“Did you always want to be a
photographer?”

Helen laughed, this time at herself, a
much less joyous sound. “Not at all, nothing so noble I’m afraid. I
started it as a hobby when Daniel insisted I leave my job. It was
that or die of boredom.”

“He insisted you leave work? What
century was he living in?”

“He wanted me to manage his social
calendar, wine and dine his colleagues that kind of thing. I was
actually employed by him, albeit part time. And many women in my
position would have welcomed the opportunity to spend time at home,
in the gym, shopping. They call them Ladies who Lunch.”

“But not you?”

“Oh no, I grew up on a farm in Devon,
my idea of exercise is mucking out the pigs.”

“What a fascinating image.” Marcio
grinned with a look that stopped Helen’s lungs from working
properly. Wrestling back her train of thought, she continued. “So
yes, I took up photography and found I had an eye for it. When
Daniel made his infamous ultimatum it seemed that freelancing might
be a way I could earn money around being a parent. That was before
I knew I was expecting two of course!”

“Still, even with one baby, wouldn’t it
be hard to make ends meet on a freelancer’s wage? I should
know!”

“Yes, I’m existing on the kindness of
parents just now. I’m not quite sure how it’s all going to pan out
but if I think about it too hard I start to hyperventilate.”

“Can’t you ask for support from your
ex? These are his children you’re bringing into the world.”

“Not as far as he’s concerned they’re
not. And not to me either. I’d rather move back in with my mum and
dad than take money from him.”

“Is that an option?”

She hesitated. There was the question.
Telling Marcio now she realised she knew the answer.

“Not for me, I rather love living in
London too much.”

“You surprise me. I always thought that
people who grew up in places like Devon had the countryside in them
to the core, like writing in a stick of rock.”

Helen chuckled at the image. “I’m
afraid this stick of rock says, ‘comfort, coffee shops,
culture’.”

“How do your parents feel about that?
Do they feel betrayed?”

“Betrayed, that’s an interesting choice
of word.” Helen’s brow creased, “I’d never thought of it like that.
They certainly never expected me or Simon to stay and run the farm.
It hasn’t been in the family for generations, they bought it
together themselves because they love the land. I think they just
want us to be happy, however that manifests itself.”

“It’ll be harder though, with
grandkids. I see it with Mum. Some of my sisters are moving further
afield, some have left Spain all together, and she hates not seeing
all the rugrats all the time.”

“So this isn’t a normal Sunday then?”
Helen gestured at the children, who were now eating ice cream,
getting as much on their faces and clothes as inside their
tummies.

“No, today is a celebration for La
Merce. It’s an excuse, like Christmas or Easter, for the family to
get together. The Spanish love their festivals.”

Helen thought it was interesting that
Marcio referred to the Spanish people as if he weren’t one of them.
Obviously he was right about understanding the lure of an English
life. She looked around, wondering if she would struggle to choose
between here and London, as Marcio’s father had. It was harder than
choosing between London and Devon – you always had mixed feelings
to the place that raised you.

Realising the implications of the
thought, she stopped herself guiltily and looked to resume the
conversation. “Thank you for inviting me, I’m still not sure I
belong here at your family gathering, but it has been
wonderful.”

Marcio privately thought that Helen
belonged here a bit too well for his liking but chose to keep the
thought to himself. Luckily they were interrupted by his eldest
sister Benita, who approached them with fresh drinks and some
food.

“So, Helen, you have brought a smile to
my brother’s face. I am grateful.”

Helen wasn’t quite sure how to respond.
Subconsciously she looked to Marcio for a reaction. As the day wore
on it felt more and more as if she were here as Marcio’s date. Not
because of his behaviour but because it felt so natural to be here
with him, to converse with him, even talking to his gorgeous
sisters.

Benita seemed to sense the awkwardness
generated by her comment and changed the subject to what she hoped
was safer territory.

“When are your babies due?”

Marcio had put the word out quietly on
their arrival that Helen was expecting twins, which weren’t his,
and that the father was a git who should not be mentioned. So far
everyone had obeyed.

“They’re due early February, but in the
UK they often induce you early if you’re expecting twins.”

“Do you know whether they are boys or
girls?”

“No, I thought about finding out, but
it’s harder to get it right with twins and to be honest I’m so
terrified the less it seems real the better!”

“Do not be terrified, my second and
third were twins.” She gestured to two of the children lurking near
them, barely visible under the ice cream.

“It’s hard to begin with, but soon they
entertain each other, talk to each other. It makes them less
demanding of your attention. Make sure you find an antenatal group.
That would be my advice. There is nothing to equal the support of
women who have recently experienced what you are going through:
believe me, you forget too quickly. Already I cannot remember what
babies eat, when they sleep, and my youngest is only three.”