Things We Never Say (4 page)

‘We will?’ Abbey looked at him enquiringly. ‘I’m her daughter, Pete. I’ll be here. But you – you don’t have to hang around.’

Pete nodded. ‘I care about her, so I will.’

‘Not for ever, though,’ said Abbey. ‘Nobody waits for ever.’

‘I guess I’ll wait until I know that she’s done the right thing.’

‘Oh, Pete.’ Abbey’s eyes were full of tears as she looked at him. ‘I do love you. And you’ve been more of a father to me than I deserve.’

‘I love you too,’ said Pete. ‘How could I not?’

‘That’s good to know,’ she said.

‘Stop worrying,’ said Pete. ‘You can’t change anything that’s already happened, and the future is an open book.’

‘Y’see.’ Abbey sniffed. ‘Philosopher Pete strikes again.’

‘Practical Pete,’ he amended. ‘Anyhow, honey, sleep on the job offer, then do whatever you think is right.’

‘I will,’ said Abbey. She blew her nose and wiped her eyes. ‘And thanks for understanding. Again. It was the same when I said that I didn’t want to be a hotshot lawyer like you, and when I decided to study art even though you think the art world is full of pretentious fools. Sadly, though, same as I was never going to be a great lawyer, I’m never going to set the art world alight. And the thing is, I hate working in that damn gallery.’ She stopped, surprised at herself. She hadn’t thought that she hated the gallery, just that she preferred the salon. ‘I do hate it,’ she said slowly. ‘Nerissa is a bitch and the art we show isn’t my thing either.’

‘You mean you don’t like blue dots on pink backgrounds?’ asked Pete.

‘To be honest, I do like that one,’ she confessed. ‘But the others – you know how we show a lot of Francis Bacon type stuff. Visceral and sort of … disturbing. It’s not very uplifting.’

‘Y’see, you’re like me,’ said Pete. ‘You like old-fashioned painting. Proper pictures.’

‘I like modern art too,’ she scolded him. ‘But I like a painting to be a joyous thing. Something that you can look at and take pleasure from. Not something that makes you shudder and gives you nightmares no matter how brilliantly it’s done.’

‘So go to a different gallery,’ said Pete.

‘I’ll think about it,’ she promised. ‘But in the meantime … well, I guess I really want to give the nails a try.’

‘Pity you can’t paint on nails,’ said Pete. ‘Then you could combine both.’

‘But you can.’ Abbey’s eyes widened. ‘You can create nail art too.’

‘I don’t see too many fingernails hanging in MoMA,’ said Pete.

Abbey laughed. ‘I wouldn’t rule it out. Though that might be more Bacon than beauty.’

Pete laughed too. ‘If anyone can conquer the world of nail art, I’m sure it’s you,’ he said. ‘And I look forward to seeing your designs displayed in the window of the salon at least. Though I’m sure they’ll be even better than that.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Abbey. She lifted her bag and opened it. ‘Until then …’ She took out a small canvas and handed it to him. ‘I brought this for you.’

Pete unrolled it on the table in front of him. It was an A4-sized painting of Alcatraz, the Rock, looking grim and forbidding, almost totally wreathed in sea mist except for a single ray of sunlight that hit one of the walls.

‘You must have enough of these for an exhibition of your own,’ he remarked as he studied it.

‘Don’t you like it?’

‘It’s fantastic.’ He looked up at her. ‘Honestly. You get a real sense of despair and isolation and … and yet that piece of sunlight. I love it.’

‘I thought it would look better in your office than the blue dot,’ Abbey told him. ‘It’s more you, somehow.’

‘And you’re like the Rock too,’ said Pete. ‘Tough and unyielding, but with a ray of sunshine.’

‘I’m so not tough or unyielding,’ Abbey said with a smile. ‘But I like the fact that it’s always there. I like the fact that it’s a permanent part of the city.’

‘It’ll crumble eventually,’ said Pete. ‘No matter how tough it is.’

‘Maybe we all do,’ murmured Abbey, as she took a bite out of the strawberry-iced doughnut that, because she was trying to lose a few pounds, she’d already promised herself she wasn’t going to eat.

Suzanne Fitzpatrick pulled into the small car park in front of the hotel and stepped out of the bright red Mini. A blast of Mediterranean heat hit her and she felt beads of perspiration break out on her forehead. She fanned herself for a moment until she’d adjusted to the temperature, then looked around her.

The hotel, four storeys high, was like a thin ivory wafer. It was taller than it was wide, with art deco carvings across the width of the facade. There were small white balustraded balconies outside each full-length window on the first, second and third floors, although right now, faded green shutters covered the windows themselves. Suzanne could see that the paint was peeling from the balconies too. But, she thought as she turned around, the views from them would be fabulous.

It was fabulous at ground level already. From where she stood, she could look down over dark green pines to the turquoise Mediterranean sea below. Even with her oversized Carolina Herrera sunglasses shielding her eyes, she had to squint in the brilliance of the sunlight as it hit the water and shattered into a pool of diamond lights. It was impossible to put a price on that view, she thought. Although she was going to have to try.

She turned back to the hotel and walked up the tiled path towards the building itself. The glass doors were locked, so she made her way around it. To the side, facing south, was a medium-sized swimming pool, surrounded by dazzling white tiles. There was a small puddle of water at the bottom of the deep end, as well as a scattering of seeds and some dried bougainvillea blossom from the nearby palm trees and flowering shrubs. A white plastic chair was on its side in the shallow end. Suzanne walked down the steps into the pool, took out the chair and placed it on the terrace.

Folding doors, all locked, led into what Suzanne assumed would be a bar and restaurant. She closed her eyes and imagined the terrace full of holidaymakers lying on sun-loungers, sitting at tables, drinking juices and beers and sangrias, soaking up the sun in idyllic surroundings. Or surroundings that would be idyllic when the palm trees and the bougainvillea were pruned, when the pool was cleaned and filled and when the doors of the hotel were opened again.

She glanced at her watch and retraced her steps to the front of the building. Just as she was thinking that he was late, a black SUV with the logo of the estate agent pulled into the car park, sending up a spray of gravel. The door opened and a man, younger than Suzanne had expected – somewhere in his twenties, she thought – got out.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I was delayed on the road.’

‘No problem.’ She extended her hand. ‘Suzanne Fitzpatrick.’

‘Jaime Roig. Delighted to meet you. So, you are interested in the Mirador Hotel?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘It’s a wonderful opportunity.’ Jaime began to talk about the hotel, telling her what she had already seen for herself, that it was in a fantastic position overlooking the sea, that it was full of character and charm, that it was crying out for someone to restore it to its former beauty and bring the tourists to this unspoilt area, a mere half an hour’s drive away from the historic town of Girona.

Suzanne let him talk without interruption. Until it got to the question of money, there was very little he could say to influence her. She continued to appraise the building and the gardens around it, moving into the shade of one of the palms as Jaime continued with his spiel.

‘Would you like to go inside?’ he asked eventually, and she nodded.

He took a bunch of keys from his pocket, selected one and opened the doors to the hotel. Suzanne pushed her sunglasses on to her head, stepped inside, and then stood still, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the darkness.

Jaime reached behind the door and switched on the electricity. A fluorescent tube spluttered a few times before it lit properly.

‘I’ll open the shutters.’ Jaime moved to the windows of what Suzanne could now see was a spacious reception area. There was a leather-topped marble reception desk to one side, pigeonholes and a row of silver keys on enormous fobs behind it. In the centre of the room was an expansive glass table. A few brocade seats were pushed against the wall. When the shutters were open and the daylight streamed in, Suzanne realised that a layer of dust covered the table and that the fabric on the seats was faded. But the floor was cool white polished marble, and the chandelier that hung from the ceiling was both ornate and elegant.

‘There are thirty-six rooms in total,’ said Jaime. ‘Also a restaurant, a bar and a salon.’

‘I’d like to see one of the rooms,’ said Suzanne.

‘Of course. Follow me.’

He walked past the reception desk and stopped in front of the lift. So did Suzanne, who exclaimed in delight.

Jaime looked pleased. ‘You like it?’

Until now Suzanne had been able to keep her emotions under control, but she couldn’t help herself.

‘It’s amazing,’ she said.

It was an old-fashioned cage lift, with inner and outer grille doors that were manually opened and closed. The metal frame and doors were painted in gold and green and were decorated with the coats of arms of Spanish noble houses.

‘Want to use it to go upstairs?’

‘Is it working properly? Is it safe?’

Jaime grinned. ‘I hope so.’

He pulled open the doors and she stepped inside. The wooden floor was worn, as were the brass buttons that identified each level. When Jaime stepped in beside her, he pressed 3 and the lift began to move slowly upwards. As it passed the other floors, Suzanne could see occasional abandoned items – a vacuum cleaner, a mop and (strangely) a guitar. She wondered about the people who had stayed and worked here, wondered what they were doing now.

The lift juddered to a halt and Jaime opened the doors again.

‘This way.’

He selected another key from the ring and led her to a room at the end of the corridor, which he opened. She stepped inside. He was about to turn on the light, but she stopped him. She walked over to the window and opened the shutters instead.

This time the light was almost blinding. She dropped her sunglasses on to her nose, opened the window and stepped out on to the balcony.

The view, merely beautiful before, was breathtaking now. From her higher vantage point, Suzanne could see the beach, where a few people were lying on towels sunbathing, and further along, the coves and inlets that dotted the coastline. The green of the pine trees contrasted with the blues of the sky and the sea. It was perfect. There was no other word for it.

‘
Impresionante, no?
’ said Jaime.

‘Absolutely,’ she replied.

‘When I was small, my mother used to take me here for ice cream,’ he said.

She turned to look at him, her expression sceptical.

‘No, really,’ he assured her. ‘It was one of our favourite places. There are steps down to the beach. Not easy for elderly people, but for children, no problem.’

‘Can older people or people with mobility problems access the beach from anywhere else?’ Her tone was suddenly brisk.

‘Yes. A little further from here,’ he replied. ‘Maybe, oh, less than half a kilometre. Five minutes’ walk. There is a gentle slope down to the beach. In the summer there is a beach bar too. It’s very nice.’

‘I want to look at it,’ she said.

‘Sure. No problem.’

Suzanne couldn’t help feeling that if she said she wanted to hire a boat, or paraglide or drive the hundred or so kilometres to Barcelona, Jaime Roig would say it was no problem. She knew that the hotel had been on the agency’s books for over two years. They were keen to sell it. The question she had to ask herself was, was she keen to buy? And if she was, would the investors she’d already spoken to about a possible purchase agree that it was the right choice? Would they be able to raise the finance for it? And even if all those things panned out – the most important question of all – would she make a success of it? Would she be able to look her father in the eye and tell him that she was the best of them all?

It was late by the time she got back to the top-floor apartment she was currently renting in Girona, about forty minutes’ drive from the Mirador Hotel. The building was old, with high ceilings and tiled floors, and every time Suzanne walked inside, she felt as though she were stepping back in time.

She let herself in and made herself an industrial-strength coffee, which she took on to her tiny balcony overlooking one of the narrow streets. She could hear voices and laughter drifting from the square and the occasional snatch of music from a nearby café-bar. The laughter and the music would go on for a few hours yet. The town was still in holiday mode, buzzing and warm. It had been a long, hot summer and some people were counting the days until the cooler weather returned. But Suzanne never found the heat oppressive. She liked how it seeped into her bones, into her body, filling her with a sense of well-being. A sense of belonging. She felt that more here, in Catalunya, than anywhere else in the world. And she’d travelled to a lot of places. Most of her working life had been in Europe and the Americas, Asia and Africa, always in hotels, from the day she landed her first job as a receptionist in a small family-run hotel in London, to her role as a senior manager in a global chain, to her current position as the manager of a boutique hotel in Girona itself.

In the early years, she’d been seduced by the idea of working for a chain. By the glamour of executive hotels where the fittings and the standards were exactly the same, no matter where in the world you were. But after her marriage to Calvin, a senior VP in the same chain, had gone horribly wrong and had impacted badly on her career, she’d opted for a change of scenery and pace, a change which had ultimately ended up with her taking over the running of one of Girona’s most charming hotels.

At first she’d thought of it as a comedown. She’d been angry and upset at how Calvin had been able to continue in his role at the chain whereas she had suddenly become an embarrassment. Admittedly walking into a board meeting and dumping the entire contents of a Waterford crystal vase over his head hadn’t done much for her reputation, but he’d bloody well deserved it. He’d cheated on her and lied about cheating and his goddam colleagues knew it. Nevertheless, publicly emptying dirty water and half-dead flowers over your husband’s head, when he was a member of the board and more senior to you, wasn’t the way to get on in business. Suzanne knew that. She knew that they had decided there and then that she was unreliable and flaky even though she was one of the best people who’d ever worked for them, and …