Then. Now. Always. Read online

  ‘You believe that, what is the saying? Ah yes, that your home is where your heart is?’

  He looks so pleased with himself that I have to agree, and I suppose that is what I think. I’d just never thought about it in that way before.

  ‘I grew up in Cambridge,’ I explain. ‘Well, in a small village on the outskirts, really.’

  ‘And Tom, too?’ Theo says, tearing apart a slice of bread.

  ‘Tom?’ I repeat blankly, my mind whirring in confusion.

  ‘I thought you grew up together as children?’ he states, breaking up his crust and tossing it down to the waiting birds.

  ‘Oh, well no,’ I mutter, uncomfortable at having to correct him. ‘We met at university in West London.’

  ‘You seem like brother and sister to me,’ Theo says then. ‘You even look the same, the two of you.’

  He’s right about that – Tom and I are both skinny, pale-skinned giants. It’s hardly a compliment, though.

  ‘I don’t mean that in a bad way,’ he adds, freakishly reading my mind, and then he laughs. ‘Your face!’

  ‘What?’ I bring my hands up to hide behind.

  Is my face really so amusing? Does he look at me and just see Tom in a wig? Oh my God. I bet he bloody does!

  ‘You are funny, Hannah,’ he says, and when I glance at him through my splayed fingers, he’s smiling at me not in amusement, but something else, and I’m aware of my heart rate beginning to quicken.

  ‘The two of you are lucky,’ he goes on, throwing down more morsels to a grateful chorus of chirping. ‘It is rare to have a friend of the opposite sex that you can be close to without the other thing getting in the way.’

  ‘The other thing?’ I ask, deliberately nonchalant.

  He looks at me directly. ‘Sex.’

  Oh God, why did I make him say it? Now my face is the same colour as a stop sign.

  ‘Unless, that is, you and Tom are friends with benefits?’

  ‘NO!’ I shriek, scaring away all the birds.

  Theo refuses to play along. ‘It is not so shocking,’ he chides. ‘Tom is a very handsome man, and you are a very pretty girl. Of course you have thought about it.’

  ‘I have not!’ I lie, moving my napkin aside so the waitress can put plates down in front of us. I’m not about to confess that I did, once upon a time, develop a serious but short-lived crush on Tom.

  ‘Come on, Hannah.’ He’s definitely trying to goad me now. ‘You are telling me that nothing like this has ever happened between you and Tom?’

  I think about lying again, but I know he’ll only ask Tom the same question. In fact, he probably already has.

  ‘We kissed once,’ I reply grudgingly. ‘Years ago, about two hours after we met. It was nothing.’

  ‘Nothing to you, maybe – but don’t you think it was different for Tom?’

  I really don’t like where this conversation is going.

  ‘We agreed it was a mistake,’ I tell him honestly. ‘We were drunk and it was stupid. I didn’t even remember it the next day, and nothing has ever happened since.’

  I want him to know that there’s absolutely nothing standing in the way of him and me. Not that he’s interested in me like that, but, you know, just in case.

  ‘But you do care about him,’ Theo says, not bothering to keep his voice down even though the paella has arrived. It’s vast, with bright yellow rice, big shiny chunks of red pepper and a scatter of huge, pink langoustines, and it smells absolutely divine.

  I picture my best friend – his adorable sticking-out ears and ridiculous floral shorts, the clumsy way he walks like a three-legged donkey, his straw-like hair and big, generous smile – and I can’t help but feel affection.

  ‘I guess I do,’ I admit, picking up my knife and fork. ‘But only when he’s not being a big goof.’

  Thankfully, the paella is delicious enough to rapidly distract Theo from the subject of Tom and me. There’s so much of it that it’s almost overwhelming, and I manage two helpings before my stomach begins to press unpleasantly against the waistband of my shorts. Theo eats with gusto, one hand reaching constantly for bread and nimble fingers ripping open the miniature lobsters. I’m doing my best to be ladylike, but when I try to ease the shells off my own little sea dwellers using my knife, Theo makes a tutting sound and insists on teaching me how to do it using just my hands. He also keeps licking his fingers, which is making it very hard not to slither underneath the table and curl up on his feet like a clingy pet dog.

  A companionable silence falls between us once the bill is paid and we’re meandering back through the village. Theo has pushed his sunglasses up into his thick, dark hair, and it’s sticking up at all angles. How he manages to still look so sexy, despite resembling a pineapple, is a mystery only my lustful loins can answer.

  ‘Ice cream?’ he offers, as we pass a stall not far from the beach, but I groan and rub my belly.

  ‘I can’t. I’m stuffed.’

  ‘Wimp!’ he declares, but he means it in a nice way.

  I have no idea what the time is, having switched off my phone and forgotten to put on my watch, but it feels even hotter than it did when we arrived. I should probably reapply my sun cream, but I don’t want to start lathering up in front of Theo. He doesn’t seem to need any SPF, the lucky thing. Eventually he nips into another small gift shop and I seize my chance, propping my foot up on a low wall and squeezing a generous puddle of lotion on to my exposed thigh. Sunburn is my biggest fear. Well, you know, after nuclear war and fatal disease, obviously. Oh, and maybe Claudette when she’s in a bad mood.

  ‘Ready to go?’

  Theo is back, his brown eyes glistening and his beautiful lips parted in a smile.

  Suddenly I don’t want to go back to Mojácar. I want to stay here in this strange sleepy little town and have him peel my prawns and teach me about the birds. I hate the idea that this closeness that I’m feeling now, this sense of being inside the Theo bubble with him, rather than peering in through the sides, will vanish as soon as we have to go back to work.

  We’ve almost reached the car now – I can see the reflective windscreen shade gleaming in the distance – so I hang back on purpose, pretending to be entranced by a cluster of trees set back from the road. Noticing me slow down, Theo turns and claps his hands with pleasure.

  ‘Ah, lemon trees.’

  ‘Are they?’ I ask eagerly, following him down from the tarmac on to the dusty, dry earth.

  ‘Can’t you smell them?’ he exclaims, creases appearing like sheets of music across his forehead.

  I sniff the air like a hunting dog. ‘Mmmm, yes. They smell amazing.’

  ‘I bet they taste even better,’ he tells me, brazenly plucking one of the plump yellow fruits from a low branch and sticking a finger through the waxy skin.

  ‘Isn’t that really bitter?’ I say, wincing as I watch him chewing.

  ‘Hannah,’ he admonishes, sounding very Greek. ‘Please do not tell me that you have never eaten a proper lemon before.’

  ‘Of course I have!’ I argue. ‘I’ve had lemon cake plenty of times – and I always eat the slice that they give you in a gin and tonic.’

  He pulls a face at me. ‘That is not real.’

  My cheeks are burning now. I hate it when he tells me off.

  ‘Come here.’ He beckons me with a finger, and I obediently shuffle towards him through the dirt.

  ‘Now, open your mouth,’ he instructs, his voice low and gentle.

  I do as I’m told, feeling a tug of desire from somewhere deep in the pit of my gut. He’s so close to me now that I almost close my eyes, but instead I force myself to look into his. They’re so deeply brown, like melted dark chocolate, and I feel my tongue darting out to moisten my lips.

  ‘This,’ he says, lifting a chunk of juicy lemon up to my mouth and waiting while I tentatively lean forwards to accept it, ‘is how a lemon should really taste.’

  I brace myself for the eye-squinting bitterness that will make me re
coil and grimace, but it never comes. Theo’s right – this lemon is sweet, almost like an orange, with a tang that is all pleasure and no pain at all – and I grin at him in wonder.

  ‘It’s delicious.’

  He hasn’t moved backwards away from me yet, and is now using the same fingers that came so close to my lips to feed himself another chunk of the lemon, all the while maintaining that eye contact which is making my knees tremble. He looks thoughtful, almost as if he’s trying to work out a tricky sum in his head, and I dare myself to believe that he could even be thinking the same thing that I am – that a kiss could taste even better than the fruit.

  Alas, just as the thought tiptoes into my head, Theo seems to snap out of whatever trance he was in, and looks over my shoulder in the direction of the car. He doesn’t need to tell me; I know that it’s time for us to leave.

  There’s no singing on the drive back to Mojácar, and instead of asking me more questions about my life or even teasing me about Tom, Theo sticks resolutely to the subject of work, telling me his frustrations over the fact that he hasn’t yet been given permission to film inside the cave at Los Vélez, where the painting of the Indalo symbol was first discovered.

  ‘It feels important to me to see it,’ he admits. ‘Even if I cannot film there, I want to visit the area. Perhaps next week I will go.’

  I try my best to ignore the crashing disappointment that hits me like a bolting horse when I realise he’s not going to invite me along to go with him, and instead try my hardest to remember some of the things I researched about the Indalo legend before we came out here. Theo is polite enough and nods along to my carefully considered words, but his attention seems elsewhere. By the time we’re pulling in to the parking space beside his villa back in Mojácar, our conversation has trickled away like sand through a sieve.

  ‘Do you need a lift back to the apartment?’ he asks, pausing halfway out of his seat as though the idea has only just occurred to him.

  ‘Oh no!’ I hold up a hand. ‘I’m fine. I need to go to the shop anyway.’

  ‘If you’re sure?’ Theo shuts the car door and waits while I collect my bag from the back seat.

  ‘Thank you for today,’ I say, my quiet voice reflecting the shyness I’m feeling. ‘It was a real treat.’

  Theo smiles at me over the roof of the car.

  ‘See you tomorrow, Hannah,’ he says, and then he’s off, shutting the blue door behind him before I’ve even had a chance to reply.

  Did that day just happen? I think, crossing the road and watching the sprinklers that have just come on in the middle of the lawns by the shopping centre. Thin patches of glistening rainbows appear almost immediately in the spray, and I’m reminded of the postcard Theo bought me today. He was so attentive, so playful, and so interested in me, but now all I feel is hollow. It’s as if I climbed all the way to the top of a mountain only to discover that the amazing view I’d been promised when I set off is completely obscured by fog. Now all I feel is lost. Lost and a bit weary.

  It only occurs to me to switch my phone on when I’m almost back up the hill, sweaty from the walk, irritable from the disappointment, and desperately craving a cool shower and a drink with an alcoholic content. To my surprise, I have over fifteen missed calls from Tom, two from my dad and five from a mobile number I don’t recognise. There’s a text from Tom, too, but as soon as I open it up my battery promptly dies on me.

  Feeling more than a bit perturbed, I race up the last stretch of hill as fast as my gangly legs can carry me and hurry down to the apartment.

  ‘Hello?’ I call, shutting the door behind me and sending up a silent prayer that Claudette hasn’t brought home another young Spaniard.

  ‘Out here,’ comes the reply, and I follow the sound to the balcony.

  Claudette is indeed alone, stretched out on her towel in the one remaining corner of sunlight, a thong made from what looks a lot like dental floss decorating her neat, round bottom.

  ‘Have you seen Tom?’ I ask, averting my eyes as she props herself up on one elbow. There’s a French novel folded open in front of her on the tiles, and a cigarette sits smouldering in an ashtray.

  ‘Yes, he was here about an hour ago,’ she says, eyeing me up and down. ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘Just out,’ I reply. I don’t want her to know about my day with Theo. She’d only ask questions, and I’m not ready to answer any of them. I want to keep the whole thing to myself, and I’m already regretting that I told Tom about it.

  ‘He was looking for you,’ she adds, taking a drag and blowing smoke up into the air between us. ‘He was with a girl.’

  ‘A girl? What girl?’

  Claudette deliberately takes her time replying, sitting up first and taking a long drink of water. Even her nipples look angry, I think, all red and indignant.

  ‘Small, pretty, dark hair.’ Claudette takes another drag. ‘Big boobs.’

  My stomach drops like a snooker ball into a sock.

  ‘Do you know where they went?’

  ‘Are those beers?’ Claudette asks, looking at the carrier bag in my hand.

  ‘What? Um, yes.’

  ‘Can I have one?’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ I mutter, heading to the kitchen and finding the bottle opener. Of course she wouldn’t have thought to replace all the beers she and Carlos drank together – oh no. That would just be too obvious.

  ‘Here.’ I thrust one into her outstretched hand. ‘Now will you tell me where they went, please?’

  ‘Mon dieu!’ Claudette jokes, getting herself back into a horizontal position. ‘Somebody has got their bikini bottoms in a twist.’

  ‘Just tell me!’ I plead.

  ‘He mentioned something about pizza,’ she says lazily, picking up her bottle of sun cream. ‘But before you go, can you ju—?’

  It’s too late, I’m already slamming the apartment door shut behind me.

  12

  It can’t be her. It just can’t be.

  It wouldn’t even make sense. How would she know where I was? And even if she did, why would she come? No, Tom must have genuinely managed to get lucky.

  And yet … Pretty? Big boobs? There’s no way Tom could have scored with a girl that Claudette would describe as ‘pretty’, not in the short time that I’ve been away. That’s even more unlikely than the alternative. But I refuse to believe that it could be true – it’s just too awful a thought to comprehend. It just cannot be her, and that’s that.

  By the time I’ve rounded the final corner in my dash through the village and am faced once again with the decorative wrought-iron gates of Diego’s pizza restaurant, I’m so wound up that my insides must resemble a treble clef.

  Peering through the gaps in the fence, my worst fears are confirmed. There at one of the tables, looking typically smug, annoyingly attractive, and infuriatingly full of herself, is my half-sister Nancy. And she’s not alone, either – Tom is gazing adoringly at her from a neighbouring chair, while Diego is in another. I can’t see his expression from here, but his body language tells me all I need to know.

  What the effing hell is she effing well doing here?

  ‘Hannah!’

  Oh bugger, Tom’s just spotted me.

  His long legs propel him over at an alarming speed – far too quickly for me to have anything ready to say to him except expletives.

  ‘Steady on!’ he exclaims, hurt all over his big face.

  ‘What the hell is she doing here?’ I seethe, clamping my teeth together like an angry velociraptor.

  Nancy has turned her head now and is smiling and waving at me. Not actually coming over here, oh no. She’d rather make me go to her. God forbid the little princess has to get out of her chair. I wave stiffly back.

  ‘I’ve been trying to call you all day,’ Tom says now, careful to keep his voice low. ‘Nancy has been, too, but you didn’t pick up.’

  ‘That doesn’t answer my question of what the hell she’s doing here,’ I rant, watching Diego put
his hand on my sister’s arm and shuddering. ‘I mean, what the hell does she think she’s doing? Nobody invited her.’

  Tom shrugs at this, which is obviously very helpful.

  ‘Tom! I mean it,’ I hiss, slapping him on the arm in frustration.

  ‘Ow!’ he grumbles, rubbing the spot. ‘It’s not my fault. I’m the one who had to hire a car and drive all the way to the airport to collect her.’

  ‘You should have left her there,’ I say, mutinous. ‘Hang on – how did she have your number?’

  Tom looks at the floor. ‘We may have chatted on Facebook a few times.’

  ‘TOM!’

  ‘What? I didn’t tell you before because I knew you’d react like this, but she’s really not that bad, you know. If you just gave her a chance—’

  ‘Pah!’ I snort – and I mean actually snort, like a pig over its dinner.

  ‘She’s here because she wants to see you, not me,’ he adds. ‘She told me that she can’t wait to spend some time with you.’

  ‘She’s lying,’ I snarl.

  ‘Hannah, you need to stop this,’ Tom says then, picking up both of my clenched fists. ‘You don’t hate your own sister – you know you don’t. I know you don’t. You’re a kind person and you’re my best friend, so I know you’re not evil.’

  ‘Thanks a lot,’ I mutter, but I can feel my rage subsiding a fraction.

  ‘Just hear her out,’ he urges. ‘Like you say, she’s obviously here for a reason. Why not let her explain it before you go over there and bite her head off like some sort of angry praying mantis?’

  Is Tom right? Am I being unreasonable? Is Nancy a demon only because I have made her that way in my head? Is she, in actual fact, a total sweetheart and all this time I’ve just been coerced into loathing her because of what our father has done?

  ‘Hello, Nancy.’

  I’ve made it as far as the table, Tom’s hand a solid force of encouragement in the small of my back and a smile plastered across my face. Nancy glances up at me. Her glossy dark hair is catching the light and there’s a flush of colour across her cheeks. There’s no way anyone would ever guess we’re related, and I’ve often wondered in the past whether it would be easier for me to like her if she looked like a smaller version of myself. As it is, she’s managed to swerve the bits about me that I’m not so keen on – the above-average height, the canoe-shaped chin, the too-large feet – and picked up a whole other host of delightful attributes from her mother’s side of the family. Her nose is neat and upturned slightly, like a doll’s, and her hands and feet are petite and feminine. She’s also got those full lips that so many people pay someone to create for them with disgusting chemical fillers, only hers are natural. She seems to get prettier as she gets older, too, which certainly cannot be said for me. I’m not even thirty yet, but I found my first grey hair the other day. A grey hair!