Bloody Mary (33 page)

Mallorca hadn’t been forgotten, it never would be, but the freshness of the memories were fading fast as life, and reality, back in Littleover took precedence. Harry’s house had three bedrooms, and he wasted no time in helping me to move my belongings from Sophie’s childhood room into his, so that our daughter could sleep in the familiar surroundings. We’d replaced the baby equipment that had been left in Mallorca, the new Moses basket at the foot of her bed, and together we’d created a pretty nursery in the smallest bedroom for when Sophie felt able to sleep in a separate room from her baby.

Her excellent reputation as a solicitor held her in good stead, and she felt confidant of finding a part-time position in the near future, giving herself enough time before searching to settle after the treacherous few months first. Jaimee was well cared for, all three of us adults adoring every sound and movement she made, and she was progressing beautifully.

Two weeks had passed our their return, we hadn’t heard from anybody in Mallorca, Harry becoming agitated at Carlos’s lack of contact, and Sophie quietly grieving for Juan, albeit having suspected his romantic assurances were all said in the heat of the moment.

The three of us were seated at the table in the kitchen, having had a leisurely breakfast to start the day, when a knock on the door disturbed the peace. Harry went from the room, and returned with a pile of letters, and a package, moments later, a puzzled expression on his face. He dropped the mail on the table, and handed the parcel to Sophie. She noticed the postmark. “It’s from Spain. Oh no, I hope it’s not bad news.”

With trepidation, she ripped at the brown paper, struggling to get through the excessive brown tape, and finally retrieved a letter, and a bubble wrapped box, from within. Glancing at me and Harry, who were gazing curiously at the parcel, she unfolded the letter. A massive grin spread across her face. “It’s from Juan.” Dropping the note, she tore eagerly at the protective wrapping covering the box, and soon it was apparent it was a jewellery case. Opening it, the diamonds sparkled, reflecting the rays of sun streaming through the window into a thousand glistening colours. She dropped it, stunned.

I, snatching the box, and marvelling at the cluster, diamonds bigger than I’d ever seen, couldn’t resist the comment. “So it was a pipe-dream, was it! I think you’ll find, young lady, that Juan Murillo was very serious indeed. No man buys a ring that expensive without being hopelessly in love!”

Sophie picked up the letter, written in his appealing pigeon English. It told her of his attempt to give her the ring at the airport, and how he’d not arrived in time. Gushing assurances that he was hers, and hers only, and finally a request for her to help him find a job, so he could join her in England, and be able to support her financially. It all seemed too wondrous to really believe, but the words of his intentions were in front of her, black and white.

It was a perfect fit. Sophie’s fluttering heart sent a warmth emanating through her body, and her smile, with the comfort of being adored, was precious.

Harry, a straightforward person without room for the frivolities of romance, all the worse for me, wasn’t as immersed in the moment as the us two, he sifted through the letters, surprised to see another bearing an España postmark. “That’s strange, here’s another one from Spain.” He carefully opened it, not the type of man to do anything with gusto, and removed the letter from within. Unfolding it, he scanned the words, his face becoming more furrowed the further he read. Once he’d finished and digested it, he turned to his daughter. “Sophie. This letter. It’s from Carlos. It contains some, well, some bad news, and I’m not sure how you’re going to take it.”

Sophie was still admiring her ring, she didn’t move her eyes, partially disinterested in her father’s words. “Right. Let me guess, Darren has contested the divorce and doesn’t intend to give me any…”

“Sophie!” His voice was stern, and she felt five years old again. “Carlos says that he’s spoken to the highest people in the judicial system, and they all agree that if the house is in Darren’s name, you haven’t a leg to stand on.”

The noise she emitted was a snigger, but her eyes weren’t smiling, just wide with puzzlement. She got up, away from the table, striding to and fro across the kitchen. Eventually, she grasped a bottle of white wine from the fridge, unscrewed the lid and poured herself a large glass. Harry and I exchanged a glance, unsure whether to speak or not. Eventually. “But I can prove the money came from my account, Dad!”

“I know you can, sweetheart. But Carlos says he’s tried everything, and can’t find a loophole in the law.”

“For God’s sake! I’ve worked all my adult life to earn that money, just to be told I’ve lost everything. No! I won’t accept that nothing can be done, there must be justice somewhere, I mean, how can I buy a house over here for me and Jaimee if I don’t get the money back? This is ridiculous.”

Harry dipped his head, acutely aware of his daughter’s frustration. “What if I call Bob and appeal to his sense of fairness?”

Sophie rolled her eyes, flashing with a mixture of despair and anger, and she spat the words. “Well, I haven’t got his number, have you?” She didn’t wait for an answer, grabbing the bottle from the side with her glass. “Forget that, Dad, I’m finding this weird, I’m not sure how to take it, I just don’t know how I feel. Watch Jaimee will you, I need to lie down?”

I nodded, and Sophie was gone. “I don’t think calling Bob would be a good idea, Harry, I don’t think he’d be on Sophie’s side. I don’t trust him one iota. They’re a bad lot, the Delaneys, I knew that from the moment I met them.”

Harry mulled my words for a moment, nodding slowly, deep in thought. “I’ll try Carlos, maybe I can urge him to keep investigating, perhaps on the fraud side. I’ll need to speak to him about their divorce anyway.”

I was horrified. “Good Lord, Harry! She can’t go ahead with that now, if something happens to him, and you know how much he drinks, his liver’s probably pickled, then at least if she’s still married to him she’ll inherit the apartment!”

In his peaceful manner, he debated my words, and finally came to a conclusion. “Yes. I see what you mean.” He rose and left the room, with me following him, passing as he sat at the telephone table in the hall, brandishing the letter, and climbed the stairs.

I knocked lightly on the door, the sound of Sophie sniffing indicated she’d left the kitchen for some private tears. “Can I come in, Sophie?” There was no reply, and I crept in anyway. Sophie was on the bed, an open bottle of brandy and the ring on the bedside cabinet, and tears streamed down her blotchy face. “I just wanted to see how you are.”

My instinct that Sophie would be ready to spill was right, the words came gushing out. “You know, I didn’t hate him. I know he didn’t treat me well, and I know he hurt me on many occasions. But I always knew it was the drink talking, not him, and that’s why I stayed with him for so long. So why has he turned on me so badly, why’s he treating me so badly? I gave him the child he wanted, I went along with his plans, I was a good wife to him. So why does he hate me so much?”

I sat beside her as the fresh tears overflowed, and put an arm around her shoulder. “Sophie, I’m afraid there’s a single, simple answer. He wanted a son, you gave him a daughter. Your Dad’s on the phone trying to persuade Carlos to keep trying to find a solution as we speak. But you have to remember that Darren was willing to throw you out of that apartment even though you paid for the majority of it, he was willing to take your baby away even though he showed no interest in her. And he was willing to beat you into such a pulp it rendered you in hospital for three days. Again. You owe that man, and his family, nothing.”

“Just keep reminding me how horrid he was to me and Jaimee, Mum, don’t let me forget, because at least that way I can hate him enough to fight this to the end.” I could have sworn that Sophie had just called me ‘Mum’, and that special honour warmed my heart so deeply, I knew that somehow, some way, I was going to get the justice my child deserved. Resolved, with Harry playing golf later, and suspecting Sophie would be drunkenly asleep, so I would have the house to myself for a private conversation, I decided a phone call to Sophie’s twin was now necessary. After all, he was a policeman. He’d know what to do.

Two weeks had passed, and Carmela had finished her shift, gratefully stepping from the hospital, eager to get home and rest her aching feet, but she halted when she heard her name shouted from behind. She turned, aghast to see Doctor Murillo, his white coat flapping, running towards her, dodging the staff and patients who littered the corridor. He caught up with her. “Carmela.” She blushed, surprised he knew her name. “¿
Usted quiere venir para un café conmigo
?”

She nodded, feeling her cheeks reddening even further, and began to walk beside him towards the nearest café. What a turn up for the books! Coffee with the dishy Doctor Murillo! She’d never in her wildest dreams expected that to happen, especially when she’d passed the name of Sophie’s hotel, and her English address, onto him. Maybe Sophie had rebuked him. Maybe he wasn’t as attracted to her as he’d thought now she wasn’t in the same country. Well, she wasn’t complaining, all the same, she was about to realise her dreams and have coffee with Doctor Murillo. Or should she call him Juan now?

They sat at a small, round table, shaded by a parasol, on the terrace of a café. Sitting opposite him, Carmela lapped up his strong features, the foppish dark hair which strangely reflected gold when the sun bounced from it. He had the most beautiful eyes she’d ever seen on a man, long black lashes framing the clearest of blue. The colours of his hair and eyes were unusual for a Spaniard, and Carmela guessed his genealogy would reveal a foreigner somewhere along the line. Oh, and his mouth, plump and red lips, his teeth slightly crooked which added to his appeal, she wished she could lean across and kiss him.

While she’d been daydreaming he’d placed an order for two coffees, and the waitress brought them over. He began in his lilting Spanish voice, creamy and deep. “Carmela, I expect you’ve worked out why I’ve asked you here.” Her cheeks had started to burn again, but the excitement outweighed the embarrassment. “You were quite close to Sophie Delaney, weren’t you?”

Stunned, immediately rebuking herself for getting carried away, for reading more into the situation than she should have. She nodded, her eyes dropping sadly.

“Do you have her phone number?” He had no inkling of how crestfallen Carmela was. Still unable to utter a word, the fear of weeping too great, she shook her head. “Damn!” She knew she should ask him what was wrong, but she just didn’t care enough to pose the question, even out of politeness. He was going to tell her, all the same. “I sent her an engagement ring the day she flew home, that was four weeks ago, but I’ve not had a response or anything. No letter, no phone call, nothing. What do you think I should do?”

Forget her, she wanted to scream, ask me instead, I would never ignore you. And what about her, she has the man of my dreams and she just casts him aside like he’s a piece of trash. “I don’t know, Doctor Murillo, it does seem a bit odd. Are you sure she got it?”

“I sent it with recorded delivery, and I’ve checked up and it was her father who signed for it.”

“I take it you gave her your phone number and address?” And to herself, ‘I wish I had your phone number and address’.

He sighed, becoming increasingly hopeless as the conversation furthered. “Both, and the hospital address. And my mobile number. And my email address.”

Carmela wanted desperately to put a spoke in their relationship, claim Juan for herself, but reality was reality, if he’d wanted Carmela he’d have asked her out years ago, and she couldn’t help having a soft spot for Sophie. A true friend would put her feelings aside and concentrate on doing the best for her friend. “I think you have three choices Doctor Murillo. You could keep waiting and hope something arrives from her soon, or you could accept she’s got on with her life in another country. Or you could go and see her in person.”

Juan gripped her arm amiably, and it triggered a tingle running from her head to her toes. “
Las gracias, Carmela, usted es un amigo verdadero
.”

A true friend, she thought, he doesn’t have the slightest idea how much I am of a true friend! Her expression was sour as she told him he was welcome. “
De nada
.” She finished her coffee and left.

Juan had never been to England before, in fact, he’d never been abroad before. He’d seen pictures of Britain in books, watched subtitled films, seen snippets on the television, but visiting had never appealed to him, by all accounts it was a cold country, and he enjoyed the Spanish heat. But he would tolerate anything if it meant being with the woman he’d waited his thirty-three years for. Girlfriends had come and gone over the years, they’d been pretty, or smart, or witty, but never all three. Sophie was. Her face was ethereal, a haunting beauty that seemed so delicate, yet so strong. She was undeniably clever, with opinions, but open to suggestions too. And she had the ability to laugh at the most perverse situations.

The agent who had arranged his flight, knowing his destination was Derby, had ensured he landed at East Midland Airport, and he was grateful for this, he’d just assumed everywhere was closest to London. He’d packed light, only taking a small bag, not needing many clothes for just two nights, so he had no need to collect any baggage on his way out of the airport. He flagged a taxi down and stated the address he was headed for.

It was only during the relatively short journey that Juan became aware of the pitfalls of his optimism. He was about to turn up on Sophie’s doorstep, unexpected, to ask her a question he’d already asked her, and she’d chosen not to respond to. Was he crazy! Maybe he should turn around, get the cab driver to take him back to the airport. Go home, count the lost money he’d spent on the ring as a learning curve, and get on with the life he knew.