Nurse in the Sun Page 5

  “Very,” Isabel said. “Well, I suppose since it’s gone six-thirty I must change, or this remarkable man will be after me for breaking one of the Rules of the Establishment.”

  “He would not be pleased if you were still in your uniform at dinner,” Consuelo agreed, clearly not aware of the note of sarcasm in Isabel’s voice. “He takes his dinner early - at eight-thirty, but you have time to change before he comes down, so do not worry.”

  “I’m not worrying,” Isabel said, turning to go. “Must I have dinner at eight-thirty?”

  “Oh, no, you can come to the dining-room at any time up to ten o’clock. Here in Spain we keep much later hours than you do in England. It is the hot sun of summer, you understand! Not until dark can any of us face the big meal. So, I must now return to my home. For me, I stay in the hotel only in the evenings on Saturday and Sunday,” she sounded a little mournful. “Los padres - my parents, you understand? They say I must go out only on these days, so at home I must be in each evening.”

  Isabel stopped at the door. “How old are you, Consuelo?”

  “How old? I am twenty-four, Señorita Cameron.”

  “Then you’re old enough, surely, to decide how you will spend your evenings? I mean, you aren’t a baby - you’re a grown-up person - ”

  Consuelo looked startled. “But I must do as my parents say.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? I - I - ” Consuelo floundered. “They are my parents! Of course I must do as they say! Here in Spain we are not as the English, you know!” there was a hint of pride in her voice. “We do not permit the young people to tell the parents what to do, as in England!”

  “I’m sorry - of course, I forgot. This is Spain, and I had no right. Forgive me. You just sounded so fed up - ”

  “Fed up?”

  “Miserable. Sad, you know?”

  Consuelo smiled then, a little ruefully. “I remember the word. You are right, of course. I am sometimes annoyed that I stay at home on all the good evenings. When I was au pair in England - well, I must not talk of that, it makes me - how is it said - discontent. And it is not so bad! There is Tomas - ” she smiled widely. “Mi caballero - my boyfriend, you know? It is not so bad - ”

  Isabel dressed for the evening with rather more care than she was prepared to admit. She had no intention of going in to dinner until long after Señor Garcia would have left the restaurant, and she certainly had no intention of seeking his company during the course of the evening. But all the same -

  So she bathed and dressed in the soft green silk dress she had bought to wear at the Consultants’ Dinner with Jason a few months ago - a memory that had to be very firmly pushed into its place - and brushed her hair until the coppery lights leapt out of it, and put on her makeup with very careful hands.

  And found that when she was ready that it was still only eight-thirty and hunger was gnawing at her in no uncertain manner. She realized almost with surprise that apart from a breakfast of black coffee, the plastic snacks on the plane and the tea and biscuits of the afternoon she had had no solid food all day.

  “So I’m away to my meal!” she told her reflection in the mirror. “And if Señor Snooty Garcia is still there in the restaurant it’s no’ my affair, is it? No, it is not, Isabel Cameron!”

  At the entrance to the lift in the foyer she lingered for a moment, looking about her with a sudden shyness; she had been aware of the luxurious status of the hotel ever since she arrived, but now, quite suddenly, it was hurled at her and almost overwhelmed her.

  There was a smell of richness in the air - expensive wine, expensive cigars, expensive perfume, expensive food, and if the guests she had seen in the restaurant at lunchtime had looked rich, they now looked positively millionairish. One of the women drifted by, talking busily to her silent companion in a white dinner jacket, and wearing a dress that Isabel could see at a glance had probably cost half of her own salary for a year; a full length confection of heavy dull grey satin with great bands of mink in the identical colour swathing the skirt, the neckline and the cuffs. A magnificent dress, and worn with an air of casual comfort that somehow made it seem even more costly.

  And there were other splendid dresses, all as clearly expensive as each other, and for one brief moment Isabel wanted to turn tail and run back to her room, to pretend she was unwell and phone to ask Jaime Mendoza to arrange to have a meal sent up to her.

  But her customary good sense moved in; she could hardly eat every meal in her room, hiding from the guests, and anyway why should she? She was staff, after all, not pretending to be anything that she wasn’t; so she lifted her chin in the characteristic way she did when she had made a decision, and walked across the great marble expanse to the double doors at the end.

  She lingered for a moment at the door, looking at the tables filled with chattering people, at the waiters skimming about at great speed with terrifyingly high piles of plates with gleaming metal covers on them, and trays filled with glasses and bottles. At one side of the entrance was a table which was so incredibly like a picture in a travel brochure that she wanted to laugh aloud, but its very realness made her laughter shrivel. Great red lobsters jostled with baskets of more delicate pink prawns, all long antennae and curly tails, while on one side a ham sat surrounded by a multitude of different shaped and sized sausages, and on the other a bewildering array of cheeses spread itself over a green-leaf-bedecked wooden board. And between all were heaps of artichokes and avocados, asparagus and apples, tomatoes and oranges and thick skinned lemons and red and green and yellow peppers - there was so much of it that it almost took her appetite away.

  “Señorita? You are the new nurse, yes? I am Felipe, head waiter, and I take you to your table.”

  “How do you do, Felipe?” Isabel said, and held out her hand and after a moment he took it and they shook a little solemnly, and then he turned and led the way through the restaurant to the table at the far side, the one she and Jaime had used at tea time.

  But there was no-one at it now, and she sat down in the chair that Felipe held for her with great punctiliousness, and unwrapping her napkin and spreading it on her knee, looked swiftly round beneath her lashes. There was no sign anywhere of Señor Garcia, and she breathed a soft sigh of relief and straightened up a little to look about her more comfortably.

  Felipe, looking very fatherly with his heavy shape and grizzled head moved about the restaurant with such elegance and speed that he seemed to be everywhere at once; he watched his waiters like a hawk, and it was amusing to see how he pounced on the most minor of errors of behaviour in the young men who bustled so busily from the leather-covered doors that swung hectically between the kitchen and the restaurant, and their allotted tables.

  She read the menu with a sense of bewilderment at first, and then found the English translation and settled down to enjoy herself. However Calvinist her upbringing, Isabel had a healthy respect for her stomach and a decided taste for good food and wine that a year as Jason’s girl had developed, for Jason, whatever else he was, was a man who knew what was good, and was determined to have it.

  So she ate gazpacho, that icily cold pepper and garlic flavoured Andalucian soup, and a small dish of paella with its yellow saffron flavoured rice with pieces of chicken and lamb and mussels and prawns plentifully mixed with it, and then cold chicken and salad, and enjoyed it all enormously. It was excellent food, excellently cooked, and served in just the right quantities - enough to enjoy each dish, but not so much that she was tempted to over-eat.

  She sat back in her seat, waiting for Carlos, the waiter who was looking after her (and she had immediately asked the name of the boy who was assigned to her table, and made a point of using it, remembering how much she herself hated the anonymity of being called “Sister” and appreciated the charm of people who took the trouble to use her name) to bring her the fresh orange she had chosen to end her meal. And was startled when he did arrive, for he was carrying a glass of champagne on the small tray as well as her orange.


  “What’s this?” she asked as he put the glass in front of her, and then skilfully began to peel her orange, first impaling it on a long slender fork. “I didn’t ask for anything to drink!”

  “Señor Garcia, Señorita,” Carlos said. “He say, to welcome a new member of staff to the Cadiz - he is a good boss, hey?” and he grinned at her cheerfully, and began to slice the orange very thinly with his murderously long thin knife.

  She looked about her again, and this time she saw him, sitting across the great restaurant on the far side, and he was looking at her very directly.

  For a moment she wanted to pretend she hadn’t noticed his gaze, and then castigated herself for being so ungracious; the man may have been disagreeable before, when they met in the clinic, but he was now clearly trying to be pleasant. So she picked up the glass and raised it a little in his direction before sipping it, and he inclined his head very slightly, and then looked away; and not in any way did his facial expression change.

  “Damned icicle,” she muttered, and Carlos said “Perdone?” and she shook her head, and smiled at him and thanked him for his efforts with the orange.

  It was almost quarter to ten by the time she had finished her fruit and her wine, and she stood up to leave the restaurant feeling decidedly better than she had, but quite extraordinarily tired. Her eyelids were heavy and she could feel a constant desire to yawn lurking behind her jawbones, and knew she had eaten too well altogether, and that the glass of champagne had added to the general effect.

  Señor Garcia’s table was empty, she noticed, and she left the restaurant obscurely glad of it; with luck she wouldn’t have to see him to thank him for the champagne until the next day, when she would be in the clinic in her uniform, and thus somehow protected; in uniform, when she could be every inch the Sister, strict, cool and remote, it would be easy to deal with his irritating manner; but now, lulled half asleep with food and wine vulnerable in green silk, she couldn’t face him.

  But even as she told herself this, crossing the long corridor towards the lounges where she could hear the soft sound of music and the chatter of many voices, Señor Garcia appeared from one of the doors at the side, and came across towards her, as unsmiling as ever.

  “Señorita Cameron, good evening. I hope you found your dinner good, and that you are comfortable still at the Cadiz?”

  “Thank you, it was very good - and I am very comfortable. And er - I’m to thank you for the champagne. It was a - very good of you.” She knew she sounded flustered and was angry with herself for it. Damn it, there was nothing to be flustered about!

  He made that supercilious little bow again, and she frowned a little, and then he said in the same even and rather flat tone. “This is your first visit to Palma di Mallorca?”

  “Yes. I’ve never been anywhere in Spain before.”

  “Then you will permit me to offer my car for your use, should you wish to see the city, and some of the nearby interesting sights. My chauffeur is outside and ready when you are.”

  She went very red, and then white, and opened her mouth and closed it again, silently, for all the world like a gawky schoolgirl. After the things she had been thinking about this man, to be asked out by him in this way - it was almost more than she could take in.

  She opened her mouth again, but this time she was interrupted before she could say anything, and she whirled in stunned surprise at the sound of her name.

  “Isabel? Er, Miss Cameron? - remember me?”

  It was Biff, standing there with a panama hat held in one broad brown hand and his nice brown face split with a very white smile, and she smiled back at him with unfeigned delight. At least she didn’t have to say anything to Señor Garcia while Biff was here.

  “Well, hello!” she said with great warmth in her voice. “Er - may I introduce - er Señor Garcia - my - er - employer. Mr. Squires - ”

  “Glad to know you, Señor,” Biff said, holding out his hand. “Hey, that’s a nasty looking bandage you have there! Has he put you to work already, Isabel? Well, well! - ”

  “A small accident, no more,” Señor Garcia said. “How do you do, Señor Squires.”

  “I don’t know if Miss Cameron here is free or not - I was kind of hoping I’d be able to take her round the town and show her a few things. Can you spare her, do you think, Señor Garcia!”

  “Oh, no!” Isabel started to laugh. “Oh, this is too much! First Señor Garcia offers to take me to see the town, and now you! It’s too much altogether! What do I do? Toss up? I feel like a rope in a tug of war!”

  She knew she was chattering absurdly, and giggling like a great baby, but the combined effects of tiredness, a big dinner and the second glass of champagne in one day were enough to make the most taciturn of individuals into a garrulous one - or so her secret little voice whispered to her, as she looked almost hopelessly from one man to the other.

  “My offer was to lend you my car and the services of my chauffeur, Señorita, so there is, you see, no need to make any difficult choices. No doubt Mr. Squires will be as happy to escort you in my car as in a taxi. Buenas noches, Señor, Señorita - ” and with yet another of those chilly inclinations of the head he turned and went across the foyer towards his mirror-doored office, leaving Isabel with her hand held to her flaming cheeks, and Biff Squires staring after him in puzzlement.

  5

  She came down to breakfast at seven-thirty, walking out of her room and going down in the lift under the curious stares of the small army of white-aproned and capped chambermaids who seemed to be swarming everywhere, with dusters and brooms and buckets akimbo. But there were no guests in the restaurant and for that she was grateful. Last night, after she had escaped to her room from the agonizing embarrassment of the episode in the lobby, she had sworn that she would go straight back to England. Even staying at the Royal and seeing Jason every day wouldn’t be as ghastly as all this.

  But this morning she had gone out on to her balcony and stared down at the gardens, at the overalled men bustling about the plant borders and arranging the loungers and skimming the swimming pools of dust and floating leaves, had smelled the exciting freshness of the new day, seen the sun lifting the bay into creases of diamond edged sapphire loveliness, and had an attack of stubbornness. So she had made a fool of herself! So what about it? To go scuttling back to London like a daft bairn would be to make herself even more of a fool. She’d stay put, and Señor Full-of-Himself Sebastian Garcia could go to blazes.

  Carlos was ready and waiting for her, busily arranging a few tables out on the restaurant balcony, though the rest of the tables in the big room were clearly set for lunch. She settled herself under the awning as he pulled a chair out for her.

  “Don’t many people come to breakfast?” she asked.

  “Ah, no, Señorita - they like to eat in their rooms, these guests. Soon the waiters are running everywhere with trays - it is a busy time! But me, today, I have the restaurant and it is easy for me!” His face split into a great grin. “So, for you - you want the big English breakfast, si?”

  She thought of porridge and bacon and eggs and looked at the row of palms that edged the balcony and the way their needle leaves were etched against the vivid blue of the sky, and shook her head firmly.

  “Certainly not, Carlos! In Spain, I eat as the Spaniards do! I can eat porridge any time - so just bring me what you think is best.”

  He nodded in great approval and hurried away, and she sat with her chin propped on her hands staring out at the morning and felt her heart lift. It was a beautiful place to be, and there was a whole summer ahead of her, and as for last night - after a moment she began to smile. It was funny, after all. Less than twenty four hours after leaving a broken heart behind her in grimy old London, she was seeing herself as the sort of girl men almost fought over - too ridiculous for words.

  And there’s another thing, she thought then, as Carlos came towards her from the kitchen doors bearing a tray in his hands; “I’ve only thought of Jason
once or twice since I got here, after weeks of having him in my mind constantly, almost like a sore tooth.” If the object of this Spanish exercise was to rid herself of his lingering ghost, she was clearly going to achieve it.

  “Now, Señorita Cameron!” Carlos said. “Try this!” He put in front of her a goblet that was filled with a deep orangy yellow liquid, the outside dewed with moisture, and she sipped it and let the taste slide over her tongue and shivered with pleasure.

  “It is juice, fresh juice I just squeeze for you myself - orange and the little - you call them tangerines, yes? And grapefruit and some lemon juice and a leetle sugar. Bueno, si?”

  “Mucho bueno!”

  “And also, I bring you café con leche - coffee with hot milk, the rolls, and these - these are very special - typico - typical of the Island.”

  He uncovered a little cane basket, and showed her a couple of big flat curly cakes, dusted with sugar and gleaming a delectable golden brown in the sunlight, “These are ensaimadas - you taste, you see - with the mermelada de naranja - the marmalade - ”

  Obediently she took one of the cakes and pulled off a piece and spread it with a little of the marmalade he gave her, and then nodded, her mouth full, for they tasted as delicious as they looked. And Carlos grinned at her, and poured a cup of coffee for her, and went away to leave her in the clear light of the Mediterranean morning to enjoy her meal.

  She was whistling softly beneath her breath as she made her way down through the foyer to the floor where her clinic was, full of breakfast energy. The maids nodded and murmured “Buenos dias!” as she went by, and she cried “Buenos dias” back, childishly pleased with her ability to say so simple a Spanish phrase. There was a maid waiting to get into her clinic, too, when she got there, and as soon as Isabel had unlocked she set to work to swab the already gleaming terrazzo floor, and to polish the chrome to blinding perfection.

  After a little thought, Isabel prepared a tray of sterile instruments and dressings, ready for what might come in the way of work. There was no way of knowing how many people would need attention - no way of knowing if there would be any at all for that matter, but she knew there would be at least one, and she certainly had no intention of being caught unprepared by him.