Chapter 1

It was the need for shade from the hot sun that sent me down the shadowy alley shortly after midday.

It was the desire to slake my thirst that made me enter the small bar with the curious name and soft music.

It was the hypnotic voice of the singer and the sensuous movements of the dancers that kept me there until after midnight.

What brought me back the next day I have still to discover, and yet here I am, my book unopened on the table as I sit sipping coffee and trying not to contemplate the disaster that is my life.

Here I can pretend, just for a little while, that everything is all right. That I still have a job and a career, that I still have someone who loves me, and that I’m not in Barcelona, on my honeymoon—alone.

I’ve spent a lot of time over the last week beating myself up that it’s my fault Loretta left me at the altar—not literally, thank god, the embarrassment would’ve been too much. But she called the whole thing off the day before. Two days before, my publisher, her father, had cancelled my contract. Apparently, literary novels don’t sell anymore, and I said I wouldn’t write a cosy mystery in a market saturated by celebrities. So here I am, nursing a broken heart and a broken life.

The music, the singing, the language forming the backdrop, foreign to my ears and all the more exotic for it, anchor me to this place. It feels timeless. I hardly register that coffee has been replaced by wine, and the waitress has placed a couple of plates of tapas—that I barely remember ordering—in front of me. The hours pass, though I can’t account for them.

A glass landing heavily on the table startles me. It takes a second to get my bearings and I focus on the dark liquid almost sloshing over the side, watching it settle into a calm ripple before lifting my eyes to the source.

The singer stands across from me and sets another glass on the table. He’s tall and broad, dark-featured with heavy brows and full lips, probably around forty or so. But it’s his heavy-lidded eyes that grab most of my attention. I stare into a chasm, the edges lined with desolation. They’re striking, and I’m momentarily adrift in their tragic beauty.

I realise I’m being rude, but I also have no idea what he’s doing here. Blinking, I look around at the bar, now empty of customers.

“Oh, I’m sorry. You’re closed.” I hadn’t noticed everyone leaving, so wrapped up in my own thoughts.

“ Quédate, por favor .”

“I’m sorry, I don’t speak Spanish. No hablo espanol .” I’ve pretty much exhausted the extent of my foreign language skills.

His mouth twitches slightly and he switches to English .

“Stay. Please.” His richly accented voice is perfect, causing fleeting chagrin that I never bothered to learn Spanish. He settles into the chair opposite and I look around again.

“Are you sure? It’s late. I don’t want to put you to any trouble.” I’m babbling, but I’ve hardly spoken to anyone all week. I feel ill-equipped to be good company, even if he does intrigue me.

“I don’t want to drink alone.” He pushes the glass closer to me and picks up his own. He nods to my glass, and I grasp it. The message is clear, and I don’t want to appear rude. He briefly swirls the liquid in his glass before holding it aloft.

“To not drinking alone.” I start to laugh, but it dies on my lips as his eyes capture mine, and he doesn’t look away as he downs the drink in one. I watch, fascinated, as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. I raise my glass and echo his words.

The alcohol hits the back of my throat, searing a path. Rum. I don’t usually take it neat. I cough and splutter, trying to compose myself instead of looking like the uncouth English guy who can’t speak the language or knock back a drink.

His mouth twitches again, but he doesn’t comment as he reaches for the bottle and refills the glasses. I think I’ll just sip the next one.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a packet of Marlboros. He offers one and I shake my head.

“I don’t smoke.”

“Very wise. It’s a filthy habit.” That doesn’t stop him taking one out, flipping the top of a Zippo, and lighting up. He carefully places the lighter down on the table, takes a long drag, and exhales, gesturing to my book with the hand holding the cigarette.

“What are you reading?”

“ The Shadow of the Wind .” I’d thought it somehow cultural to read a book set in Barcelona while I was here, but now as I say it, I feel gauche.

“Zafón?” He nods. “Good choice. I have it in the original if you want to try it.”

Whilst his approval feels like I might have passed some sort of test, I stare at him, trying to work out whether he’s joking. I already told him I didn’t know much Spanish. But his face is impassive, as if learning a new language was something you did every day.

“What brings you to Barcelona?” The question is casual enough, but there’s a dark intensity to his eyes, and I wonder if he’s asking about Barcelona in general or what brings me back to his bar.

In any event, I’m not going to share my pathetic story with a stranger, so I shrug.

“I’ve never been here before. I wanted to see some Gaudi.” Both statements are true, so it doesn’t feel like a lie. And wanting to see the Casa Milà and the Casa Batlló were some of the reasons I wanted to visit this beautiful city. Though I’ve done exactly zero sightseeing so far. I wince internally at the fact that my insistence we come to Barcelona might have contributed to Loretta’s accusations, thrown at me on the afternoon she left.

You’re so boring Rafe, all you ever do is work.

“A regular tourist then,” he says and takes a drag on his cigarette.

I feel like he’s mocking me slightly, or at least dismissing me, and I blurt out,“Not really. I’ve been here a week and haven’t seen anything yet.” Now I just sound like a fool. He doesn’t respond, just continues to regard me with a curious expression. The seconds stretch and I feel it might be one of those moments where he’s deliberately leaving a silence for me to fill. Well, I’m not going to just prattle out anything to embarrass myself. I need to change the subject .

I take a sip of the rum, allowing it to slip down smoothly instead of burning my throat. It occurs to me I’m accepting after-hours hospitality from a guy and I don’t even know his name.

I read the sign behind the bar: La Casa de Valery. Valery’s House.

“Are you Valery?”

His expression shifts, almost like someone has flicked a dimmer switch.

He picks up his lighter, turning it over and over in his fingers. He takes another long drag on his cigarette, exhaling slowly with a sigh.

“Valery was my husband. He was my world.”

Damn, I’ve gone from not wanting to embarrass myself to making him uncomfortable. I really am bad at this, being in company.

Another puff of his cigarette.

“I loved him and would’ve followed him to the ends of the earth. In the end, I just had to follow him here.”

“You’re not from Barcelona?”

He shakes his head. “No, I’m from Gran Canaria. Valery went there for a holiday.” His face softens and his eyes are far away, in a bygone time. “I hardly left his side for the month he was there; I was besotted, and so was he. When he returned, I came with him.”

He gestures round the bar with his hand, careless of where ash is falling.

“This was his dream, to have a bar. It was all he talked about. We spent a long time saving up for it. But he never got to see it.”

He picks up his glass and downs the rest in one gulp, his eyes dark and brimming with a deep hurt.

“What happened?” My voice croaks, and I take a gulp, forgetting to sip. I swallow past the burn .

“He got sick... cancer. Three months. That’s all we had... three months.” Bitterness laces his words. “I watched him turn to dust in front of my eyes.”

“I’m so sorry,” I say. It’s the usual thing to say, but I know it won’t touch the side of his grief. His mouth forms a tight line as if he’s heard it a million times and it brings no relief.

“It took me a year to finish saving up, to open this place. To realise his dream. All of it, it’s for him.”

He sits back, his face expressionless, like telling his story has wiped him clean of emotion.

I look round at the bar, seeing it as the tribute it is, seeing the effort that’s gone into making it a vibrant and lively place.

“I think that’s the most romantic story I’ve ever heard.”

When I look at him again, the bottomless sadness is back.

I yawn, tiredness catching up with me. He stands.

“I should lock up. It’s late.”

I understand my dismissal, but I don’t have the energy to be annoyed. I can see he wants to be alone.

I say goodnight and take my leave.

It only occurs to me, back in my hotel room as I get undressed for bed, that I still don’t know his name.