Chapter 5

When my eyes landed on the guy from yesterday, the air felt lighter and the room was brighter somehow, which is ridiculous. Here in the bar, the lighting is the same day in and day out, so I don’t know why it seemed that way. I guess it’s because I was afraid I’d scared him away. I was quite abrupt with him last night. Most days, I can cope well enough, but for some reason, last night, sharing my story with the stranger made it feel raw again. I thought time would heal the grief, but it hasn’t. It just makes it easier to bear. That is, until something reminds me of the future I can never have with Valery, and then it catches up with me. I push the thoughts away, determined to not go through it again.

I help the staff finish clearing up for the night and lock the door after them. I glance over to where Rafe is sitting, talking with the other guy, Florencio. At first, I was a little annoyed that Rafe wasn’t on his own when I went to apologise earlier. Had I wanted to talk to him alone? Had I wanted him to myself? That’s a curious thought that I might unpack later. Was it a wise decision to ask them both to stay? I spend far too much time on my own, and I don’t make great company. This could be a chance to finally crawl out of my shell and engage with the outside world. I could do with trying to make some friends.

On my way back over to their table, I choose a bottle of wine. It’s one of my favourites and I feel like sharing. Also, staying off the spirits might be a good idea.

They both look up, stopping their conversation as I pull up a chair and sit.

“Don’t let me interrupt you,” I say as I apply myself to opening the bottle.

“Do you know Rafe here is a famous author?” Florencio smiles widely and I watch Rafe’s brow crease.

“No, not famous at all. Barely known, really.” His expression is painful, as if he’d rather not talk about it.

Instead, I pour us all some of the wine. I watch as Rafe lifts the glass and peers at the wine before giving it a swirl and bringing it up his nose to sniff it. I catch the eye of Florencio, and he’s smirking slightly, almost as if he knew this would happen. Rafe takes a sip, leaving it there for a minute, and he even closes his eyes for a few seconds.

“That’s a damn fine Rioja,” he says. “Where’s it from?”

He reaches for the bottle, picking up his glasses from the table, obviously needing them to read the label. They suit him and give him a kind of dishevelled teacher look. I can see him spending hours writing, peering down at the words he creates, his focus totally consumed by it.

“It comes from a small vineyard my cousin Luis Eduardo owns just on the edge of the Navarre region,” I enlighten him, and he turns his attention to us, becoming aware we’re both watching him, our own wine glasses untouched.

“I—” He puts the bottle down. “Sorry, was I being a wine bore? I get told I am all the time.”

“I’m not sure you can be one of those in Spain. I’m just not used to seeing our wines being appreciated by . . . outsiders.”

I grimace, wincing at my own words, wishing the biases we acquire didn’t rule us unconsciously.

“I’ve already made that mistake tonight.” Florencio laughs, picking up his glass and taking a hearty swallow. “He’s forgiven me, so I’m sure he’ll forgive you too.”

“I actually like surprising people.” Rafe is smiling, much to my relief. “I forgive you.” He raises his glass and nods before taking a drink.

“Gracias . ”

He tips his head with a small smile, and I realise I’ve answered in Spanish.

“Sorry. I—” I start to explain.

“It’s fine. It’s actually one of the few words I do know, so I understood.”

I turn to Florencio. “So, you’re from Argentina, correct?”

He currently has his glass to his lips, so he makes a flourish with his hand.

“Wait, you know where he’s from? You just met.” Rafe pulls back slightly in surprise.

“You must have the same with your English dialects,” I explain.

“Well, yes, of course. I’ve not really thought about that for other languages.”

“And you can always tell an Argentinian,” I add with a slight smirk.

“ ?Que maleducado! ” Florencio slaps a hand on his chest, but his smile is wide.

Rafe’s brows knit together as he stares off into the distance, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. I watch transfixed as he chews it slightly, remembering too late that we were excluding him. I’m about to apologise again, but he speaks first.

“I don’t know it, but contextually, I guess you were being a bit rude towards Florencio, and he was mock offended.”

“That’s exactly it. Well done. It translates as ‘how rude.’”

His warm smile is genuine and causes the corners of his eyes to crease slightly. He repeats the phrase. “ Que maleducado . I like that.”

He says it a few more times quietly to himself, as if committing it to memory, before taking another drink. “You say your cousin owns a vineyard?”

“My mother’s family is from the Rioja region, so most of her family is involved in the wine industry. My grandfather owns one of the largest vineyards in the area, and it’s been in the family for a long time. My cousin didn’t want to sit around and just wait for his legacy, he actually had an interest in cultivating grapes and making his own wine. He set up his own vineyard in Navarre. He studied the area carefully, trying to find the right terroir. That’s the combination of altitude, the soil, the correct side of the mountain so it gets enough sun, and all the environmental factors that affect the grapes.” Rafe nods in understanding. I guess he knows something about wine if he’s already familiar with the term. “It makes for very good wine,” I conclude.

“It does.” Rafe takes another drink as if to agree with his point.

“Your family’s vineyard though, which one is it?” Rafe leans forward a little, his eyes shining in interest.

“Castillo Otero.”

He sits back, his eyes wide and his mouth slightly open. “You’re part of the Otero wine family?”

I shrug. I’m not that close to the maternal side of the family. I find them too caught up in their own success, too haughty for me—overbearing and annoying. My mother felt the same, which is why she moved away to Gran Canaria as soon as she could. It’s also why my cousin wanted to set up on his own. He’s the only one I can stand for any length of time and is the closest I have to a brother.

“I feel I should apologise.” Rafe’s mouth forms into a slight grimace. I can’t imagine what he means.

“I wrote a book a few years ago. Although it was mostly set in England, it was based on the wine industry, so there were elements of Spanish vineyards. The Otero family... your family was one of the ones I studied. I might have formed some characters on them. I’m not sure I was wholly complimentary.” His face creases, and he looks like he might have painted them all as devils, which, to be fair, wouldn’t be too far from the truth.

“Well, if you made them self-centred narcissists who think of profit above all else, then you’d not be far wrong,” I reply blithely.

Florencio emits a loud snort, nearly spitting out his wine.

We both turn to look at him.

“Sorry,” he says when he’s recovered. “I thought you were talking about my family there for a minute.”

I’m suddenly curious about the witty Argentinian.

“So what brings you to Barna?” I ask Florencio, using the familiar term for Barcelona. His face, sunny one minute, clouds slightly.

“My father sent me.” He says it so flatly I’m not sure if he’s joking or not.

“He can do that?”

“Were we not just talking about families?” he huffs. “If your father is Antonio Delgado he can.”

Ah, even I’ve heard of him and his media empire. Florencio might not have been far wrong if he was comparing the behaviour of our families .

“Why did he send you?” Rafe asks. “For business?”

Florencio snorts again. “Like he’d trust me with anything like that.” He reaches for his glass again, twirling the stem in his fingers. When he speaks, his voice is cold and expressionless. “No. My father heard his aunt is unwell and probably won’t live too much longer. An aunt he hasn’t seen for thirty years or more. He decided now was the time her family should visit and that family should be me. He dressed it up to be because I would be the most suitable. What he really meant was that because everyone else is part of his business, I was the one who could be spared. It didn’t matter what I was doing. I was given four hours’ notice to get on a plane.” He lets out a long breath as if he’d needed to get it off his chest.

“Well, is it not good that she has some family with her?” Rafe says quietly.

“Oh, please!” Florencio exclaims. “My father doesn’t care about that. He is her only family, but all he cares about is that she isn’t leaving his inheritance to a cat shelter.” He takes a deep swallow of wine as if he needs to wash a bad taste out of his mouth.

“And is she?” Rafe’s mouth quirks at the corners slightly and Florencio shrugs.

“I don’t know, and I don’t care. She can do what she likes with her money. My father doesn’t need it. She’s not at all what I expected from the stories I’ve been told of her. I wish I’d met her sooner, before she became sick.”

This time, when I lock up after they’ve gone, I’m not plagued by memories. There’s no anticipation of them barrelling into me and being forced to relive them all again. Tonight, my head is calm and I feel at ease, something I haven’t felt in a long time. So long that it almost feels unfamiliar, and it takes me a moment to identify it. I realise I’ve enjoyed the last hour, talking to Rafe and Florencio. Rafe is smart and interesting, surprising me with his knowledge of my maternal family. Florencio is witty and doesn’t take himself too seriously, though I feel there’s a lot more to the pretty guy than he lets on. Pretty? I’m not sure where that came from, but I have to concede that Florencio is very pretty. He has dark eyes and lashes coupled with a stunning set of cheekbones above a wide mouth and a ready smile. Rafe’s beauty is earthier, with his soft brown curls and amber eyes. I don’t even know why I’m thinking of them like this. I have no right to, and I usually barely notice how anyone looks—I certainly haven’t for a long time. They’re just interesting, friendly guys. That’s it. Neither of them live here, so at some point, sooner or later, they’ll head off back to their own countries. I might as well enjoy their company while I can.

I run some water into the washbasin, ignoring the even louder grumbling from the plumbing, and stare into the mirror on the wall. There’s an old guy looking back at me. When did I get old? When did I start showing some grey hairs? Tiredness adds creases to skin that was once smooth. With my thick brows and heavy jawline, I’m not pretty—never have been, though I’ve been called handsome. Valery said I was as rugged as the rocks at Guayedra beach back on Gran Canaria. But now, in contrast to Rafe and Florencio, I look old, tired, and heavy. Nothing appealing that anyone would be interested in. I must be ten or fifteen years older than either of them. I don’t even know why these thoughts are coming to me. Why am I even allowing them to surface? Valery’s voice comes back to me. It’s a memory that doesn’t get played in the normal sequence because I’ve never allowed it to, never wanted it.

But now I hear him loud and clear.

Don’t sit and mourn for me, Con. Don’t waste your best years being alone. You have a big heart, find someone to share it with. You deserve love, to be loved.

He’s wrong, of course. He was my love and there will never be another. But perhaps sitting alone every night isn’t healthy. Have I wasted my best years? I haven’t thought of them as wasted, but maybe I can at least spend some time with other people. Tonight, as I drift off to sleep, I feel a tingle of anticipation at the prospect of seeing them again tomorrow.