A Gift to You Page 12

  Sophie left her to it.

  The beach was a golden, curved crescent of paradise. Pine trees fringed the edge of the cliffs. White-crested wisps of waves lapped the shore.

  Off the beaten track, it wasn’t crowded like the big resort beaches with their serried rows of white loungers. This beach was a little jewel dotted with coconut umbrellas and delightful green loungers that could be hired for the day. A small island lay about a mile offshore. There were no motorboats or hang-gliders or pedalos in sight. It was a most peaceful place. Sophie choose two loungers, lay her towel on one, stripped to her black M&S bikini, lay down, closed her eyes and breathed deeply. She was in heaven. It was too relaxing even to read. A balmy little breeze whispered around her; the sea murmured its soothing, rhythmic lullaby. Sophie fell asleep.

  Melissa joined her several hours later. She was on a high.

  ‘Remember that guy?’ she asked excitedly. ‘He asked me if I would like coffee. His name is Paulo and he’s absolutely loaded! He’s staying on a yacht with friends; they’re cruising around the islands for a month. Imagine! He asked me out to dinner tonight. What will I wear, Sophie? It will have to be something ultra sophisticated. Do you think the little black silk D&G dress I bought would be OK?’

  ‘It will be fine.’ Sophie tried to sound enthusiastic. Melissa hadn’t wasted any time. It looked like Sophie would be dining alone tonight. Her heart sank. Just as well she had plenty of books to read.

  ‘I’d better get some serious sunbathing done before tonight.’ Melissa unhooked her bikini top and slathered on some Hawaiian Tropic. ‘Sophie, it’s great that we came to this place. I’d never have met anybody like Paulo in Palma Nova. That marina is ultra posh.’ She gave a positively beatific smile as she slid elegantly onto her lounger, stretched out and closed her eyes.

  Sophie tried not to feel envious as she surveyed her friend. Melissa had everything: looks, fabulous figure, bubbly personality. No wonder she was never manless for long. A deep sigh came from the depths of her as she looked at her own tummy, which was not flat and taut like Melissa’s, but curved and rounded with a little soft, jelly sort of bulge, no matter how tight she held her muscles in. Her thighs were dimpled at the top, unlike Melissa’s firm, toned, satiny-skinned ones. And there was no denying that she had thick ankles, Sophie thought glumly, as she surveyed Melissa’s shapely turned ankles and perfectly pedicured feet.

  She felt disgruntled . . . and hungry.

  ‘Will we have some lunch?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, God, no! I couldn’t eat a thing, I’m so excited.’ Melissa yawned. ‘Besides, Paulo bought me a gorgeous cake with the coffee, earlier.’

  ‘Well, I’ve had nothing to eat since breakfast. I’ll just go and get something myself.’ Sophie pulled on her shorts and T-shirt, grabbed her bag and flounced off.

  ‘Enjoy it,’ Melissa called airily after her. She hadn’t even noticed that Sophie was annoyed. Bitch! thought Sophie, simmering with resentment. Denise was right, Melissa was so self-centred she thought the world revolved around her. Barely their first day on holidays and Sophie had to eat alone. She climbed, the curving wooden steps up the side of the cliff and tried not to pant. She was so unfit it was a disaster. Still, there was nothing she could do about it now. She might as well treat herself to something tasty for lunch, she decided. Food was always a great comforter. Besides, it would be quite nice to sit at a shaded table outside the cliff-top restaurant and tuck into deep-fried squid in batter, with a crispy, crunchy side salad, and sip ice-cold San Miguel beer.

  It was her fifth day alone. She might as well have come on a singles holiday after all, Sophie reflected, as she lay on the lounger in her favourite spot on the beach. Melissa had spent two days with Paulo after the first momentous dinner-date.

  ‘You don’t mind, lovie? He’s such a pet. You should hear the gorgeous things he says to me and he’s such a gentleman. He’s really smitten, Soph,’ Melissa twittered, as she changed into yet another outfit for a shopping trip to Palma. That night she arrived back at the apartment, eyes aglow.

  ‘You’ll never guess, Soph? Paulo has asked me to go to Ibiza on the yacht. I’m so excited.’

  ‘How long are you going for?’ Sophie demanded. She was furious.

  ‘Don’t be like that, Soph,’ Melissa muttered defensively. ‘This is the chance of a lifetime. Paulo is just what I need after The Rat.’

  ‘Look, Melissa, you asked me to come on holiday with you. So far, we’ve had one breakfast together and I’ve been left to my own devices ever since. You’re being really selfish and I don’t think much of your behaviour!’ Sophie exploded.

  ‘No, you’re being selfish!’ Melissa rounded on her. ‘This could be the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and if you were truly my friend you wouldn’t be so mean.’ She took her case from the wardrobe and began to pack. Sophie felt like thumping her. How typical of Melissa to turn the argument to her advantage.

  They didn’t speak for the rest of the night. The following morning, Sophie kept her head under the pillow until she heard Melissa leave the apartment, dragging her case behind her.

  So much for the gentleman; he didn’t even come to collect the cow, she thought grumpily, as she heard the click-clack of Melissa’s white high heels fade away.

  Surprisingly, once her anger and resentment had abated somewhat, Sophie had actually enjoyed herself. She spent her days on the beach, reading, swimming and watching the incredibly confident, effortlessly stylish young Spaniards who congregated after school. It was an entertainment in itself. At night, she took a taxi to Palma Nova, ate at one of the beach-side restaurants and then browsed around the myriad of shops, before going home to sit on her terrace with her book and an ice-cold Malibu. The days melted into one another and Sophie realized that being on holiday alone was not half as daunting as she’d imagined. It was a liberation of sorts to know that she was perfectly capable of enjoying herself alone.

  She was soaking up the late-afternoon rays, immersed in her historical novel, when a child’s piercing scream rent the air. Sophie looked up to see a little Spanish girl of about four howling in pain as her elderly grandfather tried to comfort her. She had seen them come to the beach every afternoon and thought they were so sweet. The grandfather doted on the little girl and made magnificent sandcastles to entertain her. Sophie jumped up and hurried over. ‘Can I help?’ she asked. ‘I’m a nurse.’

  ‘Oh, thank you very much. Maria has been stung.’ The man spoke perfect English.

  Sophie soothed the little girl. ‘Could you get me some vinegar from the restaurant and I’ll remove the sting and put some cream on it.’ She turned to the grandfather. The man spoke in rapid Spanish to a young student nearby, who raced off up the steps towards the restaurant.

  Sophie kept talking in calm, soothing tones to the little girl who has stopped screaming but whimpered pitifully.

  She squealed again as Sophie applied the vinegar and removed the sting but, once the balm of antiseptic cream had done its trick, she was soon playing again, the incident forgotten.

  The grandfather was effusive in his thanks.

  ‘My daughter is pregnant and Maria’s nanny had to return to Madrid as her mother is very ill. So I’ve been looking after her in the afternoons,’ he explained. ‘I am Juan Santander.’ He held out his hand.

  ‘Sophie Irvine,’ Sophie reciprocated. They chatted easily for a while. It was nice to have someone to talk to.

  ‘Your friend has not come back?’ Juan remarked. ‘She was here with you just one day.’

  How observant, Sophie thought.

  ‘She went on a cruise to Ibiza.’

  ‘Did you not want to go?’ Juan enquired.

  ‘I wasn’t asked.’ Sophie laughed.

  ‘I see.’ His eyes were kind. ‘You will be here tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We will see you then.’ Juan gathered up his granddaughter’s bits and pieces. ‘Tomorrow.’

  The following afternoon,
Sophie smiled as she saw the pair make their descent down the steps. Maria raced over to proudly show off her bandage.

  Juan winked. ‘For such an injury, a bandage was necessary. May we join you?’

  ‘Please do,’ Sophie invited.

  ‘I wonder, would you consider something?’ Juan asked. ‘I told my daughter what had happened and that you were a nurse and that your friend had left you alone. We wondered if perhaps you would like to come and stay with us for a few days in our villa up in the hills? We have a pool and lovely grounds and it is most comfortable. My daughter is looking for someone to mind Maria and the new baby for at least six months. Maybe you might be interested in the position. If you spent a few days with us, you would know if it is something you would like.’

  Sophie’s eyes widened. It sounded like a fantastic proposition. Leave dreary, humid, stuffy old London and spend six months in this paradise. It sounded like a dream.

  To her amazement, she heard herself say, ‘I’d love to.’

  ‘Excellent. Can you come today?’

  ‘I’ll just go up to the apartment and get my things.’

  ‘We’ll collect you. Just give me the address,’ Juan instructed. ‘We will pick you up in an hour, won’t we, Maria?’ He spoke in Spanish to his little granddaughter.

  ‘Si, si.’ She hopped up and down with excitement.

  ‘See you in an hour, then.’ Sophie couldn’t believe how impulsive she was being. But this was a chance of a lifetime.

  She had just packed her books when the door of the apartment burst open. Melissa appeared, red eyed and on crutches.

  ‘Thank God I’m here. That bastard was so callous. I broke my leg in Ibiza and he couldn’t get rid of me quick enough. I even had to get a taxi at the marina. They let me off and then they sailed away. Can you believe it?’ Melissa burst into tears. ‘My luggage is in reception – can you collect it for me?’ She sniffled.

  ‘Sure.’ Sophie’s heart sank as she headed off to reception. Trust Melissa to do something dramatic and break her leg. She saw a big silver Mercedes drive up to the entrance. It was Juan and Maria. She couldn’t really go with them now and leave Melissa.

  She’d leave you, a little voice said. Sophie stood stock-still. What kind of a fool was she? Melissa wouldn’t think twice about putting herself first. It was time Sophie did the same. For once in her life, she was going to do something spontaneous. She lugged Melissa’s case back to the apartment.

  ‘Why is your bag packed? Where are you going?’ Melissa demanded, as Sophie wheeled the case into the bedroom.

  ‘To stay with friends?’ she said jauntily.

  ‘What friends? You don’t have friends here.’ Melissa snorted.

  ‘Yes, I do. Look out of the window. See that silver car over at reception?’

  Melissa’s jaw dropped. ‘Who are they?’

  ‘Sorry, I can’t stay and explain, Mel. Have to go.’

  ‘But you can’t go!’ Melissa was incredulous. ‘You can’t leave me! My leg is broken. I’m on crutches. How will I manage?’

  ‘You’ll be fine. We’re on the ground floor. You can eat by the pool. You can sunbathe. The rep will bring you to the airport. No worries.’ Sophie was enjoying herself.

  ‘But you’re a nurse. You have a duty to sick people!’ Melissa raged. This wasn’t the Sophie she knew. ‘You can’t leave me here on my own!’ she fumed.

  ‘Watch me,’ Sophie drawled as she lifted her bag from the bed.

  ‘Goodbye, Melissa. Enjoy the rest of your holiday. I know I’m going to enjoy the rest of mine. To tell you the truth, it’s the best holiday I’ve ever had.’

  A year later

  ‘Did you hear about Sophie Irvine? She’s engaged to some wealthy Spanish doctor she met when she was working in Majorca. They’re getting married next month, Denise was telling me. Flying the whole family out to Majorca for the wedding!’ Angie O’Neill told Melissa as they tidied up the salon after a very busy day.

  Melissa’s fingers curled and her lips tightened with envy. What a bitch that Sophie Irvine had turned out to be. Leaving her alone in that grotty little apartment with a broken leg. She hadn’t seen her from that day to this. And now to hear that she was engaged to a rich Spanish doctor. Was there no justice in the world?

  ‘Don’t mention that girl’s name to me. I thought she was a friend. Little did I know until she stabbed me in the back.’

  ‘She stabbed you in the back!’ Angie was astonished.

  ‘Not literally, you idiot!’ Melissa snapped. ‘I invited her to go on holiday and then she met these people and left me in the lurch, on my own, with a broken leg. Can you believe that?’

  ‘Really? I’d never have thought it of Sophie. She sounds like a bit of a fairweather friend. Just as well you have me to go on holiday with this year,’ Angie soothed. ‘I wouldn’t do anything like that.’

  ‘I know, sweetie.’ Melissa smiled. ‘You’ll love where we’re going to. It has a marina full of yachts and rich people. It will be the best holiday ever.’

  ‘I can’t wait!’ exclaimed Angie excitedly. ‘Thanks for inviting me to come.’

  ‘You’re very welcome,’ said Melissa graciously. ‘Could you be a pet and finish off here? I’ve a thumping headache.’

  ‘Oh! OK,’ Angie murmured. Funny how Melissa always got a thumping headache on Friday evenings when the salon had to be cleaned.

  ‘See you at the airport tomorrow.’

  Melissa swanned out of the salon, leaving her new best friend to tidy up. Angie would be an excellent holiday companion, she thought with satisfaction. Not like the-soon-to-be-married Judas Irvine.

  True Colours

  I’d better tell you straight away, before we go any further – I think I murdered my husband. This is the first time I’ve actually admitted it and said the words aloud.

  ‘I think I murdered my husband!’ It’s quite a relief really to verbalize it. It’s been a strain keeping it to myself this last year or so.

  I won’t tell you my real name, just in case. You never know, I might live in your area. We might be on nodding terms as we walk our dogs in the park, or buy our lotto tickets every Friday.

  I’ll call myself Melanie. I liked Melanie Hamilton in Gone With the Wind. I know she was a bit wishy-washy compared to the magnificent Scarlett O’ Hara but she was a softie with a kind heart and I was like that once. And that’s what got me into trouble.

  I suppose I should start at the beginning, it might make more sense to you then and you won’t judge me so harshly.

  I lived in a small seaside town with my elderly parents. I have two sisters and a brother. Let’s call them Carla, Tina and Larry. I’m sixty-three, on the plump side, and I’ve stopped dying my hair. It’s now an ashy-blonde colour that I rather like. My husband used to nag me when he was alive about eating properly. Our diet was very wholesome. He was a disciplined person. Image was ultra important. Dyeing my hair came with the territory of being a consultant anaesthetist’s wife.

  I was the eldest. It’s tough being the eldest. My parents were strict with me. I was expected to be the responsible one and had to look after the younger ones. I wasn’t allowed go to discos or into town to shop with my friends on Saturdays. I had to be in by nine-thirty at night even when I was in sixth year in secondary school. Not for me, sneaky fags and slugs of vodka and furtive gropings down by the boat shed with the rest of the gang. My mother would have gone berserk if she caught the whiff of fags or drink off me and my father would have leathered me with his belt.

  He was a bully. My mother was afraid of him and I suppose it was partly for her sake that I didn’t rebel. He would have made her life more of a misery than it was. He was a tight, mean, selfish bastard and I hated him. His word was law in our house.

  He didn’t like me. I always knew that. It was only years later that my mother told me that she’d got pregnant with me and he’d had to marry her. He always felt she’d tricked him into marriage and he never forgave her, or me.
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br />   I suppose I was lucky that the girls I hung around with tolerated me as I lurked enviously on the fringes of their seemingly carefree, unfettered lives. They spoke with smug insouciance about getting pissed, and French kissing or even, in some cases having it off with their fellas. Us more timid, constrained souls could only listen in awe and envy. These conversations left me feeling even more like a pariah than usual. Would my chance ever come or would I die a virgin, never knowing carnal pleasure? To die ‘wondering’ was one of my great preoccupations during my teenage years.

  I remembered being at the funeral of an elderly spinster neighbour and hearing an old fella from down the road saying, ‘God love her, she died wondering with never a rub of the relic,’ and the other old men laughing. I thought they were horrible and disrespectful and the jocular derisive comment made me feel vaguely sad for my elderly neighbour who had been a quiet inoffensive soul. I was twelve at the time, on the cusp of puberty and in love with Paul Newman. I didn’t want to die wondering.

  I fretted about how was I ever going to escape from the straitjacket of parental control. I longed to be free of my father’s strict, oppressive stranglehold.

  I was bright enough at school and I loved art. When I was painting I was free, able to express through my use of colours the rage and despair that seethed within me. I knew I was in a catch-22 situation. If I worked really hard and got the points to go to university, I’d be stuck under my father’s thumb for another four years. If I went out to work straight after school, I might not earn enough that I could afford to rent a flat in Dublin and get away for good.

  I would love to have gone to college and studied art but my father thought this was nonsense. ‘You won’t get anywhere in life studying arty farty crap and I won’t be paying for it,’ he told me bluntly, once, when I’d ventured to suggest it.

  I wouldn’t want to be beholden to him anyway, I fumed in the privacy of the bathroom, mocking myself for even thinking it was an option and cursing myself for opening my big mouth to him about it.

  ‘If I were you I wouldn’t waste my time even talking about college to him,’ my mother said flatly. ‘Go and get a job and get a life for yourself out of this place.’ When she said that to me, I felt uncharacteristically close to her. We didn’t have a warm relationship. She was too worn down by my father’s bullying to be able to enjoy a normal relationship with us. My mother had a sad dullness in her eyes that never left her until the week before she died.