How Was It For You? Page 5

  Just like the Spanish husband she’d dreamed about, he wore an immaculately ironed pink polo shirt and his dark hair was slicked back from his face. A soft sweater was draped over his shoulders and she was sure if she got closer he would smell of limes, coffee, bergamot and sun. She put him at around 40 and clocked his ringless fourth finger just as she saw that he was looking up at her again.

  He smiled and she darted a snippet of smile back before looking down at her plate. She suspected this was why Barcelona women always looked so fantastic. It was such a flirtatious town. The air was full of unspoken compliments, sideways glances, longing looks, it was hard not to be drawn into it. In fact, wouldn’t she actually love to be drawn into it?

  She looked down at her sleeveless black top and the pale, un-toned upper arms sticking out of it, and felt dissatisfied.

  Well, well, Pamela teased herself, if she was going to run away from Dave and rent a room in Barcelona, she would have to improve the look, wouldn’t she? Shape up. Wear ironed khaki and matching leopardskin.

  But as Alex had warned, she wouldn’t even know where to begin. Maybe shoes? A new handbag? But she was always buying those things. Nice shoes, good bag. They were a cop-out, too easy to get right. It was the in-between area – what to put with the boobs and the tummy, the curvaceous bum and thighs. Sex appeal oozed from everyone here. She had no idea how to do that. Her dress sense had gone from school uniform to art school uniform (ripped jeans and secondhand corduroy) to clever designer uniform (black knits, smart trousers, fashion items, Gap at the weekend). She had no idea how to do sexy.

  Her breakfast had been slow and leisurely; already it was some time since the handsome Spaniard had finished and walked out past her table, sending another smile in her direction, which she had pretended not to notice. The last of the coffee in her cup was too cold to drink and as there was still no sign of Alex, Pamela decided to venture out on her own. There was a shop she had noticed on their trawls up and down the boulevards and she thought she might quite like to go in there, although she suspected this would require some courage on her part.

  Looking into the shop’s front window, she saw that this was true. All sorts of items of Barcelona chic were laid out in front of her: rich conker brown bags, ruffled linen clothes in rust, black and red. The mannequin was dressed in a stunning evening gown of burnished gold and brown.

  She caught her reflection – black and white English frump – and wondered if she dared even cross the threshold.

  ‘Oh for God’s sake, it’s a shop, not an IVF appointment,’ she told herself, then pushed open the door, releasing the tring-a-ling bell.

  A slim, chignoned, perfectly maquillaged woman looked up from a brochure on the counter and gave her a chilly smile.

  ‘Hello,’ Pamela said and smiled back.

  ‘Can I help choo?’ the heavy accent asked.

  ‘I’m looking for . . .’ and here her confidence faltered. For what, exactly? For a new life? For a Spanish husband? For a baby? For a way to come to terms with the pain in my head?

  Her eyes fastened onto the racks and racks of clothes and momentarily, stupidly, she thought she was going to cry.

  But she saw that the chilly smile had warmed a little and she managed: ‘I’m looking for a new outfit, something nice. What do you have that would look good on me?’

  ‘A dress?’ the woman asked.‘To go out?’

  ‘Yes,’ Pamela told her, because really, she should go out more, there was nothing she needed a dress for particularly, but surely it would be a good thing to have?

  The woman came out from behind the counter, so Pamela could see her rigidly pressed trousers and her carefully co-ordinating sandals, and stood right in front of her, sizing her up.

  The top of the woman’s head was level with Pamela’s shoulder, and she was so bird-like and delicate that Pamela felt even more like a galumphing big frump.

  This was just going to be humiliatingly awful. She imagined herself trying to squeeze into some tiny little Spanish suit with gold buttons.

  The woman went to the rack and slowly began to scan the dresses, quickly flicking past the ones she didn’t think would suit. Pamela wasn’t asked to help in this search.

  Soon she had five or so in her hands; she came back to Pamela and held them to her, hangers under her chin.

  Carefully she appraised each one with a tilt of the head, little sigh and occasional ‘hmmm’.

  ‘I think thees good for choo,’ she said finally and handed Pamela just one: a surprisingly dressy midnight blue taffeta and chiffon concoction.

  ‘In here—’ the woman pointed her to a little changing cubicle.‘Choo ask, I help with zeeep.’

  In the changing room, Pamela hung the dress up and looked at it carefully before she began to undress.

  The flared taffeta skirt was topped with a tight ruched chiffon bodice, wide shoulder straps and a chiffon scarf. It wasn’t like anything else she had in her wardrobe at home. She couldn’t think when she had ever worn a dress like this, or even tried one on. It was so . . . feminine. She usually stuck to straight, square, simple clothing in the hope that she was being minimal and elegant. But really, she had finally realized, she just looked dull.

  When she’d pulled the dress on, she tugged at the zip, but it was obvious it wasn’t going to do up. Looking in the mirror, she almost laughed. It was horrible. This was why she had no dresses like this in her cupboard at home: her arms looked ghastly and her boobs were spilling over the top like trapped puppies struggling to escape.

  Obviously bird-woman was not going to be the shopping fairy godmother she had been hoping for.

  She just wanted to whip the thing off and get out of there.

  But bird-woman was at the other side of the curtain.

  ‘How eees dress?’

  Pamela stepped out into the shop to give her the full horror effect.

  ‘Not good,’ Pamela said.

  ‘No, no, no, no,’ bird-woman tutted, tilting her head to the side again, touching the gaping sides of the zip.

  ‘We try again, no?’ she asked and before Pamela could stop her, she began the flick, flack, flick through the laces, satins and silks and the holding up of dresses under Pamela’s chin.

  After five dresses had failed to look anything other than badly fitting, Pamela really wanted to go, but she could see bird-woman was only becoming more and more determined to find something that would work.

  She was over at another rack now, with longer dresses, some swathed in cellophane, and she studied one dress long and hard before bringing it over.‘We try thees?’ she asked.

  And Pamela was back in the changing room, slithering a long creamy satin number out of its plastic wrapper.

  She looked at it and wondered whether she should even bother. It was a Greek goddess dress, for God’s sake, bound to cling to every bulge and roll. But awkwardly she pulled it down over her head and shoulders and let it drop to her ankles.

  Then she took a deep breath, opened her eyes and looked in the mirror. The effect was surprising. The bumps didn’t exactly disappear, but they were transformed into curves. Suddenly the most important things about her figure were the soft hint of cleavage under the draped neckline, her small waist and her delicate ankles; nothing else seemed to matter too much. The lined satin didn’t cling too hard, it hugged, it caressed. And there were even little split bell-sleeves to disguise the arms.

  She turned slowly to each side and looked long and hard at the back view. A cunning knot of fabric in the lower back made the most of the waist and disguised the rear.

  It was unbelievably clever and flattering and best of all she felt comfortably elegant. She couldn’t think of a single thing she’d wear it to, but it really would have to be bought. For whatever might come, she would be prepared. When she stepped from the changing room, bird-woman actually clapped her hands.

  ‘Bravo, this is the one, no?’ she informed rather than asked Pamela.‘Beautiful . . . classical, no? Italiano,’
she said and Pamela had a bad feeling about the price tag.

  They both looked in the mirror to admire the dress from all angles and Pamela, totally committed now, tried to sound a little casual when she asked the price.

  The woman told her with an expectant little smile.

  Oh dear God. Euros, euros, of course. Well, that wasn’t sooooo bad, was it? She did the maths, lopped a third off the figure and well . . . for the perfect dress?

  ‘I’ll take it,’ she told the bird.

  ‘Chesss, choo must,’ she agreed.

  Paying was the wobbly moment. She saw the puddle of cream lying over the counter top and wondered if it was going to be one of those expensive follies that would hang all forlorn in a corner of the cupboard for the rest of its days, unworn, not because it wasn’t beautiful, but because she didn’t have anywhere to wear it.

  She would find somewhere, she determined, handing over the card firmly.

  Out in the street, bag, tissue paper and dress in hand, she wondered what Alex would think of it. On the walk back to the hotel, she passed the big, glossy display windows of a fabulous furniture shop and decided, what the hell, she’d go in there too.

  She stalked round past the chaise-longues, the loungers, the maple tables and over to lighting. A great big sculptural chandelier made out of bulbs, milk bottles and scraps of paper was hanging down into the middle of the room and she stopped to look it over carefully.

  ‘Fantastico, no?’ a man hovering at her elbow asked. She didn’t look round but agreed, eyes fixed on the light, trying to read the messages she could see now were scrawled over the paper.

  ‘Are you in ziz business?’ the man asked and she turned to see the polo-shirted, jumper-scarfed, very attractive Spaniard from the hotel’s breakfast room.

  ‘Oh, hello.’ She couldn’t believe how calmly this came out when she was feeling so stupidly flustered.

  ‘Are choo a designer?’ he asked with the chewy, caramel accent everyone in this city was using to hypnotize her. How else could she explain the wildly extravagant cream satin dress in a bag dangling from her wrist, a vivid dream about turning Spanish and now feeling caught in the headlamps of this man’s warm stare?

  ‘Interior designer, yes,’ she answered, amazed at how calm this sounded.‘You too?’

  ‘No, no. This is my shop. I have one in Madrid where I live and this is the new one.’

  She took this in, but the most important thing was the way he said ‘Madrith’.

  ‘Are you from London?’ he asked.

  And when she said yes, he told her how much he loved London, loved the designers, dreamed of opening up a shop there. He named his favourite shops and sources and she knew them all.

  ‘You have to meet my friend Alex,’ she said, smiling.‘She knows all these amazing places.’

  ‘There is a gallery opening in town tonight. Would choo like to come?’ He was reaching into his back pocket for a card; when he handed it to her it was curved and slightly warm.

  ‘Gallery is here,’ he said and pointed to the address on the card, brushing past her hand as he did so.‘The party starts at 8 p.m., so come after ten.’

  He smiled.

  ‘Can I bring Alex? We’re visiting Barcelona together.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What’s your name?’ she asked, almost as an aside, as if it hardly mattered now.

  ‘Si, of course, Xavier Garcia Majo.’ He held out a hand she was almost frightened to take. What was she starting here? Where would this end? Xavier Garcia Majo . . . jumper draped over his shoulders like a cloak, fine-boned face, dark eyes fixed on hers. Perfectly sleek, perfectly groomed, he was like a prince, a glossy, minor European aristocrat, luring her into a world of gallery openings, champagne, expensive cars and adultery.

  That was the word popping unbidden into Pamela’s mind as she took the warm hand and allowed it to close around hers.

  She imagined the small ad: Handsome Spanish prince available for champagne receptions, fast car rides, expensive shopping and adultery WLTM unhappily married Englishwoman or similar for discreet fun.

  ‘Pamela Carr,’ she said.

  ‘A beautiful name,’ he replied. Eyes not leaving hers, hand held tightly round hers.

  ‘Take your time, look around,’ he said, finally releasing her.‘I will see choo and choor friend tonight.’

  She said goodbye and managed to drift slowly around the shop for a few more minutes, until her desire to rush out and run back to the hotel to confess all to Alex was too strong to resist.

  But confess what? she thought as she hurried along the pavement. This was all entirely made up in her deluded little head.

  Shop owner invites London interior designer to friend’s gallery opening. So what! Just maybe, he was hoping she would buy a painting . . . not exactly planning a rush into a torrid extra-marital affair.

  Alex was still in bed but now she was damp, showered, drinking coffee and tucking into a room service breakfast.

  ‘Great,’ was her verdict on being invited to the show.‘And how have you wangled this for us?’

  ‘I was in this shop and got chatting to the owner, you know.’ She thought she might give something away if she wasn’t careful, so she changed tack, adding: ‘It’s you he wants to meet though, for your London address book.’

  ‘I see . . . and what is this shiny bag I spy in your hand? Have you been out shopping without me? I hope you’ve done it properly. If I look in here and see something black and architecty from John Smedley, I’m going to be angry.’

  Pamela opened the bag and unfolded the tissue-papered dress across the bed.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ Alex grinned.‘You’re wearing it tonight, aren’t you? It’s all clear to me now. You’ve been chatted up by some hunky Spanish shop owner who has invited you to a party and you’ve rushed out and bought this dress.’

  ‘No, I got the dress first. It’s not what you think at all,’ Pamela huffed.

  ‘It’s OK. I’m sorry,’ Alex soothed.‘But you realize you’ll need shoes? Absolutely nothing you have with you will do,’ she added.

  And casting a quick glance at the ankle boots and flat backless walking loafers, Pamela knew she was right.

  ‘So, more shopping . . . Oh good,’ Alex said and flicked back the sheet.‘Now I have a reason to get out of bed.’

  Not having to be there till ten, they spent too much time getting ready and a little bit wine-high.

  Fighting for mirror space, swapping mascara, trying out different lipsticks reminded Pamela of school.

  ‘I’m a bit suspicious of you,’ Alex told her, when Pamela was finally ready, looking totally unusual, in satin dress, the strappy heels Alex had made her buy, hair up, red lipstick, dark eyes: looking, in fact, quite delicious. Better than Alex had ever seen her look.

  ‘Suspicious? Why?’ Pamela was smiling.

  ‘I’m just wondering who it is we are going to see tonight.’

  ‘Last night I dreamed I was Spanish,’ Pamela told her, deciding to ignore the hint.‘Can’t you just let me pretend a bit?’

  ‘OK, are we all set then?’

  Alex was groovy, and totally London in her black trouser suit, lace bra and baseball boots.

  It crossed Pamela’s mind that they looked like a couple. Scary London lesbians, she thought, smiling, as Alex matter-of-factly took her arm and they stepped out of the hotel lobby into the warm night. Down busy pavements set with tables, chairs and everyone up, everyone out and about, some shops still open.

  The gallery was wonderful. The party exactly the beautiful people’s night out they had secretly been hoping for. Big, dramatic rooms hung with just one or two canvases, packed with people, and although Pamela was surreptitiously scanning for Xavier, there was no sign of him.

  ‘What a brilliant place,’ Alex was telling her as they sipped at the cloudy yellow cocktails pressed into their hands by passing waiters.

  One of the rooms was part library, but Pamela had never seen b
ookshelves like this before. So perfectly neat, all alphabeticized, all books by the same publisher placed together in the neatest, most perfect rows.‘I want my bookcase to look like that,’ she told Alex.

  ‘Me too, but it’ll never happen. C’mon. Let’s see the terrace.’

  They walked up a scarily unbanistered, floating staircase and came out onto an airy terrace lit with rope lights and candles and graced with another shiny, champagne-decked bar.

  The terrace was overlooked on two sides by tall, elegant buildings, framed with wrought iron balconies, which glowed with the light escaping from inside.

  ‘Oh wow, why don’t we do this more often?’

  ‘Because we don’t live in Barcelona?’ Alex reminded her.

  ‘London must be full of parties like this.’

  ‘But no charming Spaniards to invite us.’

  Right on cue, Xavier was by her side, gasping in admiration at the dress, kissing her and then introducing himself to Alex.

  Which was just as well, because Pamela was momentarily stunned by the fierce Spanish kissing experience. His arm had pulled her in, then left, right, left, he’d pressed into each of her cheeks, lips close enough to cause a breeze as they passed. And he’d smelled just as she’d imagined, of lime and bergamot, of suntan oil and summer sex.

  Sex . . . and now the word was there in her mind, all three letters of it. She was trying to listen to what he was telling them but s-e-x, s-e-x, was playing over and over again. He oozed it, she saw now, in his white linen suit, dark skin, shirt unbuttoned one rung lower than anyone British would have dared. In the way his eyes lingered on her when she spoke. It took him just a little bit too long to move back to Alex with the conversation.

  ‘I’ll get more drinks, yes?’ he offered, then plucked their glasses from their hands and turned barwards.

  ‘This is him, yeah? Party fairy godfather?’ Alex asked.‘Has he got the hots for you! Whooo smoking,’ she teased, mercilessly adding: ‘Would ya?’

  ‘Would I what?’