16
Curtis is at the sink, roughly washing a mixing bowl and banging it onto the drying rack.
The lumber will not arrive for two days.
The irritation Curtis feels at the delay highlights the fact that he’s still a New Yorker, still wants shit done in a timely manner.
This means he’ll have Damian’s help on the shed renovation for only a couple of days before their van is fixed and they move on.
He’s looking forward to their departure, though he’d hoped Damian would have gotten more accomplished before he left.
“There’s plenty of prep work we can do,” Damian says cheerfully, wolfing down the pancakes Curtis made. “I’ll get up on the roof and tear off the rotted shingles. You can rip the old boards off the frame.”
“Sure,” Curtis mutters, drying his hands.
He can’t seem to shake this bad mood. It started yesterday with Syd’s ridiculous accusations about ogling Bianca’s breasts, was exacerbated by the lumber delivery delay, and cemented by the ugly phone call with his friend Simon.
Ex-friend Simon. Yes, Curtis fucked him over, but he’d had no choice.
It was a matter of survival. Simon—anyone—would have done the same.
Curtis moves the stack of pancakes to the table. “Breakfast!” he shouts in the general direction of the pool. He knows Syd’s out there having her morning cigarette, but he’s not about to approach. If Bianca is tanning her boobs, he’s not going anywhere near them.
Syd stumbles into the kitchen, her hair mussed, her expression far away. He puts two pancakes onto a plate and hands it to her. “If your friend wants to eat, tell her it’s ready.”
“I don’t know where she is,” Syd mumbles, moving toward her seat.
“I’ll find her.” Damian stands up, leaves his sticky plate on the table.
As he passes behind Syd, he gives her shoulders an affectionate squeeze.
Syd’s smile is small, but she clearly appreciates his touch, his attention.
Curtis’s back teeth grind together, but he doesn’t comment. He addresses his wife.
“I’m going to get to work on the shed. Can you clean up after breakfast?”
“Of course.” Her eyes are fixated on her plate.
Curtis hurries out to the dilapidated building, beating Damian there.
His guest must be looking for Bianca, or maybe he’s found her.
She’s probably in the van. Even though the pair has moved into the house at night, Bianca sequesters herself in the caravan periodically.
She must have some clothing and personal items in there.
And she likely needs a break from the group dynamic once in a while.
Has Bianca noticed the flirtation between Damian and Sydney?
For all Bianca’s open-mindedness, she must be feeling some of the same irritation as Curtis.
Entering the musty shed, Curtis moves to the corner where he hides his burner phone.
He does a quick check for spiders and snakes before shoving his hand under the pile of boards and retrieving the device.
Unwrapping it from the protective rag, he shoves it deep into his pocket.
This hiding place is fast becoming untenable, but what are his options?
He’d considered the basement, but Sydney and Bianca are painting, shifting furniture and boxes. It’s far too risky.
He’ll keep it in the car, under the driver’s seat.
Sydney rarely drives, uncomfortable with the stick shift and the aggressive Spaniards on the road.
About a month ago, she’d taken a solo trip into Cadaqués, asserting her independence.
But when she returned, she was shaken by a near miss on a blind corner and she hasn’t gone anywhere on her own since.
If he parks the vehicle in the shade and turns off the device, the phone will be safe there. He steps back toward the door.
And then it happens: a splintering snap from above, a violent crunch.
His arms instinctively fly up to protect his head as the roof comes crashing down on him.
The sound of the wood striking his skull is deafening, but there’s no pain.
Not yet. It’s too shocking. His nervous system needs time to catch up.
There’s another noise too, a high-pitched screech.
He doesn’t recognize the sound of his own scream.
Damian barrels into the small shed. “Jesus Christ! Are you okay?”
Curtis tries to gather his bearings, tries to form a sentence through the dull throb building in his cranium. “What happened?” he finally manages.
“I stomped some rotted shingles through a hole in the roof,” the Aussie explains. “You weren’t supposed to be in here. You can’t skulk around on a construction site.”
“I wasn’t skulking,” Curtis snaps, but he was.
“You’re bleeding,” Damian says, indicating the deep scratches on Curtis’s forearm. “Let’s get you into the light.”
They move outside, and Damian looks Curtis over. “You might need some iodine on those scratches.”
“Sure.” Curtis touches his head gingerly.
“You’re not concussed, are you?” Damian asks. “Close your eyes and stand on one leg.”
“I’m fine,” Curtis grumbles, feeling mocked. Again.
“Do you want to go in? Get some ice and have a lie down?”
The condescension is subtle, but it’s there. Damian thinks Curtis is soft and weak. “I’ll be fine.”
“Good.” Damian cocks an eyebrow at him. “You were supposed to be tearing off the rotted boards. What were you doing inside?”
“I—I came in to check…” But he trails off. “We should get back to work.”
“Uh… yeah.” Damian pulls off his cap, scratches his head through his thick hair. “I don’t want to be a snitch, but there’s something you should know.”
Dread presses down on Curtis’s chest. What is Damian about to tell him? Has Syd propositioned him? Have they done something? He feels lightheaded and nauseated. Maybe he does have a concussion. “What is it?” he groans.
“Follow me.”
Curtis trails Damian around the shed, through the scrub toward the back fence. “I came back here for a slash,” Damian explains as they walk. Curtis assumes he means a piss. “That’s when I saw them.”
“Saw what?”
Damian moves behind a huge evergreen oak throwing its shade on a good portion of the hillside.
At the base, a few wild mushrooms grow. They’re poisonous, and as Damian crouches down, Curtis considers warning him about them.
But Damian points to a cluster of half a dozen cigarette butts on the ground.
“Your missus shouldn’t be smoking back here.
It’s tinder dry. The whole hillside could catch fire and we’d be goners. ”
He’s right. Sydney’s behavior is dangerous and reckless, not to mention sneaky. But Curtis is buoyant with relief. He’d expected something far worse than surreptitious cigarettes. He manages a stern tone. “I’m going to go talk to her,” he says. “This has to stop.”
As he moves toward the house, Curtis’s relief morphs into a perverse sense of anticipation.
Sydney has been so self-righteous, casting him so firmly in the role of the bad guy.
And now he’s caught her sneaking cigarettes, smoking in the bone-dry tall grass.
It’s reckless. It’s dangerous. And it’s deceitful.
Obviously it pales in comparison to adultery, but he’ll enjoy putting her in her place for a change.
He can almost forget the pounding between his eyebrows, the sting of his forearm.
Damian calls after him. “Ice that head while you’re in there, mate. Come back out when you’re feeling steady.”
Curtis doesn’t turn around.