Chapter 4
Chapter Four
JOEY
Her arms felt sticky, the heat and sweat melding with the ever-present sugar that hung in the air. She hurried home, thinking eagerly of the cool shower that awaited her.
The apartment was cool. The shutters kept the sun and heat from overheating her space, and it was a welcome relief from the intensity of the kitchen.
And from Carmen. Carmen was a good person, of course she was.
But she would insist on trying to insert herself into Joey’s personal life.
She never seemed to grasp the fact that Joey was just fine.
She didn’t need new friends. And she certainly didn’t need a girlfriend.
She was strictly kitchen material, not front of house.
Carmen was so good at charming the customers.
Joey, not so much. She knew she’d probably come across as a bit rude to the English girl with the notebook.
But what was she supposed to say to her?
She was just one of the hordes of people who would pass through the bakery, eat the produce, then move on.
There seemed little point in making connections that would so swiftly be broken.
She sighed at herself. Even she realised she was being grumpy now.
It was a state she slid into all too easily, and one that had caused her problems before.
Just at that moment her phone pinged. She pulled it from her pocket, opened the message, grimaced, deleted it, then gently placed the phone face down on the small kitchen table.
She pulled her clothes off and dumped them into the basket, ready for her next trip to the launderette, then stepped into the shower, happy to slough off the working day. As the cool water ran down her body, she felt her mood improve.
Once dressed in a linen shirt and shorts, she opened her shutters and stepped onto the balcony. The air was hot. It was a perfect afternoon for an ice-cold glass of water and her book. She settled into her seat and picked up where she had left off the night before.
She heard shutters rattling from opposite. It must be Senor Moustache, as she had named him in her head. She awaited the gentle scent of cigar smoke, but none came. A new leaf, perhaps.
“Buenas tardes,” came a confident cheery voice. Not Senor Moustache. Not Spanish, if the horrific accent was anything to go by. Not a middle-aged man with a paunch. Joey jerked her head up in shock.
“Um, buenas tardes,” she replied, her eyes wide. It was the tourist from the cafe, the one Carmen had insisted she talk to earlier. She was wearing a floral skirt and a vest top, legs crossed, showing off bare feet with toenails painted red.
“It’s you!” said the woman in English, her smile uncertain. “I am working on my Spanish, I promise.”
“You don’t need to explain yourself to me,” said Joey in English, sounding more annoyed than she’d intended.
“You’re English?” The woman’s perfectly shaped brows furrowed.
Joey groaned. “I am.”
“I thought you were Spanish,” she grinned. “Well, what a coincidence.”
“Not really,” said Joey before she could stop herself. “English tourists are here all the time.”
“No, but that we should meet this morning, and then be living opposite one another,” said the woman, her dark hair falling in beautiful waves around her face. Her eyes were dark and seemed to exude curiosity.
“Living? Are you Senor Musta… er, are you his niece or something?” Joey stammered, trying to look beyond the woman to see if he was there, too.
“Oh, no. He’s travelling and put his apartment up for a short-term rent, so it’s mine for the next few weeks. Didn’t he tell you?” She looked perturbed.
“We don’t really talk,” said Joey.
“But you live practically within touching distance,” said the tourist.
“Exactly,” said Joey. “We respect each other’s privacy.” She bristled.
“Oh, yes, of course,” said the woman. “Well, I’m Vanessa. And you’re Joey, right?”
“Sure,” said Joey. “That’s me.” She gave a tight smile and then opened her book, hoping that Vanessa would take the hint.
“Have you lived here long?”
She had not taken the hint. Joey thought longingly of Senor Moustache, and his respectful distance, and his cigars.
“About fifteen years,” said Joey.
“And where were you from originally?” Vanessa asked, her eyes kind.
Joey put her book down. “Leicester.”
“Oh, not far from me,” said Vanessa. “Fancy that, just fifty miles from Birmingham. You must have family here or something?”
“No,” said Joey. “Look, I’m really sorry, but I’ve been working all day. I could do with just reading my book.”
“Oh yes, of course,” said Vanessa. “I’m so sorry.” She held up her hands in apology. “I have my own reading, too. Nice to meet you.”
“You, too,” said Joey, not sure if she meant it. Vanessa picked up a large, old-looking book and started to read, scribbling notes in the notebook she’d had with her that morning.
It wasn’t until a few seconds later that Joey realised she wasn’t in fact reading, but still watching Vanessa as she pored over what looked like an ancient tome. She picked up her own book, finding herself wondering what this thoroughly annoying woman was doing in Barcelona.