Chapter 11
Violet
I couldn’t settle to anything after the phone call with my mother and decided to walk the short distance into town. It was Sunday, which meant market day, and a good opportunity to see Ynes and pick up some of Luke’s favourite foods – a gesture of goodwill that I hoped would go some way towards redeeming what I’d said to Eliza. He might have added an ‘x’ to the text message he’d sent me, but I knew my son. He would chew over what he’d overheard – ‘I know what he can be like’ – and bury it somewhere in that head of his, waiting for the right time to hurl it in my face.
It was a relief to escape the emotional landmine of The Orange House and lose myself for a time in Pollen?a’s human slipstream. As well as the usual flock of tourists, the market lured in local residents, too, all of them keen to browse the many stalls or meet up with friends for a coffee in the square.
Beginning at the far end of Via Pollentia, a wide, sun-dappled street overhung by plane trees, I withdrew a small amount of cash and wandered as far as the first fruit and vegetable stall, where I picked up a punnet of white grapes, a couple of striped, plump aubergines, and several glossy peppers, before crossing the road and filling three plastic pots with olives. Luke particularly liked the garlic-stuffed Manzanillas, while Henry preferred the smaller, saltier Arbequinas, so I bought both, plus some plain Gordals, stowing each purchase carefully in my ragged old jute bag.
The sky above the market awnings was a freshly laundered blue, the sun that beat down through it fierce and bright. I paused to buy myself a two-euro cup of freshly squeezed orange juice, before my magpie mind drew my eye to more stalls. But while I tried on rings, gazed at colourful rocks and crystals, and ran my fingers across the fabric of embroidered dresses, I managed not to give in to temptation. Spending any more money than was strictly necessary was a mistake I could no longer afford to make, but browsing was free, and it was a welcome distraction. In the end, I lingered so long at the market it was past lunchtime before I made it to Pla?a Major, where I made a beeline straight for my most cherished Mallorcan friend.
Ynes was the owner of Pollen?a’s largest and most successful floristry business, and every Sunday she set up shop in the town’s main square. Meeting her by chance during my first ever visit to the island meant I’d known her almost as long as Henry, and the fact that she was closer to my parents’ age than mine did not prevent our budding friendship from flourishing. She was, like me, fanatical about plants, and had been instrumental in helping me transform the garden at La Casa Naranja, but she also had a passion for aprons. Today’s selection was patterned with lavender and bumblebees, and she’d dabbed on a startingly purple eyeshadow to match.
‘Cabecita roja,’ she exclaimed, clasping my cheeks in her hands before bestowing a kiss on each. ‘Look at you, la flaca – you are tiny.’
My plan of disguising my diminishing weight under shapeless dresses had clearly failed to fool Ynes, and she shook her head in dismay as she patted me down like an airport customs official.
‘Enough groping,’ I joked feebly, moving clear of her roving fingers. ‘People will talk.’
‘People,’ she grumbled. ‘I don’t care about these “people”.’
‘You look well,’ I told her. ‘Love the apron.’
That won me a smile.
‘You are unwell,’ she said, telling not asking.
I assured her that I was fine, to which she tutted scornfully.
‘Fine? Your husband is trying to sell your house without telling you. Not fine.’ She waggled her finger at me. ‘Everybody here is seeing the advertisement, asking me what is going on, and I have to tell them, “No sé.” I don’t know.’
‘The situation with the house, and with me and Henry, it’s complicated.’
‘Complicada, eh? Of course complicada.’
‘It’s so good to see you,’ I said, trying a different tack. ‘How’s the business go—’
‘I even see Antonio, and he ask me: “Donde esta Violeta?” He believe you ran away.’
‘He really said that?’
I’d known Henry’s father would’ve been surprised by my sudden absence, especially given its timing, but I also assumed that by now he would’ve been told the full story behind it. To claim that I’d chosen to abandon Henry was so gross an accusation that for a few moments, all I could do was mouth in silent disbelief.
‘I told him that he was talking out of his ass,’ she said, as I let out a bark of shocked laughter. ‘Antonio is always having a mouth like a donkey’s ass.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘He thinks he is a big chief – pah!’
Leaving me for a few minutes while she served a group of holidaymakers, I loitered to one side, my gaze roaming across her pots, trays and buckets. There were orchids in cellophane, fledgling Bird of Paradise plants, pillar-box-red carnations, and frothy bunches of pastel-hued hydrangeas. I thought forlornly of the weeds that had overtaken my garden, and how long it would take the new owner to restore it.
When Ynes returned, she did so with a small potted cactus. ‘A gift,’ she said. ‘To remind you that things can always find a way to grow – sí?’
I didn’t want to cry for the second time in one day, and so I said nothing.
‘You have missed Pollen?a?’
I nodded. ‘So much. I don’t think I realised how much until I got here.’
Ynes reached across and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. Like most people, she was taller than me, but not by much, which made avoiding her eye all the harder.
‘La Casa Naranja is your home,’ she said softly. ‘Mallorca is your home.’
I shook my head. This island had been Henry’s long before he shared her with me, and I couldn’t imagine living here without him. If we got a divorce, it made sense that he’d be the one to keep this place, and I would stand aside and let him have her.
A small queue of customers was beginning to form, and having assured Ynes I’d be back, I crossed Pla?a Major and followed the lane that encircled the vast, decorative church. There was an ice-cream parlour tucked away down a side street that I knew sold takeaway coffee, but when I reached it, I discovered an estate agency in its place.
Staring in at the house listings, each one a kaleidoscope of golden stucco, terracotta tiles, and blue squares of swimming pool, I searched to see if La Casa Naranja was among them. The original advertisement Henry had sent me had been posted on the Balearic Properties website, but I had no idea if he had circulated it more widely.
I needed to talk to him.
Turning away from the window, my stomach somersaulted as the man himself appeared at the far end of the street. Despite thinking only a moment ago that I wanted to see him, instinct insisted I hide, which I did by darting into a gift shop on the opposite side of the lane. It was from inside there, as I stood half-concealed behind by a display of postcards, that I watched my husband walk right past me.
Another woman’s hand clutched tightly in his.