Chapter Forty
Luisa Sutherland has no idea where her husband has gone, but she has a pretty fair idea where she would like him to go.
After yesterday afternoon’s post-corrida confrontation, with each partner attempting to insert the ultimate barb and pierce the decisive artery, they had continued the evening in a slow-bleeding silence, broken only by fractured mundanities that made the silence seem like bliss.
As if each was watching the other slip farther and farther away, whilst still being mere inches apart.
Luisa has a vague memory of William whispering goodbye to her in the bedroom this morning.
She was struggling to cling on to sleep, like a shaky bridge on the verge of collapse, yet has no real clue as to the literality of her husband’s farewell.
But he’s certainly not out here with her now, enjoying a late breakfast on the hotel terrace.
A breakfast she hardly eats. So perhaps it was exactly as he had spoken.
Even though she is quite in the shade, under a bright umbrella, Luisa still wears her sunglasses. She knows that beneath them she looks ravaged, although she can’t actually remember crying. Perhaps it was in that rocky sleep.
“Excuse me? Er, scusa mia?”
She hadn’t noticed the two ladies from New York, but they have clearly been noticing her. Their warm smiles don’t quite mask the intense curiosity in their faces, as they stare at her and more especially at the vacant space beside her.
Luisa turns, instinctively removing her shades, so that she can engage with these total strangers more politely. Even though this is the last thing she wishes to do. She realises how British she has become, after all these years away from home.
The shock on the ladies’ faces is instant and ever more transparent as they try feebly to disguise it. “Is okay. I – get the hay fever,” explains Luisa.
The women nod and cock their heads to the same side sympathetically, although they clearly don’t believe this for one moment.
“Oh, poor you!” says Marilyn. Then, all sympathy done, she thrusts her iPad at Luisa. “We were just wondering – could you take our photo?”
“We’ve seen you in town,” endorses Shelby. “You know your way around a camera.”
“We’re on our honeymoon!” Marilyn almost yells this out. Luisa isn’t sure whether this is simply background information or some sort of threat that if the photo isn’t up to scratch it could blight the most important moment of their lives.
“They’ll have to reconsecrate the whole of Seville after this!” laughs Shelby, lightening the mood for at least one of her listeners.
Luisa, despite everything, is a professional.
She takes the iPad and stands up. Moving around, she estimates where light and shadow best suit her subjects, whilst those subjects scrape their chairs around noisily, leaning as one in every direction to ensure they’re both firmly in shot.
The photographer dearly wishes she had lenses and dials to fiddle with, and some rope to tie the wrigglers down, but agrees to work around these limitations.
As she takes the first of what she imagines will be a considerable range of shots, in order to achieve the yearned-for result, a third party intrudes on the marriage. Pablo’s concerned head has bobbed in from the side and is staring directly into the iPad.
“Senora – aeropuerto?”
Luisa watches the ecstatic if somewhat frozen smile on Marilyn’s face dissolve. “The airport!”
The iPad nods.
“You’re going to miss Easter Sunday?” says Shelby.
Luisa just sighs. “It cannot match the first one.”
The New York ladies nod.
“Hard act to follow,” says Marilyn.