Waves of Betrayal (The Isabel Marsh Trilogy Book 1) (23 page)

‘It’ll be a while before I can afford anything like that!’ she laughs, pointing over at an enormous house surrounded by palm trees, at least thirty feet tall, ‘it looks like a palace.’

‘One day,’ he says simply, pointing ahead as they take the exit. As Marcos brakes at the roundabout, without the cooling effect of the wind, she can immediately feel the heat prickling her shoulders.

‘Is this Calahonda?’ she asks, looking around her at the many apartment complexes.

‘Part of it,’ he answers, as he continues slowly downhill towards the sea in the distance. ‘It stretches from the sea, right up to the mountains up there.’

She smiles, trying to get the feel for the place. There are lots of properties and yet she doesn’t feel claustrophobic. She spots gardens, pools, tennis courts and all the amenities she could hope for, all within walking distance. The buildings are so different, not at all like the housing estates that she is used to, back in good old England. Most are rendered and painted in beautiful, warm Mediterranean colours with little arched entrances in the shade of bright purple bougainvillea or white jasmine. Many of the complexes have private gates and have walls all around, allowing only glimpses of what lies beyond.

As they drive slowly down, further towards the coast, they pass cafés and restaurants, most with chairs and tables set out on shady terraces, with boards advertising their specialities in as many as four languages. The punters look happy and tanned, some dressed for the beach, others in casual suits having their coffee break or working on their laptops.
What a fantastic place to have your office!
Isabel thinks.

‘Here, this is the street,’ says Marcos, as they turn into a little cul-de-sac off the main street. ‘Twelve, fourteen, sixteen..., number eighteen, here we are.’

Marcos parks the car outside the building and they both get out and look up at the six storey block in front of them. It looks just like the photograph. White and very clean and modern from the outside. As they approach the black, wrought iron gate, Marcos searches the intercom for the apartment number. Isabel squeezes his forearm in anticipation.

To her surprise the voice is that of an English speaking man. Marcos announces them and the gate is buzzed open.

A short, balding man in his fifties strides up the path to greet them. ‘Marcos, Isabel, hi, I’m Bob. Please, follow me,’ he says with a slight American twang, ‘you come far?’

‘No, just Málaga,’ says Isabel, ‘well, that is
today
! I actually live in England at the moment but I’m staying with my friend here until I find somewhere to rent.’
A tiny white lie!
She thinks.

‘Here we go,’ Bob says, as he stops outside one of the doors at the back of the building. ‘All the entrances are at the back, that means that every apartment has a beautiful big balcony facing out across the sea. We’re on the third floor,’ he adds, flicking a light switch which illuminates the marble staircase. Isabel turns and makes a face at Marcos, indicating that she’s not sure. It smells musty and the stairs could do with a good sweep.

‘After you,’ says Bob as he opens the dark wooden door to the apartment. Isabel walks in first, tentatively. The whole place is furnished like something out of the seventies. Even the light streaming through the patio doors ahead of them cannot seem to brighten up the heavy, dark velvet sofas and tacky, faded still-life paintings on the wall.

The bathroom is tiny, a shower cubicle with a sliding door which needs fixing, ‘at no extra cost,’ Bob had assured them. The kitchen contains little more than a microwave and a gas hob.

She has to hand it to Bob, the balcony and view are, indeed, impressive. But the dim, depressing interior leads her to confess that she will ‘bear it in mind’, considering she has other viewings lined up for the day.

Bob remains strangely positive and he waves them a cheerful goodbye,
probably convinced that we will be back to sign the contract later
, thinks Marcos.

‘Oh my god!!’ says Isabel, once they reach the end of the road. They both burst out laughing, ‘that staircase!’

‘The bathroom!’ laughs Marcos hysterically, banging the steering wheel with the heel of his hand, ‘he could at least have put the cockroach trap out of sight!!’

‘There’s no
way
I could have cooked in that kitchen. It stank! I’d spend a fortune every week eating out. Euuuwww, the black gunge around the tap...’ Isabel covers her mouth in disgust as she looks over at Marcos who is wiping away the tears from his eyes. She has never seen him laugh so much!

‘So I take it you are not interested?!’ he sniggers, shaking his head, unable to get the images of the grim artwork and the saggy bed out of his head.

‘NO!’ she smiles, her head in her hands. ‘Next!’

‘Ok, but if it’s bad again, just don’t make eye contact with me until we’re outside alright?’ he says, trying to pull himself together.

They pull back out into the main road and head up the hill, away from the coast. After a short drive, Marcos turns into a quiet residential street lined with thick box-hedging.

‘This looks nice,’ says Isabel, checking her mascara in the mirror, ‘which gate is it?’

‘Just here I think,’ says Marcos, adjusting his shirt as he slides out of the warm car seat.

This time Isabel presses the intercom and they wait for a response. It’s the soft voice of an elderly Spanish lady, who gives them directions to the front door of the property. They follow the narrow, windy path through a garden with beautiful green lawns, lined with Pampas and tall, elegant coconut palms waving in the breeze. There are a few people sunbathing on towels in spots of dappled shade, listening to music or reading books.
Wow, what a tranquil oasis
, thinks Isabel.

As they turn the corner, following María’s instructions, they pass the pool where a man is swimming lengths and a woman floats idly on a lilo, dipping her fingers lazily in to the water.

The tranquillity is interrupted by the screeching voice from the balcony above them, ‘
Buenos días! Ésta puerta aquí abajo, sube a la tercera planta
.’

‘It’s this door,’ says Marcos, ‘third floor. Wow, there’s a lift and everything,’ he smirks. Isabel’s stomach flips as they step into the lift and Marcos reaches over and squeezes her hand in encouragement.

María is waiting for them in the doorway as they step out into a wide, marble corridor with three doors on either side. The apartment Isabel is going to see is right at the end. She greets María and steps inside whilst Marcos explains that she doesn’t speak a lot of Spanish. The whole apartment is flooded in light, but the air-conditioning is doing a good job keeping it cool. There is a newly refurbished, built-in kitchen on her left with a little breakfast bar and the rest of the room is open-plan. A dining table and chairs, a sitting room with a wide-screen TV, and a comfortable looking white sofa.
It is immaculate
, Isabel thinks, as she looks admiringly around her. The bedroom is at the front of the apartment with an en-suite bathroom and its own patio doors leading onto the terrace. She can hear Marcos talking to María behind her, but she can’t resist going ahead and she steps outside to admire the view over the gardens and the pool they had just passed. There is a pretty tiled table and four chairs at one end of the terrace and two heavy sun loungers with thick mattresses at the other. She can’t help smiling to herself as she can totally imagine herself living here. There aren’t any nooks and crannies that might make her nervous at night, the whole place is just so peaceful.
I can sit there, at the little table on the terrace, marking my books after work and curl up on the comfy sofa in the evening with a girlie film, dinner on my lap
, she thinks.

‘Isa,’ asks Marcos, as he steps out onto the terrace to join her, ‘what do you think?’ He realises that he needn’t have asked. The beaming expression on her face says it all.

‘The sofa turns into a sofa-bed too, apparently, so you can have friends over to stay.’

Without thinking, Isabel skips towards him and hugs him ‘I
love it!’
she says, ‘how much was it again?’ she asks, taking a step back, feeling slightly embarrassed by her outburst of affection.

‘450 Euros a month, water included,’ Marcos smiles. ‘Want me to tell her you’ll need the weekend to think about it?’

‘God Marcos, I’m so excited! I’d love to say yes
right now,
but obviously I’ve got a few things to sort out first... Like talking to my parents for a start!!’ she says, raising her eyebrows.

‘Well as far as a job goes, you know you have no problems! I can get you as many hours as you need. You could also consider giving private classes,’ he says casually.

‘
Oh my god
, this could actually happen,’ she softly says, leaning on the railings of the balcony and tilting her face up towards the sun. ‘Can you explain to María? Maybe she can reserve it for me, for a few days or something? Oh and can you double check that she allows pets? It does say so in the details, but I won’t come without my little Sasha!’

‘Of course. Are you sure you don’t want to see the last apartment?’ he asks.

‘No, I didn’t like the look of that one so much anyway. This is the one Marcos, I know it!!’

‘Ok, I’ll go and see what I can do,’ he grins confidently, putting on his best business face.

‘To your new life, Isabel’ says Marcos, raising his glass of champagne.

‘To my new life,’ she giggles, as they toast to her future.

On the cool, shady terrace of a bar, just a short walk from the apartment Isabel has just reserved, they sit sipping champagne, pleased with the result of their house-hunt. Each armed with a fork and a napkin, they share some
tapas
between them, the compulsory basket of bread on the side.

‘The garlic prawns are delicious,’ says Isabel as she pops one into her mouth and mops up some of the oily garlic marinade with a piece of bread.

‘
Pil-pil,
’ says Marcos, ‘
Gambas pil-pil.
You know what to order next time!’ he smiles. ‘So how do you feel? Are you going to call your parents later?’

‘I’m not sure. I’ll see how I feel. I’m still a little stunned myself!’ She smiles and stabs a spicy potato with her fork. ‘I was thinking; would you mind if we went up into the mountains tomorrow, instead of Saturday? I’m feeling fine now and I could go straight back to my house afterwards, to give you and Leanne a bit of time alone together, before she goes away with her friend on Saturday?’

‘Fine by me,’ he says, ‘Leanne will be over later anyway so we can arrange it with her then. I expect she’d like a night alone with me, I suppose, before she goes. She has been very understanding,’ he adds.

Isabel notices the lack of conviction in his words. ‘You know what I’d really like to do?’ she says, dabbing her mouth with her napkin.

‘No, what?’ he smiles.

‘Speak to Rachel! She’ll think I’ve finally gone
completely
mad!’ Isabel sits back in the comfortable wicker chair and stretches her tanned legs out under the table, ‘but I’ll save that ‘til later! Do you mind if we explore the area a bit, when we finish our
tapas
?’ she asks.

‘Your new neighbourhood, perhaps,’ he winks, dipping a breadstick into the pot of creamy garlic mayonnaise.

‘Don’t,’ says Isabel teasingly, ‘it’s all so much to take in,’ she adds. ‘The old Isabel would never have been this impulsive. Do
you
think I’m crazy?!’

‘Isa, you made the decision yourself. You love it here!’ he says convincingly, ‘besides, you don’t have to stay forever. Maybe you could even get a sabbatical for a year at your school in England. Think of it as a language opportunity! A year out,’ he smiles.

‘You make it sound like a graduate training scheme!’ she laughs, ‘I missed out on that the first time round with you as my teacher, so maybe you’re right?!’ She slams down her napkin with renewed confidence and swallows the remainder of her champagne in one.

‘Shall we pay and go?’ he asks, and signals the waiter for the bill without waiting for her answer.

The area has a very cosmopolitan feel. Plenty of Spanish
tapas
bars, but they also pass a strip of seven or eight bars and restaurants advertising sport on wide-screen TV’s, cocktails, happy hours, even Guinness and traditional fish and chips! There is an authentic Italian Pizzeria, an Indian, Chinese, and amongst them all, a cosy English café selling pots of tea and home-made cakes.

‘I’m not going to have a car for a while yet, so let’s make sure things are within walking distance,’ proposes Isabel. They decide to walk further up the main street, a good guess because within minutes all basic amenities are accounted for; a supermarket, three chemists, a bank, a doctor, and even a bus-stop with a line directly into the centre of Málaga. ‘My ride to work!’, says Isabel, increasingly excited.

Satisfied that she has made the right decision, Marcos suggests they walk back down, to the local beach. They have to pass through a black wrought iron gate, in between two beach side apartment complexes to get to the little, secluded cove.

‘It’s idyllic,’ whispers Isabel, as they step out onto the beach. It’s high tide but there is a narrow, semi-circular stretch of pebbles along the shore-line. The sea is very calm and clear. Isabel can only make out half a dozen people, dozing on the water’s edge, on towels or beach chairs. She can see someone snorkelling amongst the rocks. As they stand and admire the view, a little fishing boat bobs slowly past, causing little white capped waves to creep a little further onto the pebbles.

‘The water is so inviting,’ sighs Isabel, ‘if only I’d brought my beach stuff with me.’

‘It’s so quiet here Isa, if we walk up to the far-end over there, we can easily swim in our underwear... if that doesn’t offend your British sensibilities too much,’ he smirks.

Shit, what am I wearing!?
She quickly thinks,
please don’t let it be a lacy thong... That would be pushing it a bit!

‘You’re on!’ she says, as they turn and crunch their way along the beach.

Marcos wastes no time at all in unbuttoning his shirt and dropping his shorts. His tight boxers could easily pass as swimming trunks anyway. Without a word, he runs into the water, dives beneath the surface, and emerges happily about twelve feet further out, signalling for her to join him.