‘And Dawn?’

  From the way she glanced at me; I knew the answer to that one. Prim’s sister is a lovely, incredibly talented girl, but no film director, not even her husband, will ever cast her as a vampire slayer.

  ‘Miles is worried about her . . . worried about the baby, really, I suppose, although he’d never say that. He asked me if I’ll go over there to be with her.’

  ‘Of course you will. I’m coming too.’

  Prim shook her head. ‘No, you’re not. You can’t run out on the boys and your dad.’

  ‘But Dave might need some support as well,’ I protested.

  ‘Miles is his son-in-law too. He’s there already. Anyway, my father’s a lot tougher than he looks.’

  She bounced out of bed and stood, looking down at me. ‘So am I, for that matter. I can take care of Dawn and him, if necessary. Not that it will be; it’s entirely possible that these growths are just simple polyps, and that all Mum will have to cope with is recovery from her surgery.’

  ‘Yeah, sure, but what if . . .?’

  She cut me off. ‘In that unlikely event, they’ll throw the full arsenal of anti-cancer weaponry at her. They’ll scan her for metastases, then treat, or take preventive measures as appropriate. Even if she has got stomach cancer, the survival rates are better than in most other types.

  ‘You really want to help me?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Right. Get on the Internet, find the next flight from Barcelona to Los Angeles and book me on it.’

  It’s astonishing what you can do these days. By the time Prim came downstairs in her towelling robe, her hair still wet from the shower, I had booked her on a flight from Barcelona to Charles de Gaulle, then on to LAX, first class on the transcontinental leg.

  ‘Well,’ she demanded. ‘Haven’t you even logged on yet?’

  ‘And off. You pick up your tickets from the Air France desk at Barcelona, then check in straightaway.’ I glanced at my watch. ‘Your flight leaves in just under seven hours. That gives you two hours to get ready, and me two hours to waken up so I can drive you there.’

  ‘Where?’ asked Jonathan from the staircase. He was bright-eyed; looking at him, I made a mental note to drink Pepsi at our next party.

  I told him where we were going. ‘Can I come?’ he asked.

  ‘No. You and Colin have to stay here and help your Granddad.’

  ‘Help him do what?’

  ‘I haven’t a bloody clue, but from the last I saw of him, whatever he plans to do today, he’s going to need help.’

  19

  Prim’s sudden departure for California knocked me completely off balance for a while. The family was the main reason why I’d stayed behind in Spain, and yet with her gone, I felt odd with them around; not uncomfortable exactly, but ill at ease. I had run out of interesting things to do with two pre-teen nephews, my dad and I had played all the golf that Mary and Ellie would allow, and so I was quietly relieved as I stood at the end of the driveway on the fourth of January, waving them off as the hired people-mover turned out of Carrer Caterina, bound for their flight home.

  By that time, the Elanore situation had resolved itself: not for the better, but at least we all knew what she faced. The bad news was that the lesions removed from her stomach by the LA surgeon were indeed cancerous. The better news was that a full body MRI scan, carried out as soon as she was cleared to leave intensive care, had revealed no secondary growths, or metastases as Prim had called them in medic-speak.

  In a rare show of his power and influence, Miles had flown in one of the top oncologists from the Mayo Clinic to supervise the diagnostic procedures. She had pronounced that, with a precautionary course of chemotherapy, our mother-in-law stood an excellent chance . . . not of a cure, for a cancer specialist will rarely use that word . . . of long-term survival.

  Prim’s relief had flowed out of the telephone when we had spoken at seven that morning. ‘Do you want me out there now?’ I’d asked her.

  ‘No; it’s not necessary. Anyway, Miles says that he’d rather you used the peace and quiet to get on with mastering the script. I’m going to stay on here for a while, though, until the treatment is well under way, to help Dawn understand what’s happening to Mum.’

  ‘How’s she handling it?’

  ‘You know my sister; she was terrified at first. But she’s not so bad now; once we had the diagnosis and prognosis she got a hold of herself. Christ, Miles is worse than she is; it’s his first child too, and the way he’s acting you’d think he was going to have it himself.’

  So that was it. I had my orders from the boss . . . from both my bosses in fact, Prim and Miles.

  The trouble was, I am still a high-handicapper at the acting game and, like all high-handicappers, there’s a limit to the amount of time I can usefully spend on the practice range without a pro around to take my game forward. However, we were talking big money, and a lot of responsibility, so I was responsible about it. From the day the script arrived, I had committed myself to starting work on it at nine thirty every morning. Apart from a day or two over the holiday period, I had managed it too; yet, invariably, I was wasted by midday.

  It was the same on the day the family went home; only it wasn’t.

  There have been times in my life when being alone has been my natural state. A flatmate does not count as a companion, especially not when he’s a green iguana named Wallace.

  I’m not talking about being lonely; loneliness is something completely different. It’s possible to be lonely in a room full of people you love. There have even been times, intimate times, when I’ve been with Prim and yet I’ve been swept by a feeling of loneliness. Mind you, it doesn’t do to let it show.

  This was different, though; it was the first time that Prim and I had been apart since the night before our wedding, when she had followed established bride protocol by sleeping at her parents’ place, and I . . . Ah, now that is, most definitely, another story, and one which she’ll never know.

  It was different also in that I was on my own in Villa Bernabeu.

  Until that point, the moment when my brain cried, ‘Enough!’ and I put my script away for the day, I had never felt the slightest unease about our new home. You may have thought that, at the time, I was a shade blasé about the stiff in the swimming pool, but my life leading up to that point had been so bizarre that when it happened, I dealt with it as just another occurrence. Since I met Primavera Phillips, I’ve seen a few dead people; my first wife among them. I’ve even seen one or two of them being killed, close up.

  Since I met Prim . . . Only now she was gone and, as I stood on the terrace and peered into the pool, I felt a slight shiver and imagined for a second that I saw something on the bottom. I turned and looked up at the villa, and had the distinctly deranged impression that it was looking back at me.

  I can say honestly that I don’t remember ever having panicked in my life. I did faint once, but I had an excuse. No, I’ve had a few scrapes and a few scares, but I’ve never bottled out of anything. I came pretty close to it then, though, under the gaze of that bloody house.

  Then I thought, This is silly, and pulled myself together. ‘You can take that look off your face right now,’ I barked up at it. And, I’ll swear, it did. I guess that houses are not used to people speaking sharply to them.

  I pressed home my advantage. ‘I’ll tell you what’s going to happen to you, pal. Your fucking name’s being changed for a start. Villa Bernabeu, indeed! I’m not even a bloody Real supporter. You’re going to be Casa Nou Camp from now on.’

  I knew, as I said it, that I meant it; my friend the iron forger was in for a visit as soon as his holiday was over. I knew also that if being afraid of a house is silly, giving one a loud-voiced bollocking in broad daylight crosses the frontier into the land where the happy whistlers live.

  So I went indoors, made myself a coffee, and brought it back out to the terrace. As usual, the sun was shining, and the temperature was in the low teens Celsius, or fifties in old money, as my dad says, so I settled down on a lounger to drink it. As I sipped it, I closed my eyes, feeling the gentle warmth on my face, and, without willing it, began to think about Primavera.

  I recalled every detail of the moment that I met her. How she looked as she walked into the hall of her flat, at the end of a two-day journey; tired but not weary, crumpled but not unkempt, without make-up but still beautiful, and with a light in her eye which told me, ‘This woman is different. This is someone to whom things happen.’

  Despite an unfortunate incident with a traffic warden, it was indeed lust at first sight, for both of us; I know that now. Before either of us knew it then, we were in over our heads, I more so than she.

  Had it not been for the malign influence of S. T. Antichrist, and a couple of his agents, it might have been over almost as soon as it started. I might have been living with Jan and our two point four kids in a nice suburban house in Glasgow, doing my boring job and earning decent if unspectacular money.

  If it had worked out that way, I’d have seen Prim as an interlude in my life, that’s all, and I’d have ended up as the happiest man in the world. But there is no such creature; STA won’t allow it. I’m in tune with the German philosopher who believes that some people are temporarily less unfortunate than others, that’s all.

  Primavera was there when my happy life went to rat-shit. When I tried to piece things together again, she was there for me too. I didn’t see her as part of the Dark Plan but, as I lay there, I did begin to admit to myself that she had been the easy option, a crutch I had been all too keen to grab and lean on, one that I was leaning on still.

  As I lay there thinking, I understood that her departure hadn’t simply thrown me off balance. It had made me realise that I didn’t know any more who Oz Blackstone was, or even whether he was, in his own right. Everything in my restored existence, the winning lottery ticket which had been based on her parents’ birthdays, even this weird new career of mine, this acting game, had come from or through Prim.

  Whatever they said after the event, I knew damn well that if Miles Grayson hadn’t happened to be married to her actress sister, no way would he have cast a part-time wrestling announcer and voice-over artist in one of his projects. The fact that his publicity department has orders never to refer to our relationship is proof of that.

  ‘Will the real Oz Blackstone please stand up,’ I said, aloud once more.

  ‘Will any Oz Blackstone please stand up,’ a voice replied. I opened my eyes and sat bolt upright.

  It was Susie Gantry.

  I shook my head and squeezed my eyes shut, expecting that when I opened them again, she’d be gone. But she wasn’t; she stood there, short, trim, tits like racing airships, shown to their best advantage in a red woollen sweater, thrusting out from her fur-lined black leather jacket as it hung open.

  I felt disorientated for a moment. I swung off the lounger and pushed myself to my feet. ‘Susie . . .’ I heard myself mumbling.

  ‘Surprise, surprise,’ she chirped, in her slightly nasal Glaswegian accent, oblivious of my confusion. ‘How’s my favourite yuppie, then?’ She swung her bag into a more secure position on her shoulder, stood on her tiptoes, and kissed me on the cheek.

  ‘Astonished,’ I answered her. ‘What the hell . . .?’

  Her expression changed, dramatically and suddenly; cheery, chesty Susie turned before my eyes into a wounded robin redbreast. A frown creased her eyes in a way I’d never seen before, and her pretty face fell. ‘Oz, I’m sorry,’ she exclaimed. ‘Have I got it wrong? Yes, I have, haven’t I? But when you and Prim put that note in your Christmas card, with your new address, and said you’d be pleased to see me early in the New Year, I thought I’d just turn up out of the blue, to surprise you, like.’

  She chewed her lip for a second or two. ‘Silly Susie, right enough.’ Her chin trembled and I could see how fragile she was. I gathered her up in my arms, lifted her clear off her feet, and kissed her on the forehead.

  ‘Silly Susie nothing!’ I said firmly, setting her down gently. ‘It’s me that should be sorry. I was miles away there. Welcome to L’Escala. Sit down there and I’ll make you a coffee.’ She raised an eyebrow; I remembered that sign of old. ‘Or I could get you a drink ...’

  ‘A beer would be nice, thanks.’

  I decided that I needed one myself, so I uncapped two Sols from the fridge and carried them outside.

  ‘Thanks again,’ said my visitor. ‘I’m fair parched.’

  ‘How did you get here?’

  ‘I flew to Barcelona yesterday, stayed overnight in a hotel and got the fast train to Girona this morning. Took a taxi from there. The driver had a hell of a job finding this address; eventually he dumped me at the big roundabout coming into town. I went into the fruit shop there and asked for directions.

  ‘Lucky for me there was an English woman there . . . elderly, long dyed hair, dressed sort of gypsy style. She heard me mention your name and said she knew you. She gave me a lift. A right character, she was.’

  ‘You’re not wrong there,’ I laughed. ‘I’ll take you to her bar some time.

  ‘You got a suitcase?’

  She jerked a thumb over her shoulder; I saw it sitting at the top of the driveway, a great big black thing on wheels, with a handle.

  ‘So where’s Prim?’ Susie asked. ‘Down the shops? Having a lie-in?’

  I glanced at my watch. ‘Probably still asleep,’ I told her. ‘She’s in Los Angeles.’

  She gave a small scream. ‘Oh my God,’ she exclaimed. ‘I’ve really done it, stupid wee bitch that I am.’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ I told her quickly, in case she got emotional on me again. I explained the situation with Elanore, painting the rosiest medical picture that I could.

  ‘Oh dear,’ she sighed when I was finished. ‘I’d better go, hadn’t I? I’ll check into a hotel and fly home as soon as I can.’

  If it had been anyone else, I’d probably have left it at that, but not with Susie. She and I had been to the same place emotionally; she had lost a partner, and her scars were a lot fresher than mine. She didn’t have all that many friends, and I didn’t fancy the thought of letting her go back to Glasgow on a downer, embarrassed and with her tail between her legs.

  ‘No you bloody won’t,’ I told her. ‘We invited you, and you’re staying. For as long as you like . . . How long is that, by the way?’

  ‘My return flight’s booked for a week on Sunday.’

  ‘Fine. Chances are, Prim will be back well before then.’

  ‘If I stay here she’ll be on the first plane,’ Susie murmured.

  ‘No she won’t.’

  She gave me a faint smile. ‘But what will the neighbours say?’

  I laughed. ‘This is L’Escala, kid, and you’ve been in town for an hour. They’re saying it already. Come on, I’ll show you your bunk.’

  I picked up her suitcase and carried it into the house, then upstairs to the main guest bedroom at the front. Before the family had left, Mary and Ellie had insisted on changing all the beds. I was glad now that I had let them. For all it was unexpected and unorthodox, I was glad of Susie’s arrival too. There would be no brooding with her around. Mind you, I still had to break the news to Prim.

  ‘I like the new pad,’ she said, after I had given her the grand tour round the place. ‘I wish I could find one like it in Glasgow.’

  ‘So build yourself one.’ Susie had taken over the running of her father’s construction group; after a sticky start she was making a damn good job of it too.

  She wrinkled her freckled nose. ‘I could think of twenty good reasons why I don’t; every one of them a degree Fahrenheit.’

  I left her to unpack, then, when she was ready, took her to lunch at a place in the country, a nice traditional farm-house restaurant called Mas Pou, where they don’t get upset at all if you skip the main course and have a couple of starters instead. The house red there is very local, very new and fairly strong. Susie took a liking to it at once.

  ‘Are you two ever coming back to Glasgow?’ She dropped the question without warning, as soon as she had finished her omelette cake.

  ‘Sure we are, Susie,’ I told her. ‘I don’t know how much time we’re going to spend there in future, but we’re not going non-resident or anything drastic like that.’

  ‘So you’re not going into tax exile then?’ She smiled as she said it. The red had relaxed her; the surface tension that she had displayed earlier seemed to have gone altogether.

  ‘No way. I’d rather pay tax than become a nomad. We’ll still be around. We might sell the flat, though.’

  She looked at me in surprise. ‘You serious?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Give me first refusal, then.’

  ‘If you want, but why?’

  ‘Ach, I’ve got to get out of my place, Oz. It’s just full of Mike.’

  You find your own truth in bereavement. I don’t know a hell of a lot about life, but I do know about death, and that there are things for which we can’t plan, and through which we have to find our own way.

  ‘Funny,’ I told her. ‘That’s exactly why I chose to stay on in my apartment . . . because it seemed full of Jan.’

  ‘And is it still?’

  ‘No. It came to me eventually that it never really was. I’m full of Jan; that’s the truth of it.’

  ‘And how does Prim feel about that?’

  ‘They get along.’

  She looked at the empty carafe; I caught the waiter’s eye and ordered another, only a half this time. ‘That’s nice for you,’ she said. ‘But Mike wasn’t like Jan. I want to scrub him off me, to put every trace of him behind me.’

  ‘Moving house might not be the answer,’ I warned her.

  ‘It’ll do for starters. Let me know about the flat when you’ve made your mind up.’

  I took her for a drive when we left the restaurant, taking advantage of what was left of the short winter day. We looked at Pals, and then at Estartit, which was slightly less winter-dead than usual. Finally we called in at Torroella del Montgri, where Susie bought herself a nice leather jacket . . . red, of course, to match the sweater . . . in a specialist shop I showed her.