“I hope you like potatoes,” Richard says as he rounds a bend, the ocean ahead of us.
“They’re my favourite food group,” I say, my eyes drawn to the glimmer of the water.
It’s late afternoon and Gexta looks exactly like the pictures, but more pristine. An explosion of greens, blues, yellows and reds, mixed with textures of wood and flora.
“Good,” Richard says. “And fish too. There’s a lot of it here.”
We pass by taverns, tables lining the pavement. The locals are drinking beer and eating baskets of rustic bread with tiny plates of olives. I’m practically salivating as I hone in on the amber liquid. I quickly move my focus to the plates of food instead.
“Can’t blame them,” I say. “If I lived by the ocean, I’d probably eat fish all the time too.”
“It’s small, but look,” Richard says, motioning to the landscape in front. “The view’s worth it.”
His one hand is on the wheel, the other out of the window. A thought springs to my mind. What would dad think of this view?
“There’s a market down the road and a pub that way,” Richard says, pointing out the window. “Good for a pint.”
My stomach drops. He doesn’t know I don’t drink, does he? Would Deborah have told him? It sucks being that person—the one who doesn’t drink. In a normal world, Richard and I could have been drinking buddies. Had a pint in a new country together.
I swallow again. It doesn’t matter how much I crave a drink, I can’t go back. Not after that night.
The car slows towards the end of a road, a cluster of trees up ahead. On the left, there’s the water, undisturbed and silent. On the right, double storied houses stand in line.
“That’s the house,” Richard says, pointing.
He rounds a bend at the end of the road and drives into a small garden at the back of the house, the view of the ocean gone, replaced by brick walls and window sills. The interior is small, pot plants lining the perimeter. In the corner is a tiny bench made of brick.
“Here we are.”
Richard’s out of the car before I can catch my breath. I hear the boot open and as I step out, the cool breeze tugs at my skirt. Even without a view, I can smell the ocean, a ripple of freshness taking me back to summer holidays on the Dolphin Coast.
“You’re here!”
The voice ruptures the silence, my suitcase clunking on the pavement behind me. My eyes follow the sound.
I raise my eyebrows. Deborah’s much taller than I expected. From her light jeans to her oversized purple blouse, she’s vibrant. She opens her arms wide and I take it as my cue to move in for a hug.
“Hi,” I say, my voice higher than normal. Her hair is frizzy as it grazes my cheek, the colour dark and shiny. When we lock eyes, hers are a soft green and I breathe a little easier.
“I can’t believe I’m here,” I say.
“Me neither,” she exclaims, hand to her chest. On the phone from thousands of kilometres away, I was picturing a lady close to sixty. But in person, she’s probably ten years younger.
“I’ll take this upstairs,” Richard says, standing behind me, my suitcase in hand. He looks at us, then towards the doorway that we’re blocking.
“We’ll get out of your way then,” Deborah says, stepping through the doorway leading into the house, motioning for me to follow. I step inside, the house dark.
“And hello to you,” Deborah says to Richard as he passes us in the tiny hallway, planting a kiss on his cheek. But his large frame moves past her, barely acknowledging the gesture.
“Well,” she says, turning to me, hands on her hips. “Shall I give you a tour?”
I nod. “Good idea.”
She leads me through the hallway into a large space with much more light. From outside, the house’s design is unclear, a rectangular block giving nothing away. But from inside, everything is illuminated, the ocean on full display through the bay window to the left.
“This is the kitchen and living area,” she motions. It’s open plan, with the kitchen towards the back of the house, an island facing the living area. The walls are egg white, with flecks of orange and deep maroon from the chairs and pillows dispersed across the space.
My feet are soft on the wooden floors as I step forward. I see new cabinets in the kitchen, the Medallion grey rug in the living area.
“Wow,” I say. “Great place.”
“Clean too, I hope.”
I sniff and catch a whiff of peach. I think of Richard, the scented room a direct contrast to the cigarette smoke on his fingers.
I look out at the ocean, shimmering gently in the sunlight. “I can’t get over this view.”
“We’re quite chuffed with it,” Deborah says. “Come, I’ll show you the kitchen.”
It’s filled with top-end appliances, including a stainless steel oven. “For all that baking I’m not doing,” she says, giving a wink.
“And here,” she says, leading me down the hallway again. “Is our study. But Richard mostly works here. I’m either at the dining table or at the office.”
“So you work from home then?”
“I used to,” she says. “But we’ve got an office space in town now. But I still like working from home some days.”
I look at the wooden dining table facing the view. “Yeah, I bet.”
“We bought this place ages ago. It’s been a real project. When we first got it, it was a disaster. The kitchen was a whole other room,” she says, striding back to the centre of the room.
“Well, it looks fantastic.”
We walk up the stairs. For a moment it’s crowded, as Richard squeezes past us. “I’ll be in the garden,” he mutters.
When he’s out of earshot, Deborah leans into me. “Was he grumpy on the way here?”
“Not really. We were fine.”
“He’s a teddy bear once you get to know him,” she smiles.
“Up here, we have the bedrooms. Again, a complete mess when we got here,” she says, leaning against a doorway opposite a small bathroom. “This is your room.”
The space is darker than the master suite at the end of the hallway, light streaming in from the ocean side. But the room is large and has a double bed. There’s a desk, an upholstered maroon chair and bed sheets that look crisp.
“It’s not much, but it’ll do.”
I see my suitcase in the middle of the room. “You mentioned it’s the first time you’re doing this hosting programme?”
“That’s right. The academy wanted to attract more English teachers. But there’s almost no accommodation around here.”
I think of the paperwork sent through to me by a woman named Charlotte. Onboarding documents, information about the academy, the course material. All the things usually found in Sam’s binder.
“That’s nice of you to do that.”
“I get a few pennies out of it. Also, it gets a bit lonely here sometimes,” she says, crossing her arms.
“What made you move here?”
“Oh, that’s a very, very long story,” she says. “We first lived in Bilbao for a few years. Richard came here on business and I followed. Picked up some odd jobs here and there. Then we decided to put down some roots, and here we are.”
The scenario starts coming together in my mind. The clean kitchen with new appliances, the suede couch, the soft finishings. A spotless home. A home without children.
“Do you have any family here?” I say.
“No, it’s just the two of us.”
Her expression falters, the smile narrowing. “We travel to the UK often. But we like the peace of living here. Even if it’s windy and wet a lot of the time.”
“So I came on a good day,” I say.
Her face cracks open in a grin. “You did.”
I think of Deborah’s warm demeanour, her talkative nature. They say opposites attract. That must be true for her and Richard.
He’s a teddy bear once you get to know him.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” she announces. “We’ll start dinner soon. Come down when you’re ready.”
Before she leaves, I stop her. “Can I have the Wi-Fi password?”
After Deborah helps me connect, she heads back down the stairs. Closing the door behind me, I haul my suitcase on the bed, the few possessions I have all pressed against each other in the rectangular box.
Your life fits in a suitcase. What does that say about you?
I take out some clothes, fling them in the drawers. When I’m done, I stand at the window, eyeing the garden below. A rich green, with splashes of colour. I crave a drink. The adrenaline from the journey is wearing off, and the world is sharp around the edges again. In my six months of sobriety, I didn’t expect to still get these types of cravings. It must be the travel, being in a new place.
I open my phone and log in to InCheck, distracting my mind from the drink craving. On the app, I find a message from Fred.
Call tonight?
My response is instant. Yes.
We schedule a call for later in the evening. From Spain, there’s barely a time difference, which makes me breathe easier. Everything’s fine. Still fine.
This is what I wanted. This is what I came for. A chance at something new. Something different. And from the ocean views to the smell of peach in this house, it’s exactly what I need.
And far from danger.
Again, that Instagram message, the words engraved in my mind. I know you’re a fraud, Alice.
But no. Here, I’m safe. Only a handful of people know I’m in Spain, and only Sam knows about this small town. I’m completely off the radar.
I freshen up and head down the stairs, finding Deborah at the counter.
“All settled?” she says, looking up from her reading glasses.
“All settled.”
I spot a glass of white wine beside her, and instantly, she sees what I’m looking at. “Would you like something to drink?”
It’s an open-ended question. Maybe she thinks I’m not really sober, and I might have one glass. She walks to the fridge, opens it. I stand, my voice slightly too loud. “What do you have?”
She raises an eyebrow, her hand gripping the bottle of wine in the fridge door. But something in my expression must show that I’m not interested in that, because she turns to look inside the fridge and says, “I have Coke and some mango juice. But the juice is probably expired.”
“Coke, please,” I say, watching her grab the wine bottle in one hand and the plastic bottle in another, nudging the fridge closed with her shoulder. She pours me some Coke, then pours herself more wine, the golden liquid dangerously close to the rim. I practically gulp my drink down.
“Would you mind if I go out for a cigarette?” I say.
“Sure! I’ll come with you.”
“You smoke?”
“No,” she says. “I stopped ages go.”
We walk to the garden, glasses in hand. I spot an ashtray in the corner by the brick wall and perch against it, Deborah at my side. The kitchen is bright from here, the overhead lights a warm glow.
“There you are,” we hear Richard’s voice from the hallway.
“You’ve got a smoking buddy,” Deborah says, sipping her wine. He gives a forced smile, like he’s got other things on his mind.
“What’s for dinner?” Deborah says as Richard lights a cigarette.
“How does frozen pizza sound?” He looks at us both, eyebrow raised.
I sip my Coke, lift my chin. “Like a dream.”
“The real gourmet experience on your first night,” Deborah beams and we chuckle, the cool air soothing against my neck, the smoke delicious in my lungs. I can finally feel myself relaxing.
And yet.
I look to Deborah, then to Richard. Both a little buzzed from the newness too, their bodies shifting energy from one leg to another. The thought gnaws deeper, harder.
Something’s off.
It’s not their looks. They’re fine on their own, but odd side by side. People love who they love. I should know that. But it’s their flow, the way they mesh.
It’s off-balance. Like mustard and custard mixed together.