Mr. Santoro was very untidy. She hooked his suede jacket on the back of the chair and folded the shirt he had worn the day before. It excited her to feel so close to him, and she went hot with nerves at the thought that he might come in at any moment and discover her smelling his clothes. She noticed his suitcase still sat on the rack where Tom had undoubtedly placed it on arrival. It didn’t look heavy. She’d store it under the bed where it would be out of the way. As she went to lift it off, she saw that it was unzipped. She pulled up the top to make sure that there was nothing inside. She peered in. The case lay empty but for an important-looking folder. She glanced about the room, as if checking that she was, indeed, alone. Then she picked it up.
It looked old and faded but official, like the files they brought out on those American television dramas like Law & Order. Now, trembling with curiosity, she lifted the flap. Inside were papers, lots of papers, all in a language that she didn’t understand. What did they speak in Argentina? Italian? That was it, then. Italian. At the back was a big pile of letters written in a very tidy hand, tied with an elastic band.
She pulled it out, frustrated that she couldn’t understand what they said, and ran her eyes over the first one. A name leapt out. She had just read the words ti amo, which she knew meant “I love you” from the Laura Branagan song she used to listen to in her teens, when she thought she heard footsteps on the stairs. Hastily, she put the letters back in the file and placed the file back in the case.
She shot to the bed and began to smooth the quilt so it would look like she was cleaning. Her heart raced, and sweat gathered on her nose. When she was sure no one was there, she took a deep breath and relaxed a little. She was now anxious to leave the room as quickly as possible. As she tiptoed down the stairs the name somehow stuck in her head. It was a funny name, because, surely there should have been another n in there. But perhaps they didn’t use the n in Argentina.
Costanza. Surely it should be Constanza?
15.
Clementine was not surprised when Joe walked into her office. She had been avoiding him by not returning his calls, but she knew it would be only a matter of time before he came in person to find her. As he stood before her she felt the sinking feeling of waking from a dream and facing the dull reality of true life. As much as she could fantasize about Rafa, the truth was that he was out of her league. She looked at Joe, coarse and regular, like so many other men found in bars and pubs across England, and wondered whether this was the best she could expect. Was it healthy to reach for the stars when she was never going to touch one?
“Hi, Joe,” she said, masking her guilt behind an artificial smile.
“Where have you been? Haven’t you noticed I’ve been trying to call you?”
“I’m sorry. It’s been really busy up at the hotel. The new artist has arrived, and Submarine needed my help. It’s been full-on.”
Joe didn’t look convinced. “The least you could have done is called.”
“I know. I thought you’d understand.” She delved into her bag for her lip gloss. “I obviously overestimated you. My mistake.”
He suddenly looked lost and scratched his head. How had she managed to make him feel guilty in such a short exchange? “Can I see you tonight?”
“I’m afraid not. We’re going out on Dad’s boat. I don’t know what time we’ll be back.”
“Come and stay over?”
“No, Joe. I told you, I’m needed up at the hotel at the moment.”
He looked exasperated. “Then when? We’re meant to be having a relationship.”
“All right, then. Tomorrow night.” But she regretted it just as soon as she had said it.
Sylvia sat at her desk listening to every word. Once Joe had gone she put down her nail file and turned on Clementine. “He’s a good lad, Joe is. I don’t know what’s got into you!”
Clementine put her elbows on the desk and sank her chin into her hands. “He’s so ordinary compared to Rafa.”
“When the scales fall from your eyes, Rafa will be just as ordinary. Men are men whichever way you look at them.”
“No, Rafa is different.”
“That’s what I thought about Richard, and Jeremy, and Benjamin … and countless others. It always ends in disappointment because your Superman is just a man in underpants after all. Just as needy, just as demanding, just as selfish as every other man in the world.”
“You’re so cynical.”
“I’ve lived longer than you, lovely.”
“I’m holding on to the dream.”
“It’s made of soap, silly.”