And I had enough sense to not ask him what he meant.
There was a final message from Claire.
Mum invited Luke to her party. He said yes.
‘Quin? Mum’s invited Luke to her party, apparently he said yes.’
‘So we’re not going?’
‘That’s right. Come on, let’s see Barcelona.’
Outside the day was blue and yellow and all go. Tanned, muscular hotties were running at speed and visored cyclists, bent low over their bikes, came at us like attacking insects.
‘Exsqueeze me!’ I said as three roller-skaters whizzed by, whipping the air around us. ‘Trying to stroll romantically here!’ I smiled at Quin but at that exact moment, he was twisting his head away from me.
On the busy beach, golden young things were playing volleyball or doing slow, graceful movements that might have been t’ai chi.
On the other side of the boardwalk was real life – a quaint-looking neighbourhood of four-and five-storey apartment buildings, separated by dim, narrow streets. Laundry hung on tiny iron balconies or on lines strung between buildings, and squat, pretty palm trees – more like palm shrubs – sat at regular intervals.
An elderly woman was having a shouted, balcony-to-balcony conversation with another woman, who could have been her twin. Clusters of older men sat on rough chairs, talking energetically.
I asked, ‘Can we take a look?’
‘Rach. It’s not a theme park.’
Oh. Kay. ‘Quin … are you …？’
‘Fine. Just – locals live there, it’s their home.’
‘Sure.’ There were other people, obviously tourists, strolling through the narrow streets but no way was I risking an argument when we still had thirty-six hours trapped with each other.
He exhaled. ‘Sorry, Rach, of course we can. It’s why we’re here.’ He led me into the small streets. ‘Until the 1992 Olympics, it was just a poor fishing port, then they gussied it up. But it’s still a real community.’
Men sat at tiny zinc tables, playing a board game. ‘Dominos,’ Quin said.
Everyone seemed to know each other and the whole place was vibrant, teeming with life.
Just as I wondered if any kids lived here, we came upon a playground filled with them, climbing, jumping, calling to each other. Watching children was always bitter-sweet but the balance had greatly tipped in favour of joy.
I’m happy now, so is Luke, everything is fine.
‘You sure you don’t mind doing this?’ I asked Quin. ‘You’ve seen it all before. We could do something else.’
‘All good.’
After lunch in a low, pokey traditional restaurant – ‘a Barcelona secret’， according to Quin – we went back to the hotel for a quick rest before hitting the beach but we accidentally slept all afternoon.
I awoke, without a clue where I was. I lay, staring at nothing, trying to get it together, when a memory ambushed me. It had been a morning in New York. Early. Too early to start living through another day where my baby was still dead, so I’d slipped some magic tablets into my mouth and got relieved of the feelings for a little longer.
Some hours later, groggy and confused, I’d woken again. This time, I’d got out of bed. Beneath me, the floor felt unsteady. I stood, waiting for it to become more solid, when Luke appeared in the doorway.
Suddenly wary, I’d said, ‘I thought you were at work.’
‘I know you did.’ He watched me, the way he always watched me then – analytically. Detached.
It was three weeks, maybe four, since he’d discovered my hidden pills. Since then I’d done a good job of taking them in secret.
Moving into the bedroom, he pulled me against his chest and held me tight. I relaxed against him, suddenly grateful for the hard heat of his body. Then, very quietly, he whispered into my hair, ‘You have to stop.’
Back in the now, in Barcelona, sadness rushed in, different layers of it. You relapsed. It was your fault.
Every time that thought arrived, a bolt of fear shot through me and every time it went a little deeper.
I shifted, looking for Quin. Stretched across the bed, he was still conked out. I put a hand on his shoulder and his eyes snapped open.
‘We fell asleep.’ He sounded stunned. ‘What time is it?’
‘Ten to eight.’
‘Okay … I need coffee.’ He stumbled around the room, then into the shower. When he came back, he was awake. ‘So tonight? Food? We can pick up something casual out there.’ He nodded towards the sea. ‘Or.’ He paused. ‘I’ve booked two places at a pop-up in a villa belonging to a Catalan nobleman, a comte.’