She’d be very sorry indeed when she had to board the plane for her homeward flight and the real world at the other end.
Chapter 5
This would be the third occasion she took the coastal walk to Alcalá, but Sophie was looking forward to it as much as, if not more than, she’d done the first time. It had quickly become her favourite thing to do in the mornings, as she’d settled down into a routine since the fabulous trip to Teide and Masca. First she’d have breakfast, then pay the supermarket a quick visit to pick up some fresh bread and ingredients for her dinner, followed by the making of sandwiches for when she arrived at one of Alcalá’s several beaches, where she’d read her book, do a spot of sunbathing and maybe even dip her toes in the rather refreshing, if not downright chilly, Atlantic ocean. Then there would be the gentle stroll back, past the natural seawater pool, the waves pounding against the rocks, the banana plantations, and her favourite villa.
But today she noticed that something was different.
The first part of her plan went… well, according to plan.
The plan deviated slightly when, as she passed the villa, wondering as usual if anyone actually lived there because she’d yet to see the shutters open or anyone in the garden (although the last time she’d walked this way a chair had been moved, so someone was around), she noticed a piece of card tied to one of the double gates. It had two holes punched in it and was secured to the metal rail by what looked like a shoelace. It also had writing on it, in pen, which had been gone over several times to make the top line stand out. The handwriting itself was neat and quite elegant. But it was also in Spanish, so she couldn’t read a single word of it.
Thank goodness for Google Translate, she thought, as she typed the words slowly into her phone, making sure the spelling was correct.
Fully expecting the note to be for a delivery driver, or maybe (and her heart did a flip at the thought) that the house was being put up for sale, she was stunned to read the message her phone revealed.
‘Help wanted’ it said. Then it went on to detail what kind of assistance was required. It seemed like an elderly gentleman who was due to have a hip operation needed help with home chores (at least, that’s what Google told her). Maybe it meant housework?
But the bit that really gave her pause – and began a slow churning excitement in her stomach – was the fact that it was a live-in position. Small payment for services, all food and other living expenses included, according to her phone.
Could she? Maybe…
Should she? Probably not.
Dare she? Yes. No.
Oh dear…
She’d walk to Alcalá and think about it. Now wasn’t the time to do anything hasty.
She began walking, her feet seeming rather reluctant to move as the thoughts rolled around in her head like so many loose marbles.
Just making an enquiry wasn’t being hasty, was it? In fact, the more enquiries she made, the better informed she’d be to make a decision—
Oh, who was she kidding? Make a decision about what? Taking a job she wasn’t qualified to do, in a foreign country, where they spoke a language she could neither speak nor understand? She had a life, a family and a home in England, and—
Hang on a sec, what life was this, then? Come to think of it, what home? She’d very shortly be moving out of the one she’d shared with her mum, and she hadn’t the foggiest idea where she was going to live. And as for a life – she had no job and not even the prospect of one, no friends, and no social life, unless you counted the online forums and Facebook groups she’d joined to connect with other people in the same situation as her. There was her family to consider, though. Aunty Anne would miss her, and she’d miss her aunt, but with Denise about to give birth any second, her aunt would have her hands full helping her daughter look after the new babies. And that was another thing; Sophie wasn’t sure she wanted to miss out on her first cuddle with the little ones.
But it was only for three months… not for ever…
She halted. Maybe she should just go back and reread it. Re-translate it. Just in case she’d got it wrong, and the occupant was redirecting an IKEA delivery or something. Actually, was there an IKEA on Tenerife?
For goodness’ sake, get a grip, she told herself silently, as she started walking again. She would go to the beach as planned, spread her towel out on the hot, dark sand, eat her sandwich and think it through logically. And if she felt the pros outweighed the cons, then there was nothing to stop her ringing the bell and asking for more details on her way back to her apartment. What was to say she’d get the job anyway? She might take an instant dislike to the man with the hip, or he might not like her. Or, more likely, her lack of Spanish would be a major drawback. Not everyone spoke English on the island, she’d noticed, although many people did have a smattering, usually related to the kind of work they did. And if none of those things proved to be a barrier, then her gender or her age might. The gentleman might not want to share his home with a woman, or he might be looking for someone more matronly.
She decided to keep walking, have a good long think, and take her time – the villa wasn’t going anywhere. It would still be there on her way back.
But the job mightn’t be.
Someone else might apply for it, someone local. She’d kick herself if she’d been pipped at the post.
Sophie sat on one of the large rocks dotted at intervals along the side of the path and turned to face the way she’d come. From this distance and from this angle, it was impossible to tell if the advert was still attached to the gate.
Oh, it must be, because a woman walking her dog had stopped to read it.
What if she decided to apply for it?
Sophie jumped to her feet and marched back along the path.
The woman moved on, towing her dog behind her, but every now and again she glanced over her shoulder at the villa. Sophie increased her pace until she was almost running.
By the time she arrived at the villa’s gates, the woman had turned a bend and was out of sight, and Sophie breathed a tentative sigh of relief.
Before she rang the bell, though, which was an old-fashioned pull cord linked to a real brass bell hanging by the side of the front door, she checked and double-checked the notice. Each time, Google gave her the same result, so, without anything further to be gleaned, she took a deep breath, briefly closed her eyes and pulled the cord.
The bell rang. Sophie waited.
And waited.
Nothing. No movement whatsoever that she could see.
Perhaps the occupant, or occupants, were out? There was a phone number written on the card, but she didn’t want to call it and risk having an awkward conversation with someone who didn’t speak English.
Perhaps she should walk to Alcalá after all, and try again on her return?
She backed away, then turned on her heel, glancing over her shoulder as she did so.
The door opened and a grizzled head poked out. ‘Qué pasa?’
‘Er… I… um…’
‘Inglesa?’
‘English? Yes, yes, I am.’ She nodded enthusiastically.
‘What do you want?’ His English was heavily accented, but at least it was English.
‘The… um… advert?’ She stepped closer, until her nose was practically squashed up against the railings of the gate.