Chap­ter 1

Barcelona, Sat­ur­day 31st of July 2004

“My ears always go funny on board,” Helena told Enrique, set­tling in her seat in the pri­vate jet again. She had just had a shower with him in the small bath­room. “My first flight was some­what ille­gal. It was in an RAF plane and I was scared stiff. Then Grandpa, an RAF com­man­der, told me to hold my nose and gulp. Always works espe­cially at takeoff.”

“I pre­fer the sweets.” He leaned back on his seat, eyes closed and hands cradling the back of his head. Unlike her he had not got back into his clothes. A towel was wrapped around his hips.

She was so excited about the com­ing prospects. She was going to meet her future fam­ily. She had just left her life­long fam­ily in Cyprus, wor­ried. They were not as con­fi­dent in her rela­tion­ship with Enrique as she her­self was. She had just been made love to in the air – a first for her. He was the love of her life, she was con­vinced. They had known each other for over two months. And she would tell him all about her before this night was over. The secret wedged between them was an imper­fec­tion that had to be removed by sur­gi­cal words. This was the only unpleas­ant prospect for her to deal with tonight when they finally arrived in Barcelona. Tomor­row would be too late. Be hon­est with him, dar­ling, before you meet his fam­ily, Mummy had  said – for the umpteenth time.

Helena watched Paphos dimin­ish in the widen­ing blue mouth of the Mediter­ranean Sea. Cyprus the golden, like an autumn leaf tossed onto the sea by a care­less Divin­ity, rock­ing on a glit­ter­ing end­less blue hammock.

Ear­lier today in Limas­sol, she had called Ramón and asked him to meet them at the air­port but Ramón had rejected her request. She couldn’t blame him. There was only so much self­less­ness a man could afford. Still, if Ramón had met them, she had planned to tell him her story first and ask him how he thought Enrique would react to it. It was ever so easy to talk to Ramón about any­thing and every­thing. Almost eas­ier than talk­ing to Uncle Alex who, before Ramón, was her num­ber one tell-all, let-me-hear-the-dirt con­fi­dante. On the other hand some­thing about Enrique made her want to really be noth­ing other than per­fect, his Star of Cyprus. No warts on the cheeks, no growths in the heart. She shared in his idol­ized “sex­i­est star advo­cate in the inter­na­tional busi­ness com­mu­nity” image, and rev­elled in hav­ing bulbs flash­ing and cam­eras whirring wher­ever and when­ever they were part of the pub­lic life, as he called it. Helen­rique! Helen­rique! Who­ever had coined that, Enrique or the media? But her new world was all so intox­i­cat­ing. On the screen Enrique became so present, so crack­ling with energy, the per­pet­u­ally stray black strand of hair hug­ging his eye­brow, his forget-me-not blue eyes so intense – every­thing about him so three dimen­sional that he almost blasted into the room through the screen.

“A penny for your thoughts, Corazón?”

“Enrique.” She blushed furi­ously, tak­ing her eyes away from the port­hole and her thoughts. She felt as if Enrique had caught her think­ing about Ramón through an aria in the Mathew Pas­sion. “Are you sure you should be walk­ing around like that?” He still had only the towel around his hips.

“Nobody’s com­plain­ing but you. Awhile ago you didn’t mind me naked with you all over me. Does the towel make me more naked?”

“You’re impos­si­ble. But any­body could walk in now, per­haps. The crew and your media peo­ple, I mean. When will we be in Barcelona?”

When they boarded the jet, she had not known that the media peo­ple were wait­ing inside to wel­come them. She quickly got over the sur­prise and found her­self wish­ing that Mummy and Daddy  would know about the media. Just to demon­strate to them how much he cared for her, how much he was proud of her, wanted to show her to the world. She could han­dle the media by now and Enrique said she was such a nat­ural any day any­where with the paparazzi. But her par­ents had not gone far­ther than the VIP lounge at Paphos Inter­na­tional Airport.

“Eight, eight-thirty. Don’t mind sup­per on board, d’you?” 

She shook her head. “More rea­son you should put some­thing on.”

“The crew may burst in here after a dis­creet knock or throat-clearing. The media – never, unless invited to, okay?” She nod­ded. “Beau­ti­ful.” He placed a hand on her bare shoul­der. “You’re so beau­ti­ful, Helena. After next week, let’s just lock our­selves up some­where and never come out till the hol­i­days are over.”

She remem­bered the Sat­ur­day after­noon in May, when he burst into her scene with Ramón like a sud­den whirl­wind, stand­ing between them and squeez­ing a male and a female shoul­der in each hand. That moment when two oppos­ing forces bat­tled in her, mak­ing her knees threaten to buckle under her. She was wear­ing this same flimsy white cot­ton dress with the tight bodice, spaghetti straps and knee-length skirt gath­ered at the waist for the pet­ti­coat look, and the belt cinch­ing in her waist. Enrique was always a solid gale when he entered a room or even a hall.

“A great idea, dar­ling. Fil­ise me…” she added in Greek, tug­ging at the towel.

 

Three hours later, they were under the shower again, this time in a bath­room that was large enough to be an exec­u­tive office. The whole duplex apart­ment made her too enthralled to find the right words for it. When they came in she had sim­ply let him take her hand, like a trust­ing child, and show her the rooms and the sev­eral remote con­trol and safety gad­gets. Even in the shower where they were now, all one had to do was to press but­tons for “shower”, “tem­per­a­ture” and “start”. She per­son­ally thought it all a bit too much, unless one was an invalid or some­thing, but she enjoyed the plea­sures he enjoyed, was proud of the same things he took pride in.

They trailed from the bath­room past the dress­ing room, wrapped in heated tow­els, into the huge bed­room dom­i­nated by an enor­mous bed. He low­ered her onto the bed and then touched switches and there were soft lights and music and an elec­tric fire­place – sim­ply a visual effect in sum­mer. There was a bot­tle of chilled cham­pagne in a bucket and two crys­tal gob­lets. He poured the cham­pagne and they drank it from each other’s mouths. He poured some on her navel and sucked on it, mak­ing her tingle.

“I have to learn Span­ish,” she mur­mured. “The music sounds so erotic, but the words!”

“I’ll translate…sort…of… in…between…Corazón…”

It was much, much later, tak­ing another short break, sip­ping cham­pagne and lis­ten­ing to end­less music from some invis­i­ble cen­tral source, that she felt relaxed and con­fi­dent enough to tell him. She had gone over the HOW many times in her mind and had long decided that the best way to do it was the way Mummy had told it to her. From the begin­ning. From when Daddy had con­fessed to Mummy, and the two ended up shar­ing “our secret” and are still happy and in love with each other, despite the secret.

“Dar­ling…” she raised her shoul­ders off the bed and looked at him in the eyes. With the soft light­ing, his eyes were ink blue and glis­ten­ing in their deep sockets.

“Corazón…?”

“There’s a fam­ily story I have to tell you. I want you to know it before we meet your fam­ily tomor­row and…”

“Today, beau­ti­ful. It’s already past mid­night.” He put an arm around her and pulled her closer to him, punch­ing the pil­lows on the head­board for com­fort. “What is it, then?”

Her heart­beats accel­er­ated. She drained her glass and placed it on the night table next to the bucket with the cham­pagne bot­tle. She was shak­ing badly.

“Corazón?”

She pushed her loose hair to one side of her using both hands. “I’m all right. But, err, … oh God…! It’s about Daddy. About me and Daddy…”

“What?”

“Please don’t inter­rupt me or my courage will fail me, Enrique,” she said with renewed determination.

Then she told him. Every­thing from the days in Tim­ber­lake Pri­ory in York­shire to mov­ing over to Cyprus. She quickly ploughed on and on and on, leav­ing noth­ing out. She didn’t look at him any­more. But she felt his reac­tions as she told him the story. His arm slid away from under her. His body con­tin­u­ously inched away from her. Was it shock? Was it empa­thy? Was it pity? Or did he feel disgust?

She didn’t look at him until the end of her story. Then she did.

He had jumped out of bed and was pac­ing up and down mak­ing strange noises. He came back to her and stood close, a lit­tle bent from the waist. On her side of the bed. At first it was shock that she saw etched in his hand­some fea­tures. His mouth kept open­ing and clos­ing before what­ever he wanted to say could be said. But slowly, dis­gust replaced the shock. He said perdón rapidly sev­eral times, giv­ing the word no time to breath between the rep­e­ti­tions, the word an ugly pro­tru­sion prod­ding his tongue and con­scious­ness. Then the rest of the words thun­dered out of him.

He screamed them at her. She had never seen him so sentient.

She closed her eyes in order not to see his face, so con­torted with dis­gust at her.
He kept on scream­ing at her. As if it was all her fault. As if she had had any say, any choice in the whole thing. As if she had hap­pily rolled her­self around in the mud like a baby elephant.

She curled up and hoped to dis­ap­pear from the face of the earth, too hurt to even cry.

“Wait a minute;” he said and walked to one of his gad­gets and flicked the light on from soft to a stark white to illu­mi­nate her bet­ter. Her golden skin refused to own up, remain­ing inno­cent, per­fect and beau­ti­ful. As inno­cent as an infant’s. Untouched by any­thing but a mother’s lov­ing hands. He pulled the sheets off her. She made her­self into a ball and the humil­i­a­tion began to set in. What did he expect to dis­cover, that she grew horns at night or turned into a vam­pire? She began to trem­ble like a leaf and did her best not to sob. She endeav­oured to mar­shal her whirling thoughts and senses, will­ing her­self to remain as calm as she could.

But his words crashed inside her head over and over again. Sliced her flesh into strips. Plunged deep in her vital organs like a dag­ger han­dled by pow­er­ful hands. Over and over again. Nasty and cheap words she never expected from him. They broke her bones to splin­ters, dis­mem­bered her. She began to sob relent­lessly. She sobbed even harder think­ing about her father.

Enrique’s mind spun out of its nat­ural rev­o­lu­tions. His dis­gust acquired other tinges. For him­self, being the self-centred trail­blazer that he was. Deep black tinges. An abyss. Losses instead of gains in pres­tige. The media, all these sev­eral weeks. How was he going to undo all that? And how was he going to explain all this to the fam­ily? Well, the fam­ily will under­stand. That he nearly made her his wife! The mother of his chil­dren, for God’s sake!

His rage and vex­a­tion soared and roared to an inferno, like a build­ing on fire whose win­dows shat­ter to let in the oxy­gen. He turned to her. On her.

“You bitch! How could you have done this to me, huh?”

If she had told him the truth from the very begin­ning, every­thing would have been slot­ted in their cor­rect com­part­ments. He would have enjoyed being with her, sleep­ing with her, buy­ing her expen­sive presents. But not going so far as to get engaged with a…

“All right, Helena. Now we can fuck.” The voice solid like rein­forced concrete.

She saw the mad­ness in his eyes, began cry­ing in pleas. She was no longer on a silk-gilded bed with a man who could take her to heaven and back. This was the beast her father had warned her against, not the noble sav­age of her fan­tasies with Mummy. But even Mummy had warned her against this par­tic­u­lar beast, that she might find her­self out on a limb with Enrique. Her mind was run­ning marathons but in a cir­cle. The pain, the fear, the dis­gust and revul­sion as he tried to pin her down. He pried her thighs apart with his strong legs as his hands pinned her wrists to the head­board. She screamed and fought him.

“Shut up! You’ll love it rough, won’t you?”

He was too strong for her but still she com­bined pleas with fight­ing back. “Enrique, please! I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before… I was scared of your… Please don’t do this to me! Don’t…! It’s still me, Enrique, your Star of Cyp…!”

They had been mak­ing love for half the day and night. He pen­e­trated her painfully but effort­lessly. Only her wild strug­gles dis­con­nected them, throw­ing him off before he would thrust into her anew. He decided to do some­thing in order to achieve his inten­tions. He released her right hand in order to use his own hand to guide him­self into her and hold her pressed to him.

It was her chance.

She used her released hand to whip the cham­pagne bot­tle out, knock­ing the bucket almost noise­lessly to the fluffy floor. He was so busy in his mad endeav­ours that he didn’t notice her grab the bot­tle. She raised it in the air and brought it down, with all her might, on the side of his head. The bot­tle broke, shoot­ing off a stream of cham­pagne. A noise caught in his throat and he slumped. She pushed him off her and made for the dress­ing room. But he was so still that she stopped to look at him. He lay life­less across the bed.

“Enrique?” What to do… what to do… what…to…do? Was he dead? The police…

Too many things bowl­ing around her head. “Enrique?”

She rushed back to him, hold­ing the top half of the bro­ken bot­tle as a weapon. She tilted her rum­bling head to one side like an intel­li­gent dog. Enrique said noth­ing and the room was full of it. Before she could think she prod­ded him with the bro­ken bot­tle on his naked side. He remained still. His head was lying in a pool of blood, the pool widen­ing. More fresh blood welled out from his side.  She stiffened.

Think! Call an ambu­lance! The mobile! Where’s the mobile…my handbag…the dressing…no – the bathroom!

She ran into the office-sized bath­room and found her bag on a dress­ing table. With one hand she opened it and shook the con­tents out as she ran back to the bed­room. The mobile thud­ded to the floor in the dress­ing room and she picked it up, drop­ping the hand­bag. She had only one free hand. The hand with her weapon, she poised ready for any even­tu­al­i­ties. Her head was spin­ning and dron­ing. She reached the bedroom.

Enrique was gone.

God almighty, he’s not dead! He had moved! Where to? “Enrique?”

There was a weak groan from the other side of the bed, then blood­ied fin­gers clawed on the bed sheets. The dark half dome of his head mat­ted with blood, glis­ten­ing as it caught the light, appeared. She screamed invol­un­tar­ily before wor­ry­ing about her safety.

He’s dan­ger­ous! Call the police! Bring your­self to safety! Explain to the police! You didn’t mean to kill him! Bring your­self to safety and call the police!

“BUT HOW!” she screamed out aloud. “HELP! HELP! HELP ME!”

His shoul­ders appeared from the oppo­site side of the bed.

THINK!

“You b-b-bi—tch!”

The gad­gets. What had he said, show­ing off his gad­gets to her?  When you don’t want the ser­vants to sur­prise you in the bed­room, dress­ing room or bath­room, this but­ton makes it impos­si­ble for any­one to come in from the outside…

The bath­room!

He was claw­ing halfway across the huge bed towards her. She bolted to the bath­room, lock­ing the dress­ing room. Oh shit! Sim­ply a slid­ing glass screen between the bed­room and the dress­ing room. No lock­able door. Oh God! She had dropped the remote con­trol and bent to recover it, mobile phone in the same hand. Through the glass door to the bed­room she saw him still creep­ing across the blood­ied bed sheets towards the dress­ing room, call­ing her dread­ful names. She bolted out of the dress­ing room, col­lect­ing her dropped things and the half empty hand­bag. She ran into the bath­room and, fever­ishly read­ing and decid­ing on the codes on the dis­play, she bolted all the doors lead­ing to the bath­room, grate­ful for the Eng­lish lan­guage. Stop. Start. On. Off. Lock. Unlock. She heard him pound­ing on the dress­ing room door to the bath­room. What if there was another reserve gad­get? She wanted to cry but told her­self she had to think. She had put her­self in this sit­u­a­tion. She had to get her­self out of it.

The police. He wasn’t dead after all. They would under­stand a for­eign girl pan­ick­ing. She had acted in self defence. But how did one dial the Span­ish police…?

Enrique was get­ting louder both in voice and the pound­ing. Was he nearer? Out­side the bath­room door per­haps? Which one of the doors? How long before he worked that or any other door open? Flinch­ing with each pound­ing out­side, she punched the speed-dial for Mummy. Then she remem­bered she was in Spain and it was in the mid­dle of the night any­way. Her mother and father would more likely die of a heart attack than arrive in time to res­cue her. Uncle Alex! Maybe he knew at least the Span­ish police or fire brigade num­ber. But what time was it in Tokyo? Was he on stage? Tokyo code?

“You fuck­ing bitch, open the door! Open up…!”

For a moment she broke down cry­ing. That was Enrique out there call­ing her names. She had loved him. He had loved her. What hap­pened to it all? She wept bit­terly but the bang­ing and abuses and insults propped up her men­tal spine. She had NOT loved him, she had loved a fake. Just as he had never loved her, Helena. He had loved his own dreams.

“I’ll kill you if you don’t open this door at once!”

He couldn’t get in. That threat says he can’t get in!

She felt much bet­ter. Her head cleared. Well, fuck you too mate. She rum­maged in the cup­boards. A boiler? Any­thing where some kind of tele­phone num­ber was writ­ten even if it belonged to a plumber or the elec­tric­ity com­pany. But every­thing was high tech to a fault. It was like being in a lux­ury clin­i­cal ward of a spaceship.

And then his name hit her mem­ory with a force that made her stop search­ing and sit on the floor in her naked­ness. Her hands were shak­ing as she punched his speed-dial. Her tears began to flow again – with relief. The num­ber started ringing.

The bang­ing and insults out­side the bath­room door jarred her nerves.

Please, Ramón! Have the phone on! Wake up! I need you desperately!

Oh God, he was a Ruíz de Alar­cón too! Would he want to have any­thing to do with her after this? After know­ing? In panic, she dis­con­nected the num­ber. Her fear min­gled with a sud­den sense of doom. Both hov­ered above her like a dark star­less sky about to drop and squash her on her last leg to hell. But the bang­ing from the door was get­ting incessant.

“I need the fuck­ing first aid kit, you bitch!”

Dear God. Her brain was doing every­thing to detach itself from her body and she had to sum­mon some­thing to assist her in not rein­forc­ing such a sit­u­a­tion. She crept as far away from the doors as pos­si­ble and crouched in a cor­ner, bit­terly sob­bing. Twenty-two years, a first lover eleven years older, out in a for­eign coun­try, and now this.

But maybe Enrique was bleed­ing to death! For him Ramón would come. And if he came for his cousin she would also get out of here. She punched Ramón’s speed-dial again and was deter­mined to wait. If it was the mail­box, she was ready to leave a mess…

“Mi vida? Is any­thing wrong?”

And all else broke in her anew, slith­er­ing into her like the moment of birth but in reverse. Between bit­ter sobs she man­aged, “Ramón, please come and help me…Please come and help me, Ramón… Enrique…hates me… Help me…or send…the police…to…help me…Ramón… Please…please…Ramón…help…me…”

On the other end of the line, Ramón shook him­self wide awake. He could hear her des­per­a­tion. “Helena? Please calm down, mi amor…what’s…?”

“Send me….some…help…Ramón…”

“Hey, calm down. I’m on my way. Tell me what hap­pened, Helena.” He was already fran­ti­cally step­ping into his clothes. What on earth has Enrique done? “Helena?”

“Help me…please…Ramón…I’ll never…ask you…for anything…again…”

“Why should I send the police?” Then he heard the bang­ing and gab­bled voice in the back­ground. Jesus! What was going on?

His words sent her into fresh parox­ysms. “Please, Ramón…get…me…out of…here…!” Dear God, please make him come to me. Or send the police.

“Helena, don’t dis­con­nect the line, okay? Where’s Enrique? Are you hurt ?”

“Out­side the door…I’m…in the…bath…roooom…!”

“Okay, I’ll be there in a moment, mi vida. Stay where you are and don’t disconnect.”

Relieved and much stronger inside, she curled up on the floor under the sink, her mobile pressed to her ears, lis­ten­ing to his sooth­ing words until they were more like a lulling mantra repeated again and again. Her mind drifted back to the day she had first met the cousins and made the biggest mis­take in her life. 

 

 

 

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