The Women Who Ran Away - Sheila O'Flanagan Page 0,82
of her space.’
‘Oh?’ Charlie looked at her enquiringly, but Deira had no intention of sharing personal information about Grace with a perfect stranger. Even if he was a perfect stranger whose baby she wanted. So she said it was nothing really, and that Grace would be fine.
‘Would you like to have a peek at Amaya’s gallery now?’ Charlie glanced at his watch. ‘I’m due to meet her in ten minutes and it’s not far from here.’
‘I . . . Well, yes, that’d be great.’ She’d thought she might go to the gallery in the morning, but given that Grace had abandoned the treasure hunt and gone back to the hotel, this was as good a way of spending her time as any. Besides, she wanted to find out more about the possible future father of her child.
She drained her glass and slid off the high stool she’d been sitting on, then followed Charlie out of the café and across the plaza. She was acutely conscious of him alongside her, aware of the height of him, the bulk of him – the very maleness of him – so close to her that their arms were almost touching. Would he be good in bed? she wondered. Not that his technique would matter. The only important thing would be that he was strong and virile and could make her pregnant.
She glanced at him, but he was striding forward, not taking any notice of her. Which was a good thing. Sometimes she feared that people could read her thoughts. If Charlie could read hers, he’d think she was a crazy person. She supposed he wouldn’t be the only one. But she wasn’t crazy. Just desperate.
He continued to lead the way before turning onto a narrow pedestrianised street lined with artisan shops and stopping outside a building with a maroon awning, the words Galería de Arte stamped on it in gold. A large landscape painting in a vibrant mix of blues and greens was displayed in the window. Deira recognised Jennifer Roache’s work immediately.
‘Here we are,’ said Charlie. ‘Amaya’s gallery.’
Deira took a deep breath and focused on the here and now rather than the thoughts that had been swirling around in her head.
A bell jingled as they stepped inside. In contrast to the shaded street, the room was carefully lit, and the high-gloss marble floor gave it an elegant air.
‘Fabulous,’ said Deira as she looked around. She smiled to see another of Jennifer’s paintings, this one a seascape, prominently displayed.
‘Hola – oh, Charlie, it’s you. How are you?’ A slight woman wearing jeans and a T-shirt, her dark hair tied up in a ponytail, walked into the gallery.
‘I’m good. Sorry if I’m a bit late. I’ve brought a visitor.’ He introduced Deira and explained that she knew Jennifer.
‘How lovely!’ Amaya’s brown eyes lit up. ‘It’s so nice to meet people who like the same things as you.’ She spoke briefly about her delight in Jennifer’s work and then showed Deira some of the other paintings, explaining her plan to exhibit artists from different countries. The two women continued to chat about art while Charlie leaned against Amaya’s glass desk and scrolled through his phone. Then the doorbell jingled again and an older woman, accompanied by a young teenager, entered.
‘How’s my boy?’ Charlie put away his phone and embraced the teenager, while the older woman kissed Amaya on both cheeks.
Charlie, his hand still on the boy’s shoulder, introduced him to Deira as his son, Iñaki, and the older woman as Amaya’s mother. She smiled at Deira before turning and speaking to Charlie in Spanish. He laughed and shook his head, while Amaya gave him an amused look
‘She wanted to know if we were an item,’ he explained to Deira. ‘I told her that we’re travellers who keep meeting on the road.’
‘And it was lovely to meet you again, but I’d better be off.’ Deira was feeling slightly uncomfortable under the speculative eye of Amaya’s mother. ‘It was great to meet you too, Amaya. Best of luck with the Jennifer Roache paintings. I can’t wait to tell her I met you.’
‘Keep in touch, especially if you see anything I might be interested in,’ said Amaya. She took one of the business cards that Charlie had already given her, and scribbled on it before handing it to her. ‘That’s my personal mobile.’
‘Thank you.’ Deira slipped it into her bag.
‘How long do you plan to stay in Pamplona?’ asked Charlie as he walked to the door with her.