about silly nonsense and the uselessness of one’s parents; how the future was perfect, because they hadn’t lived it yet.
‘I always find that the time before a party is happiest,’ Olive said. ‘Nothing’s had the chance to go wrong.’ Teresa lifted her hands away from Olive’s head. ‘Why have you stopped?’ she asked, as Teresa walked over to her satchel.
Teresa removed a small, square package wrapped in tissue paper. She held it out, nervously. ‘For you,’ she said.
Olive took it. ‘For me? My goodness. Shall I open it now?’
Teresa nodded, and Olive gasped when she saw the green flash through the paper, emerald strung on emerald, emerging like a stone snake, a necklace of such beauty and intensity she had never seen before. ‘My God. Where did you get this?’
‘It was my mother’s,’ Teresa said. ‘Now for you.’
Olive sat frozen on the chair, the necklace swinging from her fist. No one had ever in her life given her such a present. This was everything Teresa possibly had of her mother; to take it would be a selfish act. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t—’
‘It’s for you.’
‘Teresa, this is too much—’
In the end, it was Teresa who made the decision for her, scooping the necklace out of Olive’s grasp, laying it round her neck and fixing the clasp. ‘It is for you,’ Teresa said. ‘For my friend.’
Olive turned to the mirror. The emeralds looked like green leaves, shining upon her pale skin, enlarging in size towards her clavicle. Stones from Brazil, green as the ocean, green as the forest her father had promised they would find in the south of Spain. These were not jewels, they were eyes, winking at her in the candlelight, watching the girls who watched themselves.
VIII
By the evening, Harold had returned from Malaga with supplies for the party. He was loping around the house, a cigar clamped between his teeth, calling for more gramophone records. Isaac was helping carry extra chairs and tables loaned by the villagers.
‘Olive,’ he said to her. ‘The painting is finished.’
‘Oh,’ she said.
‘You are not pleased? I did not think you liked being painted.’
She didn’t know what to say; Isaac’s finished painting just meant less opportunity to see him.
Sarah emerged, dressed in a long plum-coloured gown. In London, when they had parties, she would often come in fancy dress – the Little Mermaid, or Snow White – and one memorable year as Rapunzel, when her entire false plait went up in flames and they’d put her out with champagne. But tonight was a Schiaparelli number, truly sophis, as the girls at school might have said – with two women’s faces embroidered on the back in sequins, their red lips glittering from the hundreds of candles Harold had brought back from the city, and which Teresa had been instructed to light. The dress was one of Olive’s favourites; she had always been mesmerized by the Janus-like embroidery.
Sarah’s eyes were drawn to the emeralds around her daughter’s neck. ‘Who gave you those?’ she demanded, as Harold popped a bottle of Veuve Clicquot.
Olive realized that she had heard the sound of glasses clinking over trauma all her life. Annoyed that her mother had not even noticed her new hair, she tipped her chin and stroked the green stones. ‘Isaac,’ she replied.
It was a reckless evening. The guests began to arrive up the finca path at around eight o’clock, and Olive and her parents stood at the door to greet them. One of the first to appear was a man in an expensive-looking cream suit with a large cravat, as if it was cocktail hour on an ocean liner. His large black moustache had been oiled at the tips. Behind him, two younger men followed in neat suits. Olive wondered who they were – his children, perhaps? They seemed more like his hired guards than anything else.
The man proffered his hand. ‘Señor Schloss,’ he said. ‘Don Alfonso Robles Hernández. I have been away on business for the duchess.’
‘Don Alfonso,’ said Harold, putting out his own hand. ‘We meet at last.’
He spoke good English, and Olive saw echoes of Isaac in the man’s face – but there was something inherently theatrical about the Don that his son did not share. Despite his flashiness, there was an intelligence in Alfonso’s small eyes; calculation and black humour. She thought of the story Teresa had told about him, and tried to quell her anxiety.
‘Gregorio, give Señora Schloss our offerings.’ One of the boys hopped forward. ‘Almond cake and a bottle of good