Page 11 of It Takes Three To Tango

Distance, both in space and communication, had been an effective sticking plaster for my problems, one I was happy tocontinue using. But at some point, the plaster has to come off, it’s just a pity it isn’t at a time of my choosing.

A myriad of emotions rush through me—hurt, anger, disappointment, defeat, humiliation, and jealousy—all bombarding me at once, their barbs making fresh holes on top of old ones.

Did she leave me for Sloan Thorpe? No, that can’t be. She’d called off the wedding, said she didn’t want to get tied down, though the wedding had been her idea in the first place. On that last day she’d called me uninteresting, unexciting, and tedious. Well, I bet Sloan Thorpe isn’t mundane and boring. I know he isn’t, actually. I’ve met him. He’s all charm and charisma. I knew I disliked him.

I’d felt lucky when I met Loretta two years ago, though I’d known of her long before then. She was beautiful, she was rich, and she was way out of my league. As the daughter of Grant Deaton, founder and CEO of Deatons Publishers, I’d seen her both in the office or at functions, but I hadn’t spoken to her before. That was until the launch of my fourth book,On A Turning Tide. It had got a lot of early reviews, and it was—and remains—my most well-known book to date. After she’d spoken to me at the launch, we’d fallen into chatting whenever I saw her in the office. It took me six months to pluck up the courage to ask her out, and I was amazed when she agreed. One thing I learned early on was that she was used to getting her own way. She decided what she wanted and went for it. I found myself swept up in being her boyfriend, then her fiancé. My book was selling well, so there were signings and functions aswell as panels and interviews. I was living my dream, never examining whether I was happy or not. I was happy, wasn’t I? It was perfect. Surely, what everyone would want. A beautiful wife and a successful career. I had it all . . . until I had nothing. Until a couple of weeks ago, when Helen had told me the contract that had been set up for the new series had fallen through, hours before I was due to sign it. I’d been crushed. I’d worked so hard on it. I’d turned to Loretta, seeking solace and support, only to find her packing her things, saying she was leaving me and couldn’t marry me. She was in tears, and I comforted her, supporting her as she said she wasn’t ready for commitment. I believed her until she delivered her final blow and her parting words about how uninteresting I was. I moved through the next few days in a numb haze, dealing with cancelling all the wedding arrangements, the invitations, the wedding list, and the disappointed relatives. My wedding day came and went, and I stayed at home. The next day, I couldn’t take any more, and I boarded the flight that should have been taking us on our honeymoon. I’ve been here ever since.

Now, the distance in space and time, as well as this new information, has given me a fresh perspective. I’d been naïve, and I’d been played.

The hurt still burns through my body, the anger matching it pace for pace. I feel stupid that I was so caught up in the dream I didn’t see it for the illusion it was.

But Sloan Thorpe. Damn, that cuts deep. I might have been an ascending star, but he was always going to rise higher and burn brighter than I ever would.

I pour a drink. Anything to numb the pain and humiliation, to make the feelings go away. But haven’t I pushed them aside for too long? I’ve barely existed for the last few weeks, instead just allowing myself to be lulled into thinking everything is all right. The only time I’ve felt anything like normal has been when I’ve been in thecompany of Florencio and Constantin. I glance at my watch. I hadn’t noticed it was so late. I don’t have much time to get ready. Tonight, we’ve been invited to dinner with Florencio’s aunt, Estrella. I’ve been looking forward to meeting her and the thought of seeing them again lifts the heaviness in my chest that settled in there when Helen mentioned Loretta. I want to make the most of my remaining time in Spain. I might have told Helen I didn’t want to go home, but the truth is I’m due to fly back next week. I leave the drink untouched, not wanting its effects, and take a hot shower instead.

“Are you sure you’re going to be okay?” I ask Alena for the tenth time, and she gives me her most withering stare. I deserve it, but I’ve never left the bar alone for the night before. Accepting dinner invitations, any invitations really, has never been my thing, though there have been precious few invitations, and certainly not in the last few years. When I was setting the bar up, I had an excuse—too busy—but then the invitations dried up as people got the message that I wasn’t going to come. So why did I say yes when Florencio came in two nights ago and said his aunt had invited us to dinner? Was it because Rafe was also going? I’ve enjoyed their company over the last few evenings, more than I care to admit. But saying yes and actually leaving my bar are two very different activities.

“We’re going to be fine,” Alena reassures me. She’s very competent and has been with me as my second in command for the last five years. I’ve thought of promoting her to barmanager for some time, but it didn’t seem necessary as I’ve always been here. I couldn’t leave the bar in more capable hands.

“Perhaps I should stay?—”

“What’s the real problem?” She stops restocking the fridge and straightens up. I’ve never confided in her as a friend, but she’s seen enough of me to know that I’m not my usual self, and of course, she saw me with Rafe and Florencio over the past week.

“Am I doing the right thing?”

She leans her forearms on the bar and gives me her full attention. “I think you need to get out once in a while. It can’t be healthy staying here day after day like a hermit. Everything will be fine. Wednesdays are usually quiet, and I have Anton and the band here if I need them.”

“I don’t know. . .”

I sense rather than see her exasperated sigh.

“When did you last go out?”

I run a towel over the bar and mumble. “I don’t remember.”

“Exactly,” she replies. “Look, they seem like really nice guys, and to be honest, apart from one of us”—she gestures towards herself, the musicians, and Anton, the other barman—“I’ve not seen you talk to anyone else for longer. You deserve to have some fun, so go out and enjoy yourself.”

“Thank you.” I know I’m lucky to have her.

“Estrella Winters?” I immediately recognise the very glamorous, ageing star in front of me, and I receive a wide smile as well as a proffered hand, which I of course take andpress my lips to the back of. I turn to Florencio, who looks very smart all in black. His trousers cling to his narrow hips, which sway with a dancer’s grace as he moves across the floor to stand next to his aunt, who is elegantly dressed in purple velvet. Her neck is adorned with enough jewels to buy my bar several times over. “Why didn’t you tell us your aunt was Estrella Winters?”

“Wait, you’re Estrella Winters?” Rafe’s voice holds a hushed awe. He enters the room a little behind me. Though we’d arrived at the same time, Rafe’s attention had been caught by a large painting in the cavernous lobby of this vast house. He looks very handsome in linen trousers and a loosely fitting linen shirt, both in neutral tones that make his hair seem lighter and accentuate the amber in his eyes. He takes the other proffered hand and repeats the same process.

Estrella looks radiant, basking in the attention.

“You’re both so delightful. I think it’s been at least a decade since someone has referred to me as Winters. Mostly, I’m asked whether I used to be her.” She turns to look up at Florencio. “My dear, you didn’t tell me you had such charming friends.”

I know of Estrella, of course I do. I own a tango bar in Barcelona, where she’s an icon. I’ve never met her before, though,and if I’m honest, I thought she’d passed away years ago—she must be in her eighties, maybe even nineties. How Rafe knows who she is is a mystery, but then again, the guy has been full of surprises. I’m about to ask him, but Florencio beats me to it.

“How do you know who my aunt is?”

“Well, I wrote a book... kind of. I wrote a short story a few years ago based in the French Riviera, mostly Monaco and Saint-Tropez. Set during the sixties and seventies. I know most of the stars who used to go there during the summer and also to the Cannes Film Festival. You were one of the set,weren’t you, Miss Winters?” he says, sitting down on the couch next to her.

“Ah, those were the days.” Estrella sighs, confirming she was. “There is nothing like lying on Prince Rainier’s yacht with a cocktail, watching the sun setting over the ocean.”

“But I did a lot of research. I love the stars and old movie icons. You know, like Rita Hayworth, Sophia Loren, Sean Connery, and Steve McQueen.”

“Judy Garland?” Florencio’s question sounds innocent enough, but I catch his smirk.

---