‘If I need pity and charity, I can find it elsewhere.’
‘It’s not pity, or charity, unless that’s what you feel for me. I’m asking you to stay because I’m the idiot here, and I don’t want to be alone. I can’t be alone.’
‘Great. Always thinking of others. Buy yourself a dog.’
She let the bag fall on the bed and faced me, drying her tears as the pent-up anger slowly dissipated.
‘Well then, since we’re playing at telling the truth, let me tell you that you’re always going to be alone. You’ll be alone because you don’t know how to love or how to share. You’re like this house: it makes my hair stand on end. I’m not surprised your lady in white left you, or that everyone else has too. You don’t love and you don’t allow yourself to be loved.’
I stared at her, crushed, as if I’d just been given a beating and didn’t know where the blows had come from. I searched for words but could only stammer.
‘Is it true you don’t like the pen set?’ I managed at last.
Isabella rolled her eyes, exhausted.
‘Don’t look at me like a beaten dog. I might be stupid, but not that stupid.’
I didn’t reply but remained leaning against the doorframe. Isabella observed me with an expression somewhere between suspicion and pity.
‘I didn’t mean to say what I said about your friend, the one in the photographs. I’m sorry,’ she mumbled.
‘Don’t apologise. It’s the truth.’
I left the room, eyes downcast, and took refuge in the study, where I gazed at the dark city buried in mist. After a while I heard her hesitant footsteps on the staircase.
‘Are you up there?’ she called out.
‘Yes.’
Isabella came into the room. She had changed her clothes and washed the tears from her face. She smiled and I smiled back at her.
‘Why are you like that?’
I shrugged my shoulders. Isabella came over and sat next to me, on the windowsill. We enjoyed the play of silences and shadows over the rooftops of the old town. After a while, she grinned at me and said, ‘What if we were to light one of those cigars my father gives you and share it?’
‘Certainly not.’
Isabella sank back into silence, but every now and then she glanced at me and smiled. I watched her out of the corner of my eye and realised that just by looking at her it was easier to believe there might be something good and decent left in this lousy world and, with luck, in myself.
‘Are you staying?’ I asked.
‘Give me a good reason why I should. An honest reason. In other words, coming from you, a selfish one. And it had better not be a load of drivel or I’ll leave right away.’
She barricaded herself behind a defensive look, waiting for one of my usual flattering remarks, and for a moment she seemed to be the only person in the world to whom I couldn’t and didn’t wish to lie. I looked down and for once I spoke the truth, even if it was only to hear it myself.
‘Because you’re the only friend I have left.’
The hard expression in her eyes disappeared, and before I could discern any pity, I looked away.
‘What about Señor Sempere and that pedant, Barceló?’
‘You’re the only one who has dared tell me the truth.’
‘What about your friend, the boss, doesn’t he tell you the truth?’
‘The boss is not my friend. And I don’t think he’s ever told the truth in his entire life.’
Isabella looked at me closely.
‘You see? I knew you didn’t trust him. I noticed it in your face from the very first day.’
I tried to recover some of my dignity, but all I found was sarcasm.
‘Have you added face-reading to your list of talents?’
‘You don’t need any talent to read a face like yours,’ Isabella retorted. ‘It’s like reading Tom Thumb.’
‘And what else can you read in my face, dearest fortune-teller?’
‘That you’re scared.’
I tried to laugh without much enthusiasm.
‘Don’t be ashamed of being scared. To be afraid is a sign of common sense. Only complete idiots are not afraid of anything. I read that in a book.’
‘The coward’s handbook?’
‘You needn’t admit it if it’s going to undermine your sense of masculinity. I know you men believe that the size of your stubbornness should match the size of your privates.’
‘Did you also read that in your book?’
‘No, that wisdom’s homemade.’
I let my hands fall, surrendering in the face of the evidence.
‘All right. Yes, I admit that I do feel a vague sense of anxiety.’
‘You’re the one who’s being vague. You’re scared stiff. Admit it.’
‘Don’t get things out of proportion. Let’s say that I have some reservations concerning my publisher, which, given my experience, is understandable. As far as I know, Corelli is a perfect gentleman and our professional relationship will be fruitful and positive for both parties.’
‘That’s why your stomach rumbles every time his name crops up.’
I sighed. I had no arguments left.
‘What can I say, Isabella?’
‘That you’re not going to work for him any more.’
‘I can’t do that.’
‘And why not? Can’t you just give him back his money and send him packing?’
‘It’s not that simple.’
‘Why not? Have you got yourself into trouble?’
‘I think so.’
‘What sort of trouble?’
‘That’s what I’m trying to find out. In any case, I’m the only one to blame, so I must be the one to solve it. It’s nothing that should worry you.’
Isabella looked at me, resigned for the time being but not convinced.
‘You really are a hopeless person. Did you know that?’
‘I’m getting used to the idea.’
‘If you want me to stay, the rules here must change.’
‘I’m all ears.’
‘No more enlightened despotism. From now on, this house is a democracy.’
‘Liberty, equality and fraternity.’
‘Watch it where fraternity is concerned. But no more ordering around, and no more little Mr Rochester numbers.’
‘Whatever you say, Miss Eyre.’
‘And don’t get your hopes up, because I’m not going to marry you even if you go blind.’
I put out my hand to seal our pact. She shook it with some hesitation and then gave me a hug. I let myself be wrapped in her arms and leaned my face on her hair. Her touch was full of peace and welcome, the life light of a seventeen-year-old girl, and I wanted to believe that it resembled the embrace my mother had never had time to give me.
‘Friends?’ I whispered.
‘Till death us do part.’
22
The new regulations of the Isabellian reign came into effect at nine o’clock the following morning, when my assistant turned up in the kitchen and informed me how things were going to be from then on.
‘I’ve been thinking that you need a routine in your life. Otherwise you get sidetracked and act in a dissolute manner.’
‘Where did you get that expression from?’
‘From one of your books. Dis-so-lute. It sounds good.’
‘And it’s great for rhymes.’
‘Don’t change the subject.’
During the day we would both work on our respective manuscripts. We would have dinner together and then she’d show me the pages she’d written that day and we’d discuss them. I swore I would be frank and give her appropriate suggestions, not just empty words to keep her happy. Sundays would be our day off and I’d take her to the pictures, to the theatre or out for a walk. She would help me find documents in libraries and archives and it would be her job to make sure the larder was always well stocked thanks to her connection with the family emporium. I would make breakfast and she’d make dinner. Lunch would be prepared by whoever was free at that moment. We divided up the chores and I promised to accept the irrefutable fact that the house needed to be cleaned regularly. I would not attempt to find her a boyfriend under any circumstances and she would refrain from questioning my motives for working for the boss or from expressing her opinion on the matter unless I asked for it. The rest we would make up as we went along.