Through the large window beside them the snow continued to fall. The endless scene may have thoroughly occupied Miguel’s attentions, but did not take his thoughts as much as did Michael Collins who, taken by her refreshing and open nature that morning, took the opportunity to enquire a little more about Floria.
“…and then you finish school and go to University? That’s fantastic!”
“I can’t wait!” She seemed to vibrate with anticipation.
He changed tack. “Tell me, then, what is there to do in Valladolid? I’ve never been.”
“Oh it’s a place for wine mostly – there is business, and a little industry.”
“No, that’s not what I meant, although the wine sounds interesting. I meant, for entertainment.”
“Not a lot. It’s pretty dead, if you ask me.”
“It’s a family place…” interrupted Miguel, who at once felt that he should not have said something quite so prudish. He forced a smile.
“Yes,” his sister continued in the same vein, “there is the square, where we walk, mostly, in the evening, or on Sundays.”
“So you live in the centre? That must be nice.”
“Our parents have a house in the country, that we use some weekends, but we live in an apartment.”
“That sounds like a very satisfying arrangement. I’d love to live in the country for the weekends. Is that where they are now?”
“They’re in the town. Dad runs a car showroom. Seat, mostly.”
Miguel was uncomfortable about her freely volunteering information.
“Anyway, we’re here for another day.”
Floria looked at Miguel and tilted her head to one side: why would he lie like that? Why was he behaving in such a way? Why was he so irritated? She shook her head.
“Really?” Michael Collins said, “but you said last night that you were leaving today, taking the bus back home, if its possible in this–” He leaned back and theatrically flicked his hand towards the window, brushing the back of Floria’s hair in the process. He offered a little laugh.
“Did I? Well… yes.” Miguel twisted his mouth – he felt at once betrayed and annoyed. His sister had not even attempted to back him up, even though it was clearly a falsity, and had not thought to see the logic of his obfuscation. He wished she were not so easily impressed. He reasoned if the situation had been reversed, wherein he was being buttered up by a glamorous older woman, then he’d have understood Floria’s unspoken communications quite clearly. “I must have been confused.”
“It was the drink last night that threw you.” Michael added. “That is, unless you really are staying another night.”
Floria nodded. “No, we haven’t got the money.”
Miguel again gave that look; the same perplexed twisting of the mouth. She really was saying way too much for his liking.
“Well, whether you have the money or not, I think you’re going to have to stay. There have been no cars arrive or leave all night. And that’s including the snowplough. I think we’re well and truly cut off!”
The Irishman broke into a broad smile and chuckled again, only not so forced this time. It was clearly funnier to him than it was to them. Floria looked towards Miguel. He returned his attention from Michael Collins’ pronouncement, towards his beloved sister, to then gaze outside, actively following the bigger flakes as they landed at the bottom of the window.
“I’m going upstairs. Are you coming, Flo?”
Barked as a command, she instantly reacted negatively. “No!”
“There’s something… I need to tell you.” He stood on the pause.
“No, Mig, I’m quite happy here. Besides, Mr Collins…”
At the mention of his name Michael tapped Floria on the arm. “It’s all right. You go. There’s clearly something of importance he needs to say. Only…” He tapped the case beside him.
“Oh yes, of course.” Floria reached out for the case.
“No!” said Miguel with a voice that made some of the other guests take notice. He softened, “No, thank you, Mr Collins, but we’re already loaded with our stuff – the skis and everything.”
“But we could take it, Mig. It’s only on the bus, after all.” She smiled, at first at her Irish neighbour, and then less so at her brother.
“Are you coming?”
They followed one of the hotel staff in near silence ascending by the stairs to their floor. Once in and the door was shut, he started.
“We can’t take that case, Floria. We don’t know that man.”
“Oh don’t be ridiculous! He bought us dinner last night – dinner and drinks, if you remember."
“Yes, I remember. And I can’t help wonder why.”
“What do you mean? He’s been nice to us.”
“A bit too nice, don’t you think?”
“No. Not at all, no.”
“Then why’d he do it? Why pay for our drinks and food?”
“He’s lonely. He’s away from his wife. What did he said – that she lives in Madrid?”
“Yes, he said a lot of things, both right now and last night, but that doesn’t mean any of them are true.”
“Oh come on! He’s all right. Remember, he’s a foreigner, so he probably does things differently.”
“Why are you defending him?”
“I’m not!”
“Yes you are, and it’s because you fancy him, isn’t it?”
“It is not. I’m not…” She thought for a second. “And what if I do? I’m allowed to aren’t I?”
“No. You’re not.”
“What?” she put her hands on her hips – just like her mother.
“I said no.”
“NO? So you’re the older brother now and what you say goes, does it?”
“Yes! In this case, yes.”
“Miguel del Rey, you are a… a… fucking idiot!”
‘”No, you’ll be the fucking idiot if you see him again.”
“See him again? What the hell does that mean? You’re not my husband or something.”
He interrupted the argument with a sharp intake of breath. “Actually, I have to tell you; there’s something to show you. It’s about last night.” So saying, he gritted his teeth and walked over to the bed, their bed. He pulled back the duvet until all the bottom sheet was fully exposed. It was clear and clean.
“What, Mig?” She shook her head. “What are you doing?”
He stared at the clean sheet, courtesy of room service, and then looked at her. Disbelief at once flooded his mind.
“Am I supposed to see something?”
“You bled.”
“I did not. It’s not… my time.”
His voice dropped. “Over me.”
She grimaced. “What? What? You’re not making any sense.”
“I mean we did it last night.”
“Did what?”
He huffed. “We… had… We had… sex.”
“WHAT?” cried Floria, at once astonished that Miguel should say those words, in addition to being horrified at the very concept. What was he playing at? Was he really that jealous of Michael Collins – to invent something like this?
“Jesus CHRIST, Miguel! What are you saying?”
“There was blood there, on that side, where I was. And you were wearing my shirt, that I had on yesterday, and I didn’t have my boxers…”
Now there was anger in her voice. She picked up a finger: “If you are trying to make some sort of trouble for me for mum and dad, then I don’t know…
But he was still. His face was completely humourless. “No, but we did something we shouldn’t have.”
“And you’re doing something you shouldn’t.” She paused, finger mid-air. “You can’t make allegations like this. What do you think you’re saying? Hm? No, I won’t listen to it.” She made for the door.
“No, don't go back down there.”
He pulled at her sweater sleeve, but she wrenched it out of his hands.
“You know, you’re sick in the head, Miguel.” She tapped her temple, turned and tried to slam the door, but left the task undone after the spring mechanism in the hinge softened the final few centimetres.
She stood by the elevator fuming and breathing hard. They hadn’t had a row like that for years, and that had been about something stupid like toys. She pressed and re-pressed the button again, and the doors pinged open.
In his dazed state he also heard the ping and ran for the door. By the time he called out her name the chrome lift doors had closed.
She saw Mr Collins still sat at the same table, looking a little lost. He looked up and smiled, as much of relief as pleasant surprise at seeing the young Floria.
She called out, “It’s OK, Mr Collins. I’ll take your bag!” then pointed at the breakfast room’s door to the ladies. He nodded and took in a sigh. As she sat she glanced at her panty gusset. There was, indeed, a little red spot.
Comments
You can follow this conversation by subscribing to the comment feed for this post.