Introduction
Ellie Jones, from North Staffordshire in Britain, now lives in Spain, overlooking vineyards, villages and olive groves.
Other books available by Ellie Jones:
Past Sins
Chapter 1
Rafael shuffled in his seat, tried to keep calm, but couldn’t. The restaurant was cool and secluded. It boasted a small fountain that tinkled quietly, a few potted palms, and huge expanses of glass. Outside the weather was scorching, the sort of day to be lounging around a pool, not sitting indoors, hoping to strike a deal. He cleared his throat. “As I told you,” he said carefully. “It’s fantastic, the opportunity of a lifetime. The situation couldn’t be more perfect.”
Eduardo didn’t reply. Rafael fidgeted. He knew Eduardo didn’t trust him. When they were with other people, Rafael gave the impression Eduardo was some sort of special friend, but it really wasn’t so. He knew he’d been useful to Eduardo at times, but Eduardo never acknowledged it, and never allowed the relationship to get close. It pissed Rafael off. He pushed the plate away. The bacon-wrapped monkfish, had been delicious, the Rioja, superb. The lunchtime meal would have made any normal person amenable, so why not Eduardo?
Eduardo dabbed his lips on a napkin and sat back. “That was a good meal. Well worth coming. Thank you.”
Good Meal! It cost a fortune. Good didn’t come into it. Damn! They charged an arm and a leg to breathe air in this place. It was a good job he was chalking it up to expenses. Rafael stared with dismay as Eduardo glanced at his watch, a slim Rolex that screamed opulence. It meant he’d had enough. This wasn’t the way it was meant to go.
“Shall we get back to the office?” Eduardo pushed back his chair without waiting for an answer, tossed the napkin to the table, and stood.
Rafael followed suit.
They’d been away a couple of hours or so. They’d been to a cocktail bar, chatted with a couple of girls, visited Eduardo’s bank – a huge open affair that astonished Rafael with the seeming lack of security until he spotted armed guards in subtle places. After that they’d gone on to another cocktail bar and now this. He knew Eduardo did this on a regular basis. How the hell did he have the stamina? It made Rafael tired just thinking about it.
He followed Eduardo down the steps, out onto the street to a waiting, chauffeured car, and was driven back to the office.
They didn’t speak on the way and Rafael was anxious by the time Eduardo settled into his luxurious swivel-chair. “So are we going to join forces?” Rafael said, giving a nervous laugh. “What do you say? Shall we be partners?”
“Partners?”
Rafael stood close to the desk, too agitated to sit, annoyed with himself for broaching the subject so soon. He should have let Eduardo take the lead.
Eduardo leaned back in the plush seat, clasped his hands behind his head, thrust both feet forward, and eyed him.
Rafael unconsciously stiffened his shoulders and picked imaginary dust from his lapels. He knew he looked smart in his lightweight grey suit. He generally looked smart, but then so he should. When your Papá heads the leading fashion house in Spain, you ought to look good. Papá had done well out of life, started from nothing, worked hard, made himself rich. Rafael considered it his job to help keep it that way, though mostly he didn’t get the chance.
***
“In Sicily, after the great Arab conquest of AD 827, incredible fabrics were produced in the palace workshops of Palermo. Around the year 1130, weavers, skilled in their fine art, filtered into Palermo from all over Greece and Turkey and the outlying districts, and produced elaborate silks interlaced with fine metals such as gold. The workshops of Alessanda Figario became proficient in the production of these fabrics. The court paid special tribute and gifted Figario a minor palace along the western fringes.”
Katrina carefully put down the huge, fragile volume, still open at the page. It was ancient, a tome: a digest of work from times gone.
Francine grinned. “So, it might be useful then?”
“Useful? It’s incredible! I’ve been struggling to do something like this for ages. I can’t believe they cracked it so many years ago.”
Francine settled into her chair. “If you read on, it tells you something about how they do it. It’s all technical stuff. It doesn’t mean a thing to me, but I’m sure you’ll understand it.”
“I really can’t thank you enough.” Using a tea towel, Katrina eased the cork from a bottle of Bollinger so it didn’t pop, tilted Francine’s glass, filled it with froth then filled her own.
“It’s no problem.” Francine took the glass and watched the bubbles.
“Well it means a lot to me. Where on earth did you dig it from?”
“Aunt Moll’s. It was amongst the stuff when we cleared the house. She was a hoarder you know, kept anything and everything. There were boxes everywhere. To be honest, I was on the point of throwing it away with the other junk, but spotted the samples and thought of you.”
“I’m glad you did.”
“I thought to myself, my friend Kat, she might like this… It’s okay then?”
“It’s more than okay. It’s brill!”
“Moll used to prattle on when I was a kid, telling me tales about her grandmother… I loved it. You know how kids love stories… daft stuff... I think she had the book from her. I’ve no idea where she had it from though, but I know it’s as old as the hills. You can tell by the look of it can’t you.”
“I know. It looks as if Moses made it.”
A sheet of fine paper covered one of the samples. Kat carefully peeled it away, and revealed the delicate fabric beneath. It looked new, as if it had been made yesterday. Childlike, she touched the fabric, letting it hang over her fingers. It clung rather than hung… almost liquid, and seemed to shimmer in the light.
“Good then?”
“Good?” Kat said, “It isn’t good, it’s fantastic! I think something like this would really add wow-factor to my outfits.”
“I’m sure it would. And just think what it will do for you.”
***
Eduardo rubbed his nose.
It was a bad sign. Rafael learned a long time ago that Eduardo rubbing his nose meant trouble. He said hurriedly, “Like I say, nothing can go wrong. I mean; you have to admit I know my stuff. No-one knows the rag-trade better than I do.”
“Don’t they?”
“You know they don’t. I’m the one. I’m the best… and I’m telling you, it’s like nothing I’ve seen before. Man, this stuff is the finest.”
“What about balance sheets, market plans, forward projections?”
“Jeez!” Rafael pulled a face. “You’re a hard bitch. Look! These are unknown factors at the moment. It’s a winner though, and I’m sure that…”
“A winner? And just what do you mean by that?”
”I’m telling you. I feel it. Gut instinct says ‘go for it baby’. You know I know my stuff and…”
Eduardo put up a hand to stop him. “You’re asking for a bagful of money, with nothing to back it up. No collateral, no plan, nothing. If the job screws up, if you screw up, what is there? Naff all.”
“Why are you talking like this?”
“It won’t be the first time you’ve messed-up on a job.”
Rafael stared at him, hardly believing Eduardo was taking this attitude. He said slowly, “Well stuff you!”
Eduardo shrugged.
Rafael breathed in deeply. It was slithering away from him. He stared around, suddenly despondent. The office looked out over the busy streets of Valencia. Down there, way below, people scurried, traffic blared, exhausts fumed. Up here, it was calm, peaceful - except for the bile rising between them. On the walls were a couple of original watercolours by some artist whose style he recognized, but crap-knows from where. The office furnishings were sparse; chrome and leather, modern. A calendar hung behind Eduardo, no markings on it. His own calendar was scribbled to high heaven. No wall-charts to be found here, not in this high-tech office, it was paperless, everything on computer, all white, chrome, and damn-all soul.
What happened if there was a power cut? Would Eduardo’s commerce die? Well stuff Eduardo! He hoped they had a power failure every day.
He said carefully, “Okay, I might have got a couple of things wrong in the past. Not this time though… Look… Come with me. See for yourself. You’ll change your mind. I know you will.”
“And what about your Papá?”
Jeez! Rafael held his breath. When was this mess-up going to end? It was a farce. He knew he must sound desperate, but what else, what other way to do it? He tried to be nonchalant. “Damn Papá!”
“Isn’t he the one you should be trying to convince? My interests lie in hotels, not clothes. Fashion just isn’t my scene.”