The Spanish Letter

by Kate McCabe

Genres: Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

'A whiff of mystery, a dazzling contemporary romance and a poignant love affair... [this] could well be McCabe's best work yet' Irish Independent She thought she knew the men in her life... Sandy Devine is a young woman who appears to have everything - a stellar media career, a stunning penthouse apartment overlooking Dublin's River Liffey and, after some stormy setbacks, the perfect romance with handsome A&R man Sam Ross. The pair are the envy of the Dublin social scene and it looks as if Sandy's future is bright. But when her mother's health declines and she has to be hospitalised, Sandy discovers a letter in her mother's personal belongings, which unleashes a long-hidden family secret that forces Sandy to question everything she once took for granted. As Sandy sets out on a voyage of discovery that takes her from Dublin to the Costa del Sol in search of her true identity, nothing can prepare her for what lies in store...

Release date: February 6, 2014

Publisher: Hachette Ireland

Print pages: 311

Sample

Fuengirola, Spain, 1980

It was a balmy night, with just a hint of breeze drifting up from the sea. The sky was studded with stars and the sweet scent of flowers floated across the square to where the young woman was waiting.

From a nearby bar, the sound of guitar music spilled out to the table where she sat, a coffee cup before her. It was a lively tune, but instead of lifting her spirits, the music made her sad. This was her last night in Spain. She had said goodbye to her friends. Her bag was packed and her airline ticket tucked safely into her purse. Tomorrow at noon she would catch the Aer Lingus flight back to Dublin.

She closed her eyes and let her thoughts drift. It had all begun four months earlier. She had just finished her college exams and the long summer stretched ahead. She had no idea what she was going to do while she waited for the results, probably get a job stacking shelves in the local supermarket. Then she had spotted an advert tucked away in the personal columns on the back page of the paper: Au Pair Wanted for Spanish Family. She scanned the announcement, her excitement mounting. They wanted someone to teach English to two little boys, aged six and eight, the children of a doctor and his wife who lived on the Costa del Sol. She would have her own room, some free time and a small salary. It would be a marvellous opportunity.

She imagined the long summer days, the blue skies and warm sun. She thought of the novelty of living in a different country, the chance to experience a new culture and meet interesting people.

She had studied Spanish at college and spoke it quite well. This job would give her the chance to improve her fluency and earn some money. She had no doubt that she could do it. What was more, she knew she would enjoy it. It would be the perfect way to spend the summer while she waited for the exam results. She took out some notepaper and immediately wrote out a reply to the ad.

Ten days later she had a response. Dr Gomez and his wife were coming to Dublin to interview her. She could barely contain her excitement as she put on her best dress with a light jacket and set out to meet them in a city-centre hotel.

They were a nice couple, the husband in his early forties and his wife a little younger. They drank coffee while they questioned her about her background and studied the references she had brought. Then they explained exactly what her role would entail. When the interview was over, they told her she had got the job. Dr Gomez shook her hand, saying he would send her an airline ticket and take care of all the formalities. In the meantime she should make sure her passport was in order. If everything went to plan, she would start work in two weeks’ time. She was beside herself with joy as she made her way home and began to prepare.

The days passed quickly, and before she knew it, she was striding out into the vast arrivals area at Málaga airport. Dr Gomez drove her to his home, a modern villa with a beautiful garden on the outskirts of Fuengirola. He showed her to her room with its en-suite bathroom and introduced her to the boys – six-year-old Pedro and his eight-year-old brother, Alberto. Then they all went out for a special meal at a restaurant on the seafront to welcome her to Spain.

From the very first day, she loved her job. It was exactly as she had envisaged it. Dr Gomez and his wife went off to work each morning at nine and she was left in charge of the boys. They were polite and well behaved but, like most little boys, they had a tendency to mischief. She was well able for them, though: Dr Gomez had told her to take no nonsense so she quickly let them know who was in charge.

She spoke English to them all the time, using Spanish only to explain difficult words or phrases. She taught them from nine o’clock till one when they broke for the lunch Señora Gomez had prepared and left in the fridge. Then she took them for a walk to the nearby park or the beach.

Every day the sun shone. Each morning when she woke, she would hear the birds singing in the trees outside her window. There was rarely a cloud in the sky. It was a completely different world from the one she had left in Ireland. She wrote to her friends to tell them how happy she was and how much she enjoyed her job. Most of them envied her good fortune and wished that they, too, could be in Spain, with its sunny climate and relaxed Mediterranean lifestyle.

It wasn’t all work. Each evening when the Gomez parents came home, she was free to do as she pleased. In the first week, she was so tired after caring for two energetic children that she went to her room after dinner and read for a while before falling into bed. But she soon got over that and began to spend her evenings exploring the town.

At first, she knew no one in Fuengirola, apart from the Gomez family. Then, one evening, she stumbled across an Irish bar in a back street of the old town near the port. It was called the Emerald Isle. She went in, ordered a beer and soon fell into conversation with the people crowded around the counter. They were mostly holidaymakers but it was great to hear Irish accents again, to listen to the banter, the jokes and the news from home. She fell into the habit of calling into the bar several evenings a week.

One person there was neither Irish nor a holidaymaker. Alejandro ran the place. He was in his late twenties, tall, with jet-black hair and passionate dark eyes. He spoke very good English and had perfect manners. From the start, he seemed to take a shine to her. His face would light up when she came in and he would drop whatever he was doing, come at once to welcome her and set up a free glass of wine at the bar.

She was flattered by his attention. She was twenty-two but had little experience of men. She had certainly never met anyone as exciting as Alejandro. One evening he invited her to dinner. She was delighted to accept. The following night she put on her smartest clothes and set off to meet him. He took her to a lovely little restaurant with a fountain in the courtyard where they dined by candlelight.

When the waiter had poured their wine, Alejandro took her hand and gazed into her eyes. ‘Forgive me but I must tell you. You are muy hermosa.’

He had told her she was very beautiful. She felt her face go red. No one had ever said that to her before, and certainly no one as handsome as Alejandro.

‘Why do you blush? Is it not good to be told nice things?’

‘Of course – but you’re so direct, Alejandro, and I’m not used to it.’

‘But I believe in telling the truth. Every night I see women come into the bar from all countries – Germany, Scandinavia, Britain – and none of them can compare to you.’ He stroked her cheek and leaned closer to whisper in her ear, ‘So when I tell you that you are hermosa, believe me, it is true.’

She was swept away by the young Spaniard’s charm, attention, the gifts he lavished on her and the compliments he paid her. He was so sophisticated, so relaxed, so polite. Gradually, a strange feeling took hold of her. She couldn’t get Alejandro out of her mind. At night when she fell asleep, she thought of him, and again first thing in the morning. She began to wonder if she was in love. Was it possible that it could happen to quickly? She had known him just six weeks.

She told herself it was silly. She was there for the summer. In a few months, she would go back to Dublin and probably never see him again. This was just a holiday romance. But, deep in her heart, she clung to the notion that it was something more. They would find a way to stay in touch. There was a phone in the bar. She could ring him there. And next summer she could come back and they would be together once more. She decided to fling caution to the wind. Even if it only lasted for a short while, she would enjoy every moment of it.



It was a marvellous summer, one she would never forget. She spent all her free time with the handsome Spaniard. He had a car and took her for drives along the coast to Marbella and up into the mountains to the little whitewashed villages. They went swimming in the warm Mediterranean. They ate delicious meals in little out-of-the-way restaurants. Alejandro introduced her to his friends and they fussed over her as if she was a princess. She had never been so happy.

But the days were ticking past and now her stay was coming to an end. Next week, the Gomez boys would go back to school, their English much improved, thanks to her efforts. Tomorrow she would say goodbye to the family, receive her final salary payment, and Dr Gomez would drive her to the airport to catch the plane home. This would be her last night with Alejandro.

She felt herself tense as she heard footsteps approach across the square. She turned and there he was, beside her, looking so handsome in a light linen suit and tie, his hair neatly groomed and a bright smile on his face. He took her in his arms and kissed her, then presented her with a red carnation.

‘This is our last night together, cariño, but do not be sad. We will find a way to meet again.’ He put his finger under her chin and raised her face till he was looking directly into her eyes. ‘I have booked a table at a beautiful little restaurant. Tonight will be special. Tonight we will remember for the rest of our lives.’

He took her hand, put his arm around her waist and led her past the church and out of the square. She let her head fall onto his shoulder. She should have been joyful but her heart was breaking. It was all she could do to fight back the tears.

Dublin, 2013

It was ten o’clock and Sandy Devine was running late. She had gone to a party last night, with some work colleagues, and hadn’t got to bed till three o’clock. And today she had an important lunch appointment. But first she had to call into the office to check that everything was running smoothly and to give instructions to her deputy, Patsy Maguire.

Sandy was a successful businesswoman who ran her own company – an agency that fed gossip stories from the entertainment world to the mainstream press. Her office was at Charlotte Quay in the Docklands, not far from where she lived. It took ten minutes to get there and park her red Porsche sports car neatly between the two white lines that marked her designated space. Then she was riding the lift to the third floor.

Sandy’s company was called Music Inc and, in keeping with its hip image, the headquarters was a large expanse of office floor with glass dividers, the walls painted in bright colours and plastered with posters of rock stars and divas. It was packed with desks, computer terminals, television screens and numerous phones. Sandy’s lair was the only space that could properly be called an office because it had a door that could be closed to the outside world and thus provide her with a modicum of privacy. This was where she headed first.

She was met by her personal assistant, a twenty-five-year-old super-efficient blonde woman called Stella Jones.

‘Any calls?’ Sandy enquired.

Stella had the list already prepared and started to read while Sandy took off her jacket, slid behind her desk, fired up her laptop and began to check her mail.

‘Blues Junction are launching their new album this evening at eight o’clock at the Sugar Club. They wanted to know if we’re sending anyone. I told them we hadn’t decided.’

Sandy nodded. She had trained her PA well. It was important to keep all options open in case something more important turned up. ‘We’ll send a reporter if nothing more exciting happens.’

Stella continued to read through the list till she came to an item that caused Sandy to raise her head. ‘Someone called Sam Ross called to say he had booked a table for two at Les Escargots restaurant on Lower Baggot Street for half twelve. He wanted to know if that would be suitable.’

Sandy glanced at her watch. ‘Ring him and confirm that I’ll be there. Then tell Patsy I’m ready for our morning conference. And be a doll and get me some coffee.’

‘Right away,’ Stella said.

Stella returned with the coffee, and a few minutes later a tall, thin young woman with auburn hair knocked on Sandy’s door and entered. This was her deputy, Patsy Maguire. She sat down and pushed her hair away from her face. She gave Sandy a schedule and began to read: ‘We’ve got a tip that Josh Carroll, the lead singer with Crazy Monkeys, is about to split. Johnny Kerr is checking it out right now.’

This was a good story. Crazy Monkeys was a popular boy band. All the tabloids would want to buy it. ‘What’s behind it?’

‘The usual egomania. He’s grown too big for his boots, thinks he can make a better career as a solo artist.’

‘Okay. If he denies it, run the denial. You know how to handle it. Speculation surrounds the future of Josh Carroll and Crazy Monkeys, something along those lines.’

‘Done. We’re also checking a tip that Sonora is dating Tommy Black.’

This was another good story, guaranteed to sell. Sonora was a teenage blues singer with a huge following. Tommy Black was an established musician with a band called The Outlaws. ‘Excellent.’

Patsy smiled. ‘I thought you’d like that one.’ She continued through her list: a well-known rock singer had been admitted to a rehab clinic because of a drugs problem; an aspiring young actress had broken up with her boyfriend; a well-known television personality had been involved in a brawl in a trendy Dublin nightclub.

Sandy listened to her colleague as she worked her way through the list of stories that constituted that day’s news schedule. Occasionally she would interrupt and give instructions. But mostly she just nodded her approval. When the session ended she went out onto the newsroom floor and visited each reporter’s desk to read the stories they were working on. Satisfied that everything was under control, she spoke again to Patsy. By now it was almost midday. ‘Looks like you’re going to be kept on your toes today.’

‘That’s the way we like it.’

‘So we’re all on the same page. Now, I have to disappear for a couple of hours. I’m leaving everything in your capable hands. If anything blows up that I should know about, you have my number.’

She called into the Ladies on her way out to brush her long dark hair and put on a little makeup, then examined herself in the mirror. Pleased with her appearance, she left the office, took the lift to the basement and settled once more behind the wheel of her Porsche. A few minutes later, she was in the stream of traffic heading for Lower Baggot Street and Les Escargots.

Sandy hadn’t always wanted to be a journalist. That had been Mrs Moriarty’s idea. She was the careers-guidance teacher at Holy Faith School where Sandy had completed her secondary education. Sandy had wanted to be a musician. As a teenager, her big ambition was to become a singer and write her own songs. She had been totally absorbed in rock music since she was eleven years old and had first heard a Little Richard record played on a local radio station.

She had been captivated by the energy and sheer wildness of the music. Quickly, she discovered other bands and soon she was spending all her pocket money on CDs, concerts and rock-music magazines. She dreamed of nights on the road, playing to vast audiences in a leather jacket and mini skirt. She longed for a life of fame, celebrity and television interviews. In Sandy’s adolescent mind, nothing could have been cooler than that.

When she was thirteen, she saved up for a second-hand acoustic guitar and taught herself to play. She spent hours with it in the sanctuary of her bedroom, practising chords from a primer. Once she had achieved a reasonable competence, she began composing melodies and writing lyrics to accompany them. Slowly, she built up a repertoire of songs. Her next move was to make a demonstration disc.

Her parents would have needed to be deaf and blind not to be aware of her ambition. But Sandy was an only child and they tended to indulge her. Her mother was a teacher and from time to time she would ask, concerned, if Sandy shouldn’t be spending more time studying. Eventually, her father decided it was time to have a word with her. One evening, he took her into the sitting room, puffed out his chest and shoved back his shoulders. She had known a lecture was coming.

Her father was easy-going and doted on Sandy. He was the kindest, gentlest man she knew. He never got angry or even raised his voice. So a situation like this was a big event. She sat up and paid close attention to what he had to say.

‘Your mother and I are worried about you,’ he confessed. ‘Rock and roll music seems to be taking up all your time. You think of nothing else.’

‘I love it, Dad. I want to be a professional musician.’

‘Well, we don’t want to discourage you. You could be another Beethoven for all we know.’

Sandy giggled. ‘I don’t think Beethoven would have liked rock and roll, Dad. He was more into classical music.’

‘You’re probably right, but the thing is, Sandy, music is a very precarious occupation and not everyone who wants to be a singer actually succeeds. There must be thousands of young girls like you who want to be pop stars. They won’t all make it. What are you going to do if you fail?’

Sandy was shocked. Failure wasn’t on her agenda. ‘I’ve made a demo disc in a proper studio,’ she said, quickly. ‘All my friends think it’s brilliant.’

‘But they’re your pals, Sandy. Of course they’re going to say that. The big question is: do the people who really matter think it’s brilliant, the concert promoters and the recording companies?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Well, I don’t want to stand in your way but maybe you should find out. You’re sixteen and soon you’ll be finishing school. Your mother and I think it might be no harm to get a good Leaving Cert under your belt just in case.’

Sandy was a little hurt by her father’s apparent lack of faith in her but she knew he meant well. She took his advice and sent the demo disc to some people in the music business to get their reaction. She was disappointed by the length of time they took to respond. Many of them didn’t reply at all, which hurt her. But those who took the trouble to listen to her songs were unanimous in their verdict. She had a good singing voice, but while the material showed promise, it wasn’t of significant commercial quality to interest them.

That was a bitter blow to her morale but Sandy was resilient and soon got over it. Loads of successful artists had had their early material turned down. Even The Beatles had met with rejection before they found success. But she also began to appreciate the wisdom of her father’s words. He might be right. It might be a good idea to have a parachute prepared, just in case.

As the Leaving Certificate examinations approached, the students were scheduled for an interview with Mrs Moriarty. When Sandy sat down across the desk from her and said she wanted to be a singer/songwriter, Mrs Moriarty showed no surprise. ‘I suppose you know it’s a cut-throat business and you haven’t studied music. I’m not saying you won’t make it but it’s a bit like wanting to be a Wall Street stockbroker without knowing maths. My suggestion would be to choose a career that you can achieve. It doesn’t mean you have to drop your musical ambition altogether – you could still pursue it in your spare time – but at least you’d have a qualification that would get you a job.’

‘What would you suggest?’

Mrs Moriarty cast her eye over Sandy’s recent exam results. ‘You’ve been getting good grades in English. It’s your best subject. Have you ever considered becoming a journalist?’

‘What would I have to do?’

‘Secure enough points in the Leaving Cert to get a place on a journalism course at one of the colleges.’

‘Okay,’ Sandy said. ‘I’ll do that.’



For her last year at school, Sandy became a model student. Every afternoon she went to her bedroom and took out her books. She found English easy. She loved reading novels and composing essays. It came naturally to her. But she also put a lot of energy into her other subjects. The result was that she gained enough points to secure a place on the journalism course at Dublin City University. And, somewhat to her surprise, she liked it.

As part of her course she was allocated a six-week stint of work placement with a Dublin daily newspaper. This whetted her appetite further. She loved the excitement of the newsroom, the adrenalin rush when a big news story was about to break, the camaraderie and the competition among reporters to get the best angles. By the time she left the newspaper to go back to college, she was convinced that this was what she wanted to do.

She resumed her studies and secured a good degree. Now she had to find work. But here she encountered a serious setback. There was a downturn in the economy and instead of hiring journalists’ most media outlets were attempting to downsize their staff. She managed to get a few freelance shifts but it was hardly enough to keep her going. If it wasn’t for the fact that she was living with her parents who were both working, she wouldn’t have been able to survive.

Then she had a stroke of luck. While she was concentrating on her journalism course, Sandy had maintained her interest in music. She attended concerts in her spare time and even managed to sell one of her songs to a young singer who included it on her CD, which sold moderately well and earned Sandy some royalties. And she had got to know many local artists and performers.

One day she was surprised to receive a phone call from a young rock singer called Frankie Kelly, whose career was on the rise. Sandy knew him well. She had even been the secretary. . .