The Men in her Life

than three sentences. She had only just begun to be able to tolerate her own company; she was not yet ready to talk to anyone else.
    A Spanish couple at another table were reading the paper. Philippa glanced at the date with a slight shudder of déjà vu. During the night, she remembered, she had dreamed of Clare. She had wandered into one of the hotels at the foot of the fortification, and found Clare sitting by the swimming-pool. They had exchanged a few words, about the weather, she thought, and then Clare had got up to leave. She had to collect Tom from playgroup, she said, and Philippa remembered thinking in the dream how odd it was that Clare should be in Granada too. She had watched her daughter walk away, not stopping to turn and wave, and suddenly, just after she had gone, Philippa had remembered that it was her birthday and had run after her, but Clare had disappeared. None of the cab-drivers outside the hotel had seen her, and Philippa had stood helpless, not knowing where to begin to look And then she had woken up with the tingle of bewilderment lingering into her waking moments only gradually soothed away by the silence and the watery scent of flowers.
    Philippa pulled a flake of sweet pastry from her croissant. Strange that her dream should synchronize with the date of Clare’s birthday, which she had not been aware of remembering, the pull of mother to child so strong it observed no boundaries of country nor distance, nor even the most determined barricades the conscious mind could erect against it.

    She had found a spot where she liked to sunbathe. The top of a tower at the edge of the fortification was a terrace with a low wall. On the other side there was a sheer drop of at least a hundred feet, to some trees. The view over the city was panoramic and it was slightly off the beaten tourist route. From time to time someone else would find his way up to her terrace. They would exchange a word about the weather, but otherwise she was left in peace to bake in the sun. When it became too hot, she would gather up her book and bag and walk slowly over to the Generalife to sit on a shady bench listening to the soothing plop and trickle of the water garden and the lazy hum of dragonflies.
    It was the hottest day yet. Stretched along the top of her wall, Philippa held one forearm over her eyes and the other in the air to peer at her watch. Still quite early in the morning, but she could feel herself beginning to bum. She sat up, blinking to accustom her eyes to the bright light reflecting off the pale sand surfaces of the fortification. She could hear the murmur of some English people making their way up to the top of her tower. Philippa put on her sunglasses and watched two heads grow into people as her visitors reached the top of the steps.
    ‘Philippa! It is you, isn’t it?’ Serena Bean asked in a ridiculously loud voice.
    For a moment Philippa was tempted to pretend not to understand. With her tan she could easily pass as a Spanish double, but she thought that her shoes and handbag would probably give her away.
    ‘Yes it is.’
    They were the first words she had spoken in English since leaving the tour in Seville and her mouth was dry from disuse.
    ‘Hello Philippa,’ John said, enfolding her in a big, comforting hug.
    She liked John Bean, who had been Jack’s cinematographer on all of his pictures. If her solitude had to be interrupted at all, she was glad it was by him, although neither she nor Jack had ever liked Serena very much.
    ‘How are you doing?’ he asked kindly.
    ‘I don’t really know, John,’ she said, panicking at the idea of talking to people. ‘God, it’s hot up here. Would you like to come for coffee in my hotel? It’s just over there.’
    The terrace of the Parador was in the shade. They all sat exchanging guidebook pleasantries about how beautiful the Alhambra was, how much bigger and more intricate than they had imagined, what a difference a little running water made, how clever the Moors had been. John and Serena were touring in a hired car. They had wanted to stay in the Parador themselves, they said, but it was completely booked. They were going on to Almeria in the evening.
    Inwardly relieved to know that their meeting would soon come to an end, Philippa began to engage with a little more enthusiasm. It was as if she were learning to have a conversation again. You could exchange views for hours without saying anything at all, she discovered. Most people did not