The Gates of Heaven Pt. 06

The Gates of Heaven - Part 6

For new readers: Jon is forty-two, a British expat living in Lanzarote in the Canary Islands. Clara is eighteen, a young woman on a week's holiday with her two friends, Suzie and Diya. She wanted a holiday romance with an older man, but now they've fallen in love and plan to get married. However, Clara's father has flown over from England... and he is NOT happy. (The story is told from Jon's POV.)

***

I WOKE UP EARLY next morning and went for my regular swim. Clara was in the bathroom when I got back, so I put on the coffee and started preparing breakfast before having my shower. It was strange to think that it was only last Tuesday, exactly one week today, that Clara first sat down at my table in Bar Pablo and said 'Hi!' Even so, I had work to do today and I wanted to get back into a normal routine.

As we sat down to breakfast, Clara said she was feeling better and told me not to worry. Her father was apparently planning to rent a car and drive around the island, and she had agreed to join him.

'Thanks to you,' she said, 'I can show him a few highlights.'

'Lovely,' I said. 'By the way, there is something I want you to ask him.'

'What's that?'

'He flies back on Thursday, right?'

'Yes.'

'Well... I'd like to talk to him before then. Man to man.'

Clara had been about to bite into a slice of toast and marmalade, but now she lowered it and frowned at me.

'When you say "man to man",' she said, 'do you mean the two of you without me?'

'Yes.'

'Why, if I may ask?'

'Because your father is never going to speak his mind with you present,' I said. 'I want to know what he thinks.'

'Why?'

'Clara, do you have a problem with it?'

Clara gritted her teeth and put the piece of toast on her plate. She brushed crumbs off her fingers as her face darkened.

'Look, Jon,' she said. 'I know it was the custom to go to a girl's father and ask his permission to marry her...'

'That's not what I'm doing.'

'Then what are you doing? Why the fuck do you give a shit what my dad thinks?!'

'Clara, why are you so angry?'

'Because this is my decision, Jon! My decision! The only person whose approval you need to worry about is mine!'

'I'm not looking for his approval!'

'Like fuck you aren't!'

Clara pushed back her chair and sprang to her feet. Her intention was to walk out of the room, but I was too fast for her. I launched myself across the room, caught her and scooped her up like a fireman picking up a survivor in a burning building.

'Jon, no!' she cried, kicking her feet.

I carried her to the couch, sat with her on my lap and held the young woman close to my chest. Her body was almost vibrating with tension and she was clearly wondering whether to fight me or not. I held tight and spoke quickly.

'This business between you and your father...' I said. 'It hurts more than you're letting on, doesn't it?'

It was a shot in the dark, but a good one. Clara's whole body went limp and suddenly it was like holding a giant doll. Her reaction seemed to surprise her and it took Clara a moment to gather herself. When she did finally speak, her voice was full of despair.

'I just feel so alone!' she said. 'No-one in England is rooting for me! Not my friends, not my family! They're all hoping I break up with you! You at least have Bruno. I have no one!'

'What about your brother?' I said gently.

'He's fourteen! I can't burden him with this!'

I let out a deep breath and held her. Clara pressed herself to me, letting the sadness flow through her. It took a while, but eventually she seemed to calm down. I felt a pat on my chest and then she spoke. I was relieved to hear that her voice was almost back to normal.

'Sorry, Jon,' she said.

'Don't be silly. Feelings are feelings.'

'Yes, but I shouldn't take them out on you.'

'Why not?' I looked into her eyes. 'It's not like I'm fourteen, is it? Consider it one of the perks of being with an older man.'

Clara laughed and then smiled. We kissed and she hugged me tight, her head against my chest. After a moment, she spoke hesitantly.

'Jon,' she said. 'Do you honestly think you need to talk to my father?'

'Yes,' I said. 'Although it's more of a gut feeling than a thought.'

'Okay... I'll mention it to him.'

'Are you comfortable with that?'

'Of course not! Nothing about this is comfortable!'

Clara leaned back to look at me, pulling an ironic expression.

'I know I'm fond of saying that the age gap doesn't bother me,' she said. 'But it bothers other people... and that does bother me.'

I nodded and gave her a kiss. She kissed me back, but cautiously without tongue. Almost as though her father were watching. I drew back and looked at her.

'I love you,' I said.

'I know,' she said. 'But right now, I don't love myself very much.'

'Then you're an idiot,' I said. 'Because you are absolutely wonderful.'

'Keep telling me that. Maybe one day I'll believe it.'

Clara kissed the end of my nose and pushed herself off my lap. I watched her walk out of the room, disappearing into the kitchen corridor. A moment later, I heard the bathroom door open and close. I sighed and went over to the dining table to finish my breakfast.

***

I had a full day of work and got back at about six in the evening. Clara was home after her day out with her father and she had some news - her old man had agreed to a talk. The plan was this: Clara and I would meet her father at a restaurant in Carmen and the three of us would have dinner together. Afterwards, Clara would get a taxi home, while her father and I went to a bar. It was made clear to me that he would be paying for the evening, although I was apparently allowed to choose the bar.

Clara delivered this message with a big dollop of scorn. She found her father's attitude petty and made derogatory remarks about him needing to win the pissing context before it had even started. I felt more saddened than annoyed. I personally thought that the man deserved more respect than his daughter was showing him, but shit like this was hard to defend. I took my time showering and shaving and decided to dress smart-casual, wearing a pressed short-sleeved shirt with a pair of fawn chinos and brown leather shoes. Clara decided on a white floral blouse and her knee-length navy-blue shorts. I knew the restaurant her father had picked - it was on the boulevard near the main clubs and tourist cafés. We left early enough to walk there.

The road and buildings on the Avenida de las Playas followed the coastline, sometimes curving and bending, sometimes running along the seafront in an almost straight line. I got Clara to cross the road so we could walk along the promenade on the seaward side. We had the beach to our left and the road to our right. And across the road were all the shops and bars and restaurants, along with their attendant touts handing out tickets for 'free drinks' or the Spanish-Canarian lads who shouted 'Hola, sexy!' at every passing girl.

'Hey,' said Clara. 'Isn't that the café where we met?'

I followed her gaze and there indeed was Bar Pablo on the other side of the road. The cafe had a white wall with a dark wooden railing separating its terrace from the street and the place was bustling with evening diners. I caught a glimpse of Rosa carrying a metal tray of drinks to a table of young guys who were definitely tourists. I put my hands in my pockets as we walked.

'Yep,' I said. 'That's the one.'

'Just think,' said Clara. 'If you hadn't gone to the rescue of that waitress, we probably wouldn't be here.'

'I didn't "rescue" her.'

'You kind of did,' said Clara as we strolled on. 'Dad was being obnoxious. Mum too, come to think of it.'

'Rosa would have been fine,' I said. 'And she's not just a waitress. She's the manager.'

'Got promoted, did she?'

'No, she was the manager back then. And she'll probably own it someday.'

'Wow...'

The beach ended on our side of the street. After a few rocks, we passed palm trees and white buildings that housed fashions shops and hairdressers. Looking across the road, I saw a Chinese restaurant, several bars, an amusement arcade, and three telephone shops in a row. Shop owners and bar touts were trying to wave passing tourists inside, their fake smiles visible from across the street. Clara broke into my thoughts.

'This Rosa,' she said. 'Did anything ever happen between you two?'

'No!'

'Goodness...' she said with a drawl. 'That was a bit emphatic.'

'I'm just a regular customer, okay?'

'Okay...'

'Why would you think something like that?'

'The way you sprang to her defence.'

'That was two years ago.'

'And she was not happy when I showed up last week! She tried to hide it, but I could tell.'

I looked at the young woman walking next to me. Her turquoise backpack was slung over one shoulder and she had her hands in her pockets, as though copying my posture. She was giving me her raised eyebrow look and I found myself growing irritated.

'Clara, what are you doing?'

'Just asking questions.'

'But where are they coming from?'

'From my observations.'

'What observations? That Rosa "gave you a feeling" she didn't like you?'

'Not just that.'

'Then what?'

'Well... for example...' Clara looked straight ahead and seemed annoyingly unruffled. 'You got us to cross the road, which meant the two of us wouldn't be walking directly past the café. And we were holding hands when we crossed, but as soon as you saw Rosa, you put your hands in your pockets. And now you're getting irritated... which makes me think that I'm onto something.'

She gave me a look. I looked away. The Avenida had straightened out and the rocky section with the white buildings had come to an end. We were once more walking with the beach to our left side. I looked out to sea and saw the sun setting over the distant southern peninsula. I wanted to take my hands from my pockets, but instead I felt them bunching into fists. The two of us walked in silence for a while.

'Okay,' I said. 'This conversation is bothering me for some reason.'

I felt Clara's arm brush against mine as we walked. I glanced at her, but either the touch was accidental or she was pretending it was accidental. I exhaled slowly.

'I'm not sure what to say,' I said.

'Just say what you're thinking,' said Clara. 'What's the first thing that comes into your head?'

'That I don't want to think about this.'

'Okay, good. Now, what's your next thought?'

I felt my chest contract and the sting of tears in my eyes. Jesus, I really didn't want to think about this. Clara was right. I was holding onto something. But I wasn't really sure what.

'I feel shame,' I said. 'I'm ashamed of something.'

'Of something you did?'

'No.'

'Something you didn't do?'

'No. Although...'

I stopped walking and stared at the last sliver of sun as it sank beneath the line of the distant mountains. The white globe streetlamps had come on and the sky was a dark purple-blue with stars already visible. And somehow, looking at a clear sky brought clarity to my thoughts. I looked down at the low wall that separated the pavement and the beach.

'Can we sit?' I said. 'Just for a moment?'

'Of course,' said Clara.

I sat on the wall with my back to the sea. Clara sat next to me, putting her backpack between her feet and leaning towards me. I took her hand and held it.

'Listen,' I said. 'Nothing ever happened between Rosa and me. But I do like her very much.'

Clara smiled and squeezed my hand.

'She's a good-looking woman,' she said.

'She is,' I said. 'And she's also hard-working and direct. I have a lot of respect for her.'

'So, what happened?'

'Well... occasionally, I would go down to Bar Pablo in the evening. It's usually quite busy, but once in a blue moon it would be quiet and Rosa and I could talk. And we have had some very deep conversations.'

Clara shifted so that her knee was touching my leg. She nodded for me to go on.

'One evening, I was talking about Sigrid,' I said. 'We'd been broken up for over a year by that point and I was just reflecting on the relationship, when Rosa said: "I really respect the fact that you dated an older woman." I asked her why and Rosa started telling me about her father. Apparently, he'd cheated on her mother with a woman fifteen years younger and got her pregnant.'

'Oh, dear,' said Clara.

'Yeah,' I said. 'So after this revelation, Rosa tells me what a great guy I am, and how I was so much more mature than these "pathetic sugar daddies". How it was nice to know a man that was capable of loving a "real woman".'

Clara pulled a face and made a disgruntled noise in her throat. I looked out at the cars that were now driving with headlights, remembering Rosa in the bar.

'You know, even at the time, I felt awkward about it,' I said. 'I knew her respect for me was misplaced; that my relationship with an older woman had more to do with Sigrid offering regular sex than any great maturity on my part. But the way Rosa looked at me, I couldn't bring myself to tell her.'

I sighed and looked at Clara. Night had fallen and half her face was in shadow, lit only by a streetlamp a dozen metres away. She tilted her head and I caught a gleam in her eye as she spoke in a murmur.

'Are you worried that you might be a sugar daddy?' she said.

'No,' I said. 'Not even a bit. But I am worried that Rosa might think so. I know I shouldn't care about other people's opinions--'

'Hey,' said Clara. 'I get it. You don't have to explain it to me.'

'I know... but I do respect Rosa. And I hate the thought of losing her respect.'

Clara seemed to chew that over. Then she moved even closer, her face within kissing distance.

'Can I tell you what I think?' she said.

'Of course.'

'I think Rosa will give you the chance to explain yourself. She may be disappointed at first, but if she's really a friend, then I think she'll listen to your story.'

'And if she still can't accept it?'

'Then she's not really your friend. Let's face it, if she honestly believes that a man who falls in love with a younger woman is somehow broken or defective, then there's not much you can do, is there? Believe me... I know.'

The image of her friend Suzie came to mind. Then of her father. I felt a jolt and checked my watch.

'Shit, we need to move,' I said.

'Just one more second,' said Clara.

She leaned in and kissed me, her lips soft and yielding. Then I felt her lips open and her tongue entered my mouth. We kissed in the dark as the traffic rushed by and time seemed to stop. There was nothing in the world but her lips, her tongue, her sweet saliva. I had my hand on her bare leg and she put her cool hand on the back of my neck.

Then the kiss was over and Clara gently disengaged. We looked at each other, feeling each other's breath on our faces. Her eyes and her smile were the most beautiful things I'd ever seen. I looked at her in wonder.

'What was that for?' I said.

'For trusting me,' said Clara. 'You feel shame about Rosa because you withheld the truth so as not to upset her.'

She moved closer, our noses touching, and said:

'Thank you for not doing that with me.'

***

Clara's father had chosen a place called Ristorante il Maestro. It was an Italian restaurant, which Bruno had told me was 'about as Italian as my left foot!' At the time, I pointed out that as Bruno was Italian himself, surely his left foot was also Italian? To which Bruno waved a hand and said something about sarcasm not being his first language.

These thoughts came to mind as Clara and I climbed a wide wooden staircase. The restaurant was on the second floor in a kind of courtyard it shared with other eateries and bars. The stairs led to a balcony-level walkway around which people were wandering, but we were now at the restaurant doorway and we stopped. There was ivy painted on the wall around the doors in an attempt to evoke the rustic villettas of Tuscany. Clara and I exchanged a glance, and then I gestured to the open doorway.

'Ladies first,' I said.

The restaurant interior was a mixture of the real and the fake, all continuing the theme of rural Italy. The wooden tables were solid and cracked, covered with red-and-white checked tablecloths. In the centre of each was a wax-covered Chianti bottle with a candle stuck in its neck. Along one wall was a mural depicting a Tuscan landscape, with green hills and red-tiled farmhouses, and the bar was dark mahogany with black wooden barstools before it. On the far side was a row of four tables by the windows that overlooked the Avenida - and at one of those tables sat Clara's father, scowling like an orc in a tavern of humans.

The restaurant was three-quarters full and all the vacant tables I could see had a 'reservado' table sign. A waiter in a pristine white shirt and black bowtie came up to us, his expression already poised for the delivery of bad news.

'English? Deutsch? Español?' he said.

'English,' I confirmed.

'Do you have a reservation, sir?'

His English was excellent, although I noticed the accent was Spanish not Italian.

'We're actually with the gentleman over there,' I said.

The waiter broke into a smile, his hesitation gone.

'Follow me, please.'

He led us through the tables to our destination. Clara's father sat by the window with a half-full pint of beer, his tattooed arms leaning on the table. He wore a brightly patterned short-sleeved shirt on his big frame and had gold chains around his neck and wrist. He looked like he'd scrubbed himself with a wire brush and I could smell his aftershave from two metres away. He stayed seated as we approached, only leaning back when Clara went to give him a sideways hug. I drew back the chair on the opposite side of the table, but stayed on my feet. I was waiting for Clara to sit and part of me hoped she would take the seat next to her father.

She didn't.

After giving him a pat on one of his thick arms, she came around the table to sit next to me. Keeping a neutral expression, I pulled her chair back for her to sit and then took a seat myself. Clara's father made a noise that was half laugh, half grunt.

'Well, fuck me sideways,' he said. 'Isn't he the gent?'

'It's called manners, Dad,' said Clara.

'Is it now?'

The big man looked at me and wagged his eyebrows.

'These youngsters, eh?' he said. 'Think they know everything!'

I didn't have to look at Clara to know she was fuming. I frowned at the man across the table, wondering if it was too early for a confrontation. Perhaps fortunately, the waiter appeared and started handing out menus. They were fake leather binders with laminated pages and all three had a loose pink sheet with 'specials' printed across the top. The waiter cleared his throat.

'Can I get any drinks?' he said.

Clara's father stuck his finger in the air in a gesture that said 'Wait!' He then drained the rest of his beer as we watched and held out the foam-crusted glass. Clara gritted her teeth as the waiter took the glass with a weak smile and looked at the big man.

'Another one?' he said.

'That's right, mate,' said Clara's father.

The waiter gave a nod and looked at me.

'I'll have a beer too,' I said. 'But, um... una caña.'

The waiter nodded and looked at Clara.

'White wine and soda, please,' she said.

'Oh, that's right,' said her father. 'You can drink alcohol now.'

'Dad! Back off!'

She glared at her old man from across the table. The waiter visibly flinched and beat a hasty retreat. I closed my menu, put it on the table and pushed my chair back. I looked from Clara to her father, my forefinger tapping the tabletop. The other man put his fist on his hip and looked back at me.

'Am I making you uncomfortable, Jon?' he said.

It was the first time he had spoken my name and it sounded weird coming from his mouth. Still, if this was my future father-in-law, I'd better get used to it.

'To be honest, yes,' I said. 'But I think this situation is uncomfortable for everyone.'

'Speak for yourself!' said Clara's father. 'I'm all right with it.'

Clara said: 'Like fuck you are!'

'Language...'

'Stop it, Dad! Just stop it!'

She stared at her father, her leg muscles braced, as though ready to push herself away from the table and walk out. Her father looked back with bullish amusement, like a prize fighter waiting for an accountant to throw a punch. I cleared my throat and looked at him.

'Listen, Mr Gladwell,' I said. 'The original plan was to save the tough talk for after dinner. But maybe we should do it now?'

'What do you mean, "tough talk"?'

'Well... to address the things that are tough to talk about.'

'Like what?'

'Like the question I asked you in my apartment. And which you didn't actually answer.'

His face darkened at my implying his possible cowardice. When he spoke, his voice carried more than a hint of threat.

'And what question was that?' he said.

'Do you think Clara chose me of her own free will?' I said. 'Or do you think I somehow tricked her into this relationship?'

Her father's jaw tightened and his nostrils flared. He did not like that question, nor did he like my using the word 'relationship'. But it was also a trap. He couldn't paint me as a villain without also belittling Clara's judgement, and he knew exactly how Clara would react to that.

Once more, the waiter came to our rescue, his appearance forcing us to put the war on hold. He laid out the drinks - Clara first, her father second and me last. Then he held the round tray to his chest and asked if we were ready to order. Clara's father had his menu open on the table and now he looked down at it, his thick finger going down the list of pizzas as though it were written in Braille. My own menu was closed and I moved to reopen it. The waiter clutched his tray like a shield.

'I can come back,' he said. 'Is no problem.'

'No, no,' said Clara's father. 'We don't want to waste your time.'

'Sir, you are not...'

His voice died as the big man looked up. Clara's father began to talk to the waiter, prodding the air with his finger.

'Listen, mate,' he said. 'I run a pub back in England. And I know that when customers are not drinking, I'm not earning. You got a business to run! Last thing you want are people gabbing away.'

'Pardon me...' said the waiter. ' "Gabbing"?'

'Talking. Chatting.'

'Ah...'

'Anyway, I'm ready to order.'

I sat silent and watched as Clara's father ordered a pizza with Italian spicy sausage. He even asked a couple of questions and was friendly to the waiter in a gruff kind of way. It occurred to me that the big man had not only evaded answering my question for a second time, but he had now reframed the situation so that trying to talk further on the matter was like a being a bad customer.

I glanced at Clara and she seemed equally unimpressed, but she was focused on choosing a meal and probably didn't want to push things. I gave an inward sigh, reminded myself of the adage about picking one's battles, and selected a pizza Calzone.

***

After the waiter had gone, the three of us acted like nothing had happened. The pizzas arrived on huge plates, Clara's father complained about 'tourist prices', and I refrained from offering to split the bill. He also did most of the talking over dinner, expounding on his opinions of Lanzarote like a modern-day Samual Johnson.

'Fucking impressive, that Fire Mountain,' he said. 'Really fucking impressive. Wasn't it, Clara?'

'Yes, it was,' she said quietly.

He went on to tell us why he found it so 'fucking impressive', sharing his views of the tour bus, the ticket prices, the island's history, and the fact that the guide spoke four languages. 'Fucking impressive'. My wariness of him was turning into boredom, and I wondered whether this was a step forwards or backwards.

We finished our pizzas, with Clara alone leaving a few crusts. The waiter took away the giant plates and returned with the menus so we could select a dessert. As I perused the options without enthusiasm, Clara turned to me and said:

'That pizza was really good!'

'You sound surprised,' said her father.

His tone was aggressive, as though she had just criticised his choice of restaurant. Clara picked up his tone and spoke quickly in her defence.

'No, it's not that,' she said. 'But Jon has an Italian friend who said the food here was crap.'

'No,' I said. 'That's not what he said.'

'I thought you said Bruno would never eat here?'

'Yes, but not because of the food. It's because he had a massive falling out with Mario, the guy who owns the place.'

Clara's father interrupted.

'What's this? What's going on?' he said.

I leaned an arm on the table and looked at him.

'I have this friend, Bruno,' I said, 'who is very proud of his Italian heritage. And one of the things he despises most in the world... is the invention of pizza Hawaii.'

'Why?'

'Because it's got pineapple on it.'

'What's wrong with pineapple?'

'Pineapples don't grow in Italy.'

'So fucking what?'

'Well...' I said, warming to my theme. 'According to Bruno, pizza was originally a peasant meal created in Naples. And whatever topping went on the pizza would be homegrown or made in the vicinity - olives, tomatoes, mozzarella cheese. But emphatically not pineapple.'

'Yeah, but it's not his fucking restaurant, is it?' said Clara's father.

'True,' I said. 'But that's where the plot thickens.'

I leaned on the table like a conspirator. Both Clara and her father leaned in too, getting drawn into the story.

'Mario, the owner of this place, is actually from Naples,' I said. 'And when he opened this restaurant about four years ago, Bruno thought he had found a kindred spirit. You see, Mario gets all his ingredients from Italy - even the flour for the pizza dough.'

'Yeah...' said Clara's father. 'The waiter said something about that with the sausage.'

'Exactly,' I said. 'You see, according to Bruno, he and Mario agreed on the principle that if you open a restaurant - whether it's Italian, Indian, Indonesian or whatever - that you are acting as an ambassador for your culture. And Bruno said that Mario also shared his own notion that pizza Hawaii was "sacrilege".'

'Hold on a minute,' said Clara.

She had the menu open and now turned it around, like a lawyer presenting evidence.

'I don't see pizza Hawaii on the menu,' she said.

'It's not there,' I said. 'It's here.'

A corner of the pink 'specials' sheet was poking out from the top. I took it by finger and thumb and pulled it out, then laid it flat on the table. I tapped the entry that said 'pizza Hawaii'.

'You see?' I said. 'But they only give this pink sheet to Brits.'

'Why us?' said Clara's father.

'Because it's Brits who want pizza Hawaii! In the U. K., it's pretty much standard, and Mario was getting fed up with all the Brits who wanted it; all the British kids who wouldn't eat anything else. So Mario would buy tinned pineapple from the local supermarket and put it on pizzas for any Brit who asked for it.'

'What about the Krauts?' said Clara's father.

'The Germans get the menu without the pink sheet,' I said. 'So do the Spanish, the Dutch, and everyone else. If you notice, this menu is only in English, whereas the main menu also has everything in Spanish and German.'

Clara was staring at the sheet.

'But if Mario only gives this out to Brits,' she said, 'how did Bruno find out?'

'Because he took me here for dinner,' I said. 'And he had made a big song-and-dance about how this was the only authentic Italian restaurant on the island and how I was going to experience Italian food the way it ought to be experienced.'

I picked up the pink sheet.

'Can you imagine his reaction when we got our menus and I had this in mine?'

Clara's eyes bugged and her hands covered her mouth. She could clearly picture Bruno in full outrage mode, his arms flailing as he expressed his displeasure. Her father was less impressed.

'Look, I run a pub,' he said to me. 'And if customers want something, it's stupid not to serve it.'

'I think Bruno was more upset about the double standards,' I said. 'He wasn't a fan of the fake Italy décor and having pizza Hawaii on the menu was the last straw.'

'It's just pizza, for fuck's sake.'

'Not to Bruno.'

'Well, no disrespect, but it sounds like your friend needs to be a little less precious about his food.'

'Says the man who took his family into a Spanish tapas bar and then complained there was no British bacon.'

There was sudden dead silence.

Clara's face had gone white, her mouth frozen open. Her father stared at me, looking like I'd just punched him in the face. My own heart was pounding, but I kept my back straight and my gaze firm. If my brain had been in gear, I wouldn't have said it, but it was too late now. So I sat, heart pounding, waiting to see which way the tree would fall.

Clara's father looked at me. I saw his jaw tighten and his brow creased with a frown. And then, he slowly nodded. That finger of his rose above an otherwise closed fist and he began to wag it.

'All right...' he said. 'All right...'

He put his other fist on his hip and he looked across the table at me. But it was a different look than before. For the first time, I felt he was trying to figure out who I was, rather than acting like he already knew. When he spoke, there was even a note of amusement in his tone.

'You're not shy about speaking your mind, are you, Jon?' he said.

'I prefer straight talking,' I said.

He nodded.

'So do I,' he said seriously.

No, you fucking don't, I thought. You like dishing it out, but you don't like taking it. Clara's reaction was enough to convince me of that. But I kept this to myself. Instead, I played nice and returned his nod, grateful that he had reacted as he did.

The waiter came over to take our desserts order. Clara was relieved at the interruption and asked for cheesecake with way more enthusiasm than it merited. But her father also surprised me. After we all ordered dessert, he had a question for the waiter.

'Do you have like an after-dinner drink?' he said. 'Not an aperitif, but the other one?'

'A "digestif"?' said the waiter.

'That's the one.' The big man turned to me. 'Jon, can you suggest something?'

Despite the offhand way he asked me, I saw it was an olive branch. I frowned and turned to the waiter.

'Do you still do that homemade limoncello?' I asked.

'We do!' said the waiter, beaming with obvious pride.

I turned to Clara and her father.

'Three of those?' I said.

Both of them nodded and the waiter took our menus and departed. There was a momentary pause and then Clara's father began talking about how difficult it was to sell fruit-based liqueurs in an English pub, because too many locals saw it as 'gay'. As he talked, I felt Clara's hand squeeze my leg. I moved my foot to touch her foot. Her foot responded, slipping out of her shoe and stroking my ankle with her toes. Meanwhile, our faces were blankly gazing at her father, pretending to listen as he told us with great seriousness why doing cocktails in a pub was more trouble than it was worth.

***

There was a taxi rank just down the road from Ristorante il Maestro. Clara's father and I walked his daughter to where three white Mercedes cars waited, their black-haired drivers standing around chatting in Spanish. None of them spoke English, so I did the talking, telling Clara's driver where to go and getting him to confirm the price. As I stood on the pavement watching her taxi drive off, her father spoke without looking at me.

'You'd think one of them would speak a bit of English,' he said. 'What with driving tourists around all day?'

'I don't know,' I said. 'The Canarians are not that fond of foreigners.'

'What, with all the money we bring in?'

'Oh, they like the money! They just don't want the island turning into another Costa del Sol.'

We began to stroll past the shops and bars, and I told Clara's father about Puerto del Carmen once being a fishing village and how some of the beaches were manmade with sand shipped in from the Sahara. This led to him talking about his own holidays as a kid, which were mostly in the seaside towns of 1960s England. He was more relaxed now that Clara was gone. Perhaps he didn't like being the heavy-handed father any more than I liked being the unsuitable boyfriend. For a while, we were just two guys walking and talking.

I played it safe with my choice of bar - an Irish pub with the same kind of wood-panelled interior you'd find in Britain. They had British beer too, along with the inevitable Guiness, and this pleased the big man so much, he let me buy the first round. I collected our beers and went to join him at a small table in the corner. He sat on the bench that ran along the wall and I took the stool on the side. We raised our glasses and took a drink. Clara's father spent a moment savouring the beer, and then - almost regretfully - he put his glass on the table and looked at me.

'All right...' he said. 'How do you want to do this?'

'I don't know,' I said. 'I'm playing it by ear.'

'But there was a reason you wanted to talk to me, right? "Man-to-man", Clara said.'

'Yes, that's right.'

'So, what is it?'

I took a long sip of beer to try and clear my thoughts. What was it I wanted to say? The other man took a drink of his own beer as he waited. He was looking at me, but his gaze was more guarded than aggressive. I wiped my lip with the back of my hand and looked back.

'Are you a betting man, Mr Gladwell?'

'For fuck's sake - call me Frank.'

'All right,' I said. '... Frank.'

'And yes,' he said, his glass in his hand. 'I do have the odd flutter on the horses.'

'In that case, what would you say are the odds that six months from now, Clara gets bored of me and goes back to England?'

Clara's father seemed amused. He looked past me at a vintage Guiness poster on the wall as he considered my question.

'I suppose I'd put money on that,' he said.

'So what does it matter if I'm not "age appropriate"?'

'Because if you get her pregnant, that changes everything!'

'Yes, but you already talked her out of that,' I said. 'In fact, Clara tells me that you brought her pill supply from her cupboard drawer at home.'

'That was her mother's idea,' said the big man. 'But a good one.'

'Okay, fair enough,' I said. 'So basically, you're saying that I'm just a phase Clara is going through. And after the novelty wears off, she'll realise I'm nothing special and come back to England. Is that right?'

I was leaning forward, looking the other man in the eye. He no longer looked amused. I had given him the perfect opening to say, 'Yeah, that's right!' and he wasn't taking it. Why not? Didn't he believe that his daughter's relationship to me was doomed? Wasn't that why he jumped on a plane? To try and stop it?

'You know, Frank,' I said. 'I asked you a question at my house. Then I asked it again in the restaurant tonight. And, um... you still haven't answered it.'

The man's jaw tightened and his nostrils flared. He did not like this line of enquiry. He put his beer carefully onto the table, visibly tightening the reins on his temper, then he leaned forwards and looked at me.

'Do you want to know what I think of you, Jon?' he said.

'Yes,' I said. 'I do.'

He stayed leaning forward, his gaze cold and direct. When he spoke, his tone was just as cold, like he was talking to someone who had broken into his home.

'I think you're a chancer,' he said.

'Is that, like, an opportunist?'

'We can use the posh word if you like.'

I frowned. I assumed that the two words meant the same thing, but assumptions can be wrong. I put my beer on the table next to his.

'What exactly is a chancer?' I said.

'A chancer is someone who goes into a pub, sees an unattended bag and has a quick looksee in case there's a wallet. They don't come in with the intention of stealing, mind! But hey... if people are stupid enough to leave stuff lying around, why not, eh?'

'Okay,' I said. 'And how does that relate to me and Clara?'

'Clara is a girl who's just turned eighteen,' he said. 'Suddenly, she doesn't have to listen to her parents anymore. She's free! She can do what she likes! So out she goes into the world, open to new adventures! But openness has its dangers. Bad things can come in through an open door just as easily as good things. And until you get a bit older, it can be hard to tell one from the other. That's my big worry with Clara.'

The man gave me a look.

'Clara is an open-hearted girl,' he said. 'And that makes her vulnerable. Now, guys her own age don't know their tit from their toenail. They couldn't take advantage of that even if they wanted to. I've seen Clara run rings around them.'

He lowered his voice.

'But you could take advantage,' he said. 'You've learned what works with women and what doesn't. To you, it's about putting your experience into practice. But for a young woman like Clara who's never been with a man before... it's like a magic trick.'

He looked at me long and hard. I took a deep draw of my beer, then put the glass back down.

'Okay, I think I see where you're coming from,' I said. 'Because of my life experience, I can offer Clara things that guys her own age are too immature to offer. And you're worried that I might take advantage of that?'

'I'm not saying that's your intention,' said her father. 'For what it's worth, I believe your feelings for my daughter are genuine.'

'I'm glad you see that.'

'That doesn't make it right.'

He looked at me with eyes that were hard, but not hostile. I was being judged, but, to be honest, I didn't blame him. If I were in his shoes, I'd be doing exactly the same thing. I nodded my acknowledgement.

'Fair enough,' I said. 'Fair enough.'

***

That proved to be the end of the conversation. We continued talking, of course, but it was no longer on the topic of Clara and myself. I made no promises to love her forever and her father made no threats of what he'd do if I hurt her. Instead, we finished our beers, Frank got in another round, and we talked about the state of British politics.

Aparthotel Los Flamencos, where he was staying, was a short walk away. As I knew the route and it was on my way home, I suggested we walk together. He shrugged as though he didn't care, but I had the feeling he was relieved. The residential streets were a bit of a labyrinth with lots of identical white houses, but it was preferable to the crowds on the main boulevard. The night was warm, the streets were well-lit and the two of us walked side-by-side. Because the pavements were narrow and made of slippery white stone, we strolled along the black tarmac road with our hands in our pockets. After a while, Frank cleared his throat.

'I'm curious about something,' he said.

'About what?'

'Look, it's no mystery what you see in Clara,' he said. 'She's a smart, good-looking girl. I think most guys would feel lucky to have her as a girlfriend. But I'm curious what else you see in her, besides the obvious.'

I chewed over Frank's question as we walked. I knew I had to tell him something with substance - just saying she was sweet and fun to be with wasn't going to cut it. I looked up at the stars for clarity and inspiration.

'One of the things I love most about Clara,' I said, 'is that she's allergic to bullshit.'

Frank gave a snort.

'Yeah, that's true enough,' he said.

'But it's more than that,' I said. 'You know how bats have like sonar, that they can detect a mosquito in the dark?'

'Yeah?'

'Well, Clara has that with insincerity. She can pick it up, even when I think I'm being a hundred percent honest.'

'Hmm,' said her father. 'That does sound like her. Did she tell you about the time she ruined Christmas?'

'No. What happened?'

'She was only about five,' he said. 'The whole family were at ours on Christmas morning, with my parents and sister-in-law. Tim was a toddler just starting to walk, so Clara was the one excited about opening the presents.'

As we walked, we saw our shadows on the tarmac from the headlights of an approaching car. Frank and I stepped to the sides, the car drove past, then we resumed our walk along the road.

'Anyway,' he went on. 'Clara was getting the presents out from under the tree, reading the labels, and then taking them to whoever's present it was. But then she would stand with her eyes glued to the person's face, and as soon as the wrapping paper was off and the person reacted, Clara would say, "Oh, he likes it!" or "Oh, he hates it!" or "Oh, she wishes it was something else!" '

'That must have been awkward.'

'Not at first. Clara was a cute child with a squeaky voice and everyone thought it was funny. But then she handed my mum her present from my dad. Now my old man was terrible at presents - he'd get mum the wrong perfume or a kitchen appliance she already had. And this year was no exception. I can't remember what it was, but I do remember that Mum tore off the paper, looked at it and Clara said, "Oh, you're thinking, 'Why did he buy me this stupid thing?' " '

I burst out laughing. It was such a Clara thing to do. Frank and I stepped aside to avoid another passing car and then he resumed his story.

'Well, as you can imagine, that went down like a ton of bricks. What was worse was that my sister-in-law found it hilarious.'

'Is that Clara's Aunt Katherine?'

'That's the one.'

We walked around a corner and there on the other side of the road was Frank's hotel. He recognised it and stopped, his gaze on the building but his thoughts in the past.

'You know, most kids blurt out the truth when they're small,' he said. 'But they grow out of it when they grow up. But not Clara. It's both a blessing and a curse.'

'I agree with half of that statement,' I said.

Frank looked at me. His frown was both curious and challenging.

'Are you sure about that?' he said. 'Don't you find Clara's "honesty" a bit much sometimes?'

'No,' I said. 'It's the thing I most admire about her.'

'Admire?'

His voice dripped with disbelief. It pissed me off and I turned my head and looked him in the eye.

'I used to be married to a woman who kept saying that men should respect women,' I said. 'Although I'd later find out that she didn't know what respect even was. But Clara is different.'

'How?'

'Because she believes that men and women should respect each other. In other words, Clara sees respect as a two-way street rather than a one-way street. And I didn't even realise there was a difference until I met her.'

I dug my hands deep in my pockets and stared at the building across the street.

'Ever since my divorce, I've not trusted women,' I said. 'And the reason I don't trust them is that when push comes to shove, they don't practice what they fucking preach. But Clara is the opposite. She has the greatest capacity for self-honesty of anyone I've ever met. She will dig for the truth no matter the cost and, yes... it can be a "bit much" sometimes.'

I felt a tear at the corner of my eye and quickly wiped it with the heel of my hand.

'But the reason it's a blessing and not a curse is because Clara is absolutely fair. The honesty she demands of me is no more than the honesty she demands of herself. With Clara... it's never not a two-way street.'

I turned to face the man. He had a streetlamp behind him and I could barely see his face, but I kept going.

'I'm sorry, Frank,' I said. 'I know Clara's your daughter and I know she's eighteen. But she is also a woman in a million. So as long as she wants me, I will be the man in her life. That's all there is to it.'

I looked again at his hotel building. Was there anything else to say? I decided not.

'Good night, Frank,' I said.

I turned and walked away, my shoes crunching on the grit in the road. It sounded very loud in my ears, and I braced myself for a shout from behind. But none came. I walked to the corner, turned into the street and found myself on my way home.

***

Clara was asleep when I got back to the bungalow. I drank a pint of water and emptied my bladder, but my head was still spinning as I climbed into bed. Ye gods, her father could put away his drink! I had to get up twice during the night and I drank some more water at three in the morning to try and stave off a hangover. I had a job booked for tomorrow and I didn't want to feel sick. Clara was half-awake when I got back into bed and she asked how things went with her father. I told her to go back to sleep, that I'd tell her tomorrow. We cuddled up and I drifted off into oblivion.

I awoke to bright sunlight and an empty bed. There was the smell of coffee in the air. I looked at the digital clock on my bedside table. It was past nine o'clock.

'Shit!'

I leapt out of bed and ran to the bathroom. I heard Clara call out, 'Jon, are you up?' and I shouted a reply while pulling my cock from my boxers. I once more emptied my bladder, then flushed the toilet and washed my hands. I opened the bathroom door with the intention of getting a bath towel and returning for a very quick shower, but I stopped when I saw Clara. She was dressed and standing barefoot in the kitchen passage with a look of anxiety.

'Jon, is everything all right?'

'I'm late,' I said. 'I have to be in Yaiza by ten.'

'Where's that?'

'It's a village about twenty minutes' drive away. I'm fixing someone's washing machine.'

'But... I've just made breakfast.'

'Honey, I don't have time!'

'But you said you'd tell me what happened with Dad.'

'Then you should have woken me up!'

Clara flinched as though stung. I immediately stepped forwards and took her in my arms.

'Clara, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have snapped.'

'It's okay.'

'No, it's not okay!'

I kissed her hair and squeezed her body.

'I'm annoyed at myself for oversleeping,' I said. 'And now I'm taking it out on you. I shouldn't do that. I'm sorry.'

Upon speaking those words, a transformation took place. One moment, I was holding a tense young woman. The next moment, she was melting into me, her hands sliding around my torso, her body pressing against mine. My cock began to harden.

'This is why I love you,' said Clara. 'This is why I want to be with you.'

The young woman and I stood holding each other. I was burning to fuck her, to be inside her, to make love to her - and I knew she could feel it too. My cock was pressing against her tummy and she moved to accommodate me. I groaned and forced myself to look at the wall clock over the fridge.

'Clara...'

'I know, I know...'

I felt her inhale.

'Couldn't you make a call?' she said. 'Let your customer know you'll be late?'

'I'm tempted.'

'What's stopping you?'

I sighed and pulled back to look at her.

'She's a Danish woman married to a Canarian guy,' I said. 'And after the last time she hired me, she had a fight with her husband.'

'Why?'

'He didn't like that she'd hired a foreigner. "What's wrong with Spanish workmen?" he said apparently. "They're not reliable," she said back. "They promise to show up at ten and then show up at eleven. Or not at all." '

'I see,' said Clara. 'And you don't want to embarrass her?'

'I'm not sure that would be good for business.'

Clara smiled and nodded. Then she put a hand on my chest and stepped away, her eyes closed, her face scrunched in concentration. It was like she was trying to use mind control to lower her body temperature.

'Okay,' she said. 'If you have to go, you have to go.'

'It'll only be a couple of hours,' I said. 'I can be back by about one.'

'No, I promised Dad I'd have lunch with him,' she said. 'And he still has the rental car until six, so we might take a drive somewhere.'

'Okay.'

'Sorry about that.'

'Don't be silly!' I said. 'Of course you want to spend time with your father! I mean, he's flying back tomorrow, right?'

'First thing in the morning.'

'Well, then.'

I looked back at the kitchen clock and jumped.

'And I have to fly too!'

I gave Clara a kiss, then dashed into the bedroom to get dressed. No time for a quick shower now. Within ten minutes, I was out the door with my toolbox and heading to the van parked in the street.

***

I arrived at my customer's house in Yaiza almost exactly at ten o'clock. I was a bit miffed that her husband was at work - I could have called in late after all - but within minutes I was unplugging her washing machine and disconnecting the hoses. I like the process of fixing things, of taking a machine apart and going through the steps of diagnosing a problem. It was certainly more straight-forward than dealing with a young woman's belligerent father.

A couple of hours later, I was signing a receipt for a very happy customer. I put the toolbox on the floor on the passenger side of the van and checked the time. It was about half-past twelve. Time for lunch. I started the van, drove out of Yaiza and took the road that led down to Playa Blanca which lay on the southernmost tip of the island.

Playa Blanca was the third largest 'tourist town', after Puerto del Carmen and Costa Teguise. And on every Wednesday, between ten and one o'clock, there was a market on a great white plaza facing the sea. Bruno had a stall there, although sometimes there were so few tourists that he would close early. As I parked the van and headed towards the plaza, I hoped that he'd had a good day.

I was in luck - Bruno was just packing up. Unlike with Costa Teguise, he had to bring his own stall, so I helped him dismantle it and carry the metal bars and wooden slats to his own van. He had the routine down pat and we were done within half an hour. On the now emptying plaza, there was a café-restaurant with a terrace under the shade of half a dozen great square parasols. It had a clear view of the ocean and, to the right in the distance, you could see the neighbouring island of Fuerteventura. Bruno and I took our seats like weary travellers and ordered pepper steak and chips. This was not a Spanish speciality, but we were in the mood for a change.

As we tucked into our meal, I told Bruno about the arrival of Clara's father. I had intended to keep it brief, but Bruno was such a great audience that I ended up telling him pretty much everything. He was particularly pleased that his feud with Mario had played a part in the story. By the end of it - and the meal - he was sitting back with his after-dinner espresso and shaking his head at the sea.

'My goodness, Jonat'on,' he said. 'Your life has become like a movie!'

I followed his gaze and nodded.

'Yeah,' I said. 'It has in a way.'

'I am so happy for you, my friend.' He turned his head to look at me. 'This is exactly what you need.'

'Thank you, Bruno.'

He accepted my thanks with a nod, then turned back to face the sea. We sat in companionable silence for a time. Then Bruno gave a sudden laugh and raised his tiny espresso cup in a toast to the heavens. I sipped my own café con leche and gave him a look.

'What?' I said.

'Nothing.'

'Oh, come on. What's the joke?'

'It's not a joke. It's just...'

Bruno tailed off. He sighed and considered.

'Did you know that the word "romance" comes from "Roman"?' he said. 'And as a child of that beautiful city, I like to think of myself as a romantic person. Part of a great tradition of men who are great lovers of women.'

He looked into his now empty espresso cup.

'But this, of course, is the sin of pride,' he said. 'And it is somewhat humbling to realise that the greatest lover of a woman I know personally... is an Englishman.'

I felt my ribs contract. Bruno was prone to colourful pronouncements - they were part of what made him Bruno. But this was a little too much for me.

'I got lucky,' I said, with more coldness than I intended.

'It's not luck.'

'Bruno, I literally had a beautiful girl appear out of nowhere and say, "I want you". The fact that I haven't yet fucked it up does not make me a "great lover".'

'I disagree.'

Bruno turned his head to look at me, the shade of the terrace parasols darkening his eyes.

'Clara approached you with the intention of having what you British call "a holiday romance". Which, of course, has nothing to do with romance and everything to do with sex. But, somewhere along the way, she changed her mind. You changed her mind.'

Bruno had dark brown irises and his gaze was piercing and direct. I frowned and slowly nodded.

'Okay,' I said. 'I'll give you that. Although I still feel uncomfortable about taking the credit.'

'Why?'

'Because it makes Clara sound like a washing machine that changed its programme because I knew which buttons to press. That's pretty much what her father accused me of doing.'

'That argument only makes sense if Clara is stupid.'

'Or inexperienced?'

'But Clara knows she is inexperienced! She is more self-aware than most people I know twice her age! When I hear Clara talk, when I see her with you, she does not act like a silly girl who has found her Prince Charming. She is very serious about love.'

Bruno put the espresso cup on the table and looked at me.

'In fact, both of you are very serious about love,' he said. 'When you talk about Clara, you are not joyous and happy. Instead, you are worried and concerned. You ask question after question. And I listen to you and think, "Oh, these English... they are so unromantic!" But now I wonder if I was wrong.'

'Wrong about what?'

'About the nature of Love.'

Bruno slumped back in his chair and waved a hand dismissively.

'Listen, I was married three times,' he said. 'And in each marriage, my wife and I reached a point when being married to each other was no longer fun. And I thought that being with a woman you love was supposed to be fun! That love is meant to be light and happy and romantic, and instead it was all so fucking serious!'

Bruno grimaced and put on his wraparound sunglasses, although the sun was no brighter.

'But now I sit here and listen to you talk,' he said. 'And it seems to me that Clara has chosen you because you are so fucking serious about love. You are like an actor who gets the part of a lifetime, but instead of going out and celebrating, you are learning your lines and preparing for your role. You are acting as though this part can be taken from you at any moment... and maybe it can be. Maybe that is the correct attitude.'

Bruno looked at me, but I could no longer see his eyes.

'You are no longer a man looking for love,' he said. 'You are a man who has found it. And what is more, you know it. And that both inspires me... and makes me a little jealous. I hope you will forgive me.'

I didn't know what to say. Bruno nodded, as though he understood anyway. Then he waved towards the waiter and signalled for the bill.

***

It was about four o'clock when I got home. The glass door was locked, which meant Clara was still out with her father. I went into the empty bungalow, tossed the keys on the kitchen counter and had a drink of water from the fridge. I then stashed my toolbox in my workshop, although I didn't feel like doing any work. I stood in the doorway between workshop and living room, wondering what else I could do. My gaze fell on the copy of Jane Eyre on the coffee table. I went to sit in my armchair with wooden armrests, reached for the book and began idly to go through it.

It was immediately obvious that this was Clara's copy from school. Several pages had pencilled notes and underlined text, and the binding was weak through constant opening and closing. I smiled as I looked through it. Trust Clara to take this on holiday! It spoke of a girl who had actually liked school, which meant - if her classmates were anything like mine -that she must have been pretty lonely. At my school, if you were actually okay with following rules and doing homework on time, you were called a swot or a fairy. But maybe it was different with girls.

I began to read the passages that Clara underlined. Perhaps not surprisingly, most of these were in the dialogues between Jane and Rochester. Those pages were almost falling out. Reading the underlined text, it was clear that Clara identified with Jane long before she had met me. Jane's thoughts and utterances were peppered with notes like 'Yes!' and 'So true!' But there was one pencilled note that really stood out. It was written along the top of the page where Rochester is provoking Jane during an evening conversation by the fire.

'Rochester is genuinely interested in knowing what Jane thinks. Is that what makes his love real?'

I found myself reading the entire scene. It was pretty combative, especially as the pair were supposedly two of English literature's 'great lovers'. Yet I could totally see why Clara loved it. If we ever had to spend time apart, for whatever reason, I could see myself buying my own copy of Jane Eyre. Reading it made me feel close to Clara.

I lost track of time as I sat in my chair and read. It was only when I heard the sliding door open that I realised Clara was back. She stood in the doorway staring at me. A quick check of my watch told me it was quarter to six.

'Hello, stranger,' I said. 'How was your day?'

Clara stood there and said nothing. Was she upset? I looked down at the open book in my hands.

'Oh, look...' I said. 'It was lying on the coffee table and I was curious. But if you don't want me to--'

Clara walked over to me, unsmiling and purposeful. She took the book from my hands, tossed it unceremoniously onto the couch, then kissed me with such ferocity that our teeth clicked. Her hands held my face as her lips and tongue invaded my mouth, aggressive and passionate. Then, suddenly, she stopped, and I was staring at a face that didn't seem to know what expression to wear. She looked shocked, confused and aroused, all at once.

Then Clara was off, walking back to the front door. I watched her, thinking, 'Something's happened; something with her father.' She slid the door shut and locked it with her key, leaving it in the lock. Then she came back, grabbed my wrist with both hands and pulled.

I could have resisted. Without my cooperation, Clara didn't have the muscle to pull me to my feet. For a split second, I considered reminding her of that. I considered saying, 'What the hell happened?' and telling her I didn't want to be used to get back at her father.

The split second passed.

I let her pull me to my feet and followed her to the bedroom. She kept hold of my hand and I offered just enough drag to make her work for it. However, when we stood before the bed and she started to pull my polo shirt upwards, I drew the line.

'I can undress myself,' I said.

'Then do it.'

There was no warmth in her voice. Clara shut the bedroom door the way a lawyer would shut it, as a prelude to getting down to business. She stripped off in the same manner, clinically and efficiently, laying her clothes in a neat pile on the chair. I was down to my boxers and she stood naked by the bed and waited. I nodded to the bed and gave her a quizzical look, as if to say, 'What are you waiting for?'

'I want to be on top,' she said simply.

I shrugged 'please yourself' and pulled off my boxers. Then I climbed onto the bed, pulling the duvet aside to get under it. As I was lying down, Clara grabbed the duvet and tore it from my grasp. She rolled and pushed it aside impatiently, then knelt up and looked down at me. I was leaning back, propped up on my elbows, my legs stretched out. The sight of her smooth body and round tits had stiffened me up. Clara climbed on, took my cock in hand and slid herself onto it. I felt her hot, tight cunt push all the way down and felt the head of my cock gripped by a fluttering ridge of wet muscle.

'Oh... GOD!' cried Clara.

She was pressed onto me like a predatory animal, her hands gripping my shoulders, her legs and feet holding me in place. She was pushing down with all her strength and I felt her insides stretching against my rigid penis. I put my hands on her body and looked up at her face. Her eyes were tight shut, her expression concentrated, her tongue dabbing at her upper lip as she focused her attention. I saw that face and felt myself melt.

Clara wasn't angry or out for revenge. She was horny. The look on her face was the same look you see on the face of a smoker who stumbles off an aeroplane after an eight-hour flight and can finally light up. Except it wasn't a cigarette she craved - it was my cock. And the fact that this beautiful young woman was dying to have my cock in her cunt... it was overwhelming.

I took big handfuls of her tight bottom and pressed upwards with my hips, digging my cock deeper into her. Clara's eyes snapped open, staring into mine. Her hips began to make tiny circles, her bottom pushing against my hands, my cock engulfed in her pulsing muscle. Her breaths were hot in my face and she was making tiny, little nods, her eyes pleading. Her cunt was grinding against me and I knew she was chasing an orgasm. Her hips went faster and I could see the whites around the irises of her eyes as the eyelids stretched and her mouth opened wider.

Suddenly, a clear string of saliva escaped over her lip and dropped onto my face. I blinked in surprise, but Clara was mortified.

'Oh, Jon! I'm sorry!'

The erotic tension crashed, like the smashing of a vase. She looked like a scared little girl. I grabbed Clara's bottom with one hand and used the other to grab her head by the hair.

'Don't ever apologise!' I said.

She stared at me, terrified. I moved my head closer to her face.

'You can lick me or spit on me,' I said. 'Do whatever turns you on. But don't apologise for losing control.'

I held her head firmly, but not too tight. My cock was still deep in her. Clara's face softened, the terror left her eyes, and she sighed and nodded. She looked self-conscious and chastened. That was not what I wanted.

I bent one of my legs, placed my foot flat on the bed, then pushed down. Leveraging my weight, I rolled Clara onto her back with me on top, my cock staying in throughout the manoeuvre. I looked down at her face as I moved my hands to take a firm hold of her body. Clara knew what was coming and she smiled.

'I'm not yet back on the pill,' she said.

'Good,' I said.

I started to fuck her. Clara moved her limbs into receive mode, her arms around my torso, her legs raised and bent and pointing her toes. I looked her in the eye as I fucked her and she looked right back, her gaze direct and unwavering. Her cunt was a tight tunnel of muscle and my cock seemed to harden and stretch as it moved up and down. She was so warm and juicy. I felt the head of my cock tighten and tingle.

I was going to cum.

I pushed in hard, held her to me and released. I felt the semen course through my shaft and shoot into her body. The tip of my cock was almost unbearably sensitive and I gasped as each string of fluid forced it open as it streamed into Clara's vagina. Our gazes were still locked and Clara was watching my face with joyful fascination. Her palms felt warm on my skin and there was a serenity to her body that felt at odds with the quivering tension of mine.

My orgasm ran its course. I began to relax. Clara's eyes never left my face as I moved to get comfortable. My goal was to keep my cock all the way in and my body pressing on hers, but not so heavily that she was uncomfortable. I finally settled myself and looked down at her face. Clara's eyes were wide open and they shone with happiness.

'Jon...' she said. 'Do you have any idea how much I love you right now?'

I smiled at the question. Clara moved her legs to rest against my flanks and the movement caused her vagina to contract around my cock. Her eyelids fluttered at the feel of my still erect penis and the tip of her tongue appeared briefly to wet her lip. My smile twisted sarcastically.

'Are you sure it's me you love?' I said.

There were sudden tears in her eyes. I instantly moved closer and spoke hurriedly.

'Clara, I was just teasing,' I said. 'I didn't mean to hurt you.'

'I know...'

But she was hurt. I could hear it in her voice. I gathered her to me, hugging her close, my head beside her head.

'I'm sorry,' I said. 'I am so sorry...'

'Jon, shut up and hold me.'

I did as she asked. My arms were tight around her, my cock deep inside her. Meanwhile, I lambasted myself. I knew full well that when Clara had sex with me, she wasn't just opening her legs - she was opening her heart and her soul. And in a moment of smugness, I had forgotten that. I realised that I was pretty pleased with myself for how I had handled Clara's little accident. I thought of what Bruno had said about me being a great lover and I shook my head at myself.

'If I fuck this up,' I thought, 'it'll be because of my ego.'

My left hand was supporting Clara's head. After a while, my left shoulder began to ache and I shifted a little to relieve it. The movement realigned the rest of my body and caused my cock to slip an inch or two out of Clara's vagina. She responded by tightening her arms around my torso so that she could realign her own hips. Using her leg muscles, she pushed her cunt back into place, returning the head of my cock to where it had been in the depths of her body.

Now I was the one with tears in his eyes. I had just hurt this woman, maybe even insulted her. And yet still she wanted one hundred percent of my penis inside her. What the hell had I done to deserve this sweet, lovely girl?

***

How long can a man maintain an erection? I had never really thought about this, nor did I think about it now. I just knew that I had been inside Clara for a long time and that my body was doing a way better job of telling her I loved her than my stupid mouth. 'Shut up and hold me' turned out to be pretty good advice. Then I felt Clara move her hands and I knew the embrace was coming to an end. When she spoke, her voice was soft and full of love.

'This is absolute heaven,' she said. 'But I'm afraid my bladder wants attention.'

'You need to pee?'

'Yes.'

I moved back my head and looked Clara in the face. Her tears had dried and the shine was back in her eyes. Her smile was sweet and she ran her fingers through my hair.

'I love you so much,' she said.

'I love you too.'

'Good.' Her eyes took on a playful glint. 'I'm glad it's a two-way street.'

My mouth dropped open. I was about to say something, but she gave my buttock a double-smack, which meant it was time to go. I carefully pulled out, Clara gave a groan, and then her hand was clamped over her vulva. She skipped off the bed and ran to the door, and I watched her bare bottom all the way. She was a truly delicious piece of woman. And then she was gone.

I lay back on the bed, my head resting on a pillow. My cock lost its wood and I was curious at how long it had stayed erect inside Clara. I turned to the digital clock on my bedside table and my eyes widened. We had lain coupled together for at least forty minutes.

I put an arm under my head and looked upwards, seeing the ceiling, but with my thoughts on the sky above it.

'Thank You,' I said. 'Thank You for sending me this woman.'

I felt both elated and humbled. Humbled, because I could never again complain that Life never gives me a break. Clara was the biggest break that any man could hope for. And the shine in her eyes when she looked at me... it was to die for. But if I wanted to keep her looking at me that way, I would have to be on my best game.

As if to remind me, the door opened and Clara came back in. She was still stark naked and she climbed onto me like a nymph, smiling as I admired her breasts. She settled herself beside me, leaning on one elbow so she could look down at me, her legs curled around mine. She ran her free hand over my chest and shoulder. I put my own arm around her on the bed, my fingers stroking her lower back and bottom cheeks. As we lazily caressed one another, I saw her expression turn sad. I stopped moving my hand.

'What is it?' I said.

'I have a favour to ask.'

'Name it.'

'Actually, it's for my dad,' she said. 'He asked if we could take him to the airport tomorrow morning.'

'Of course,' I said. Then I frowned. 'Aren't you seeing him later tonight?'

'Nope,' said Clara. 'According to him, he "needs some space".'

She looked at me and her gaze grew even sadder. Then she laid her head on my chest and cuddled up to me. I wrapped my arms around her and our legs intertwined. I felt her ribcage heave with a great sigh.

'Oh, Jon...' she said. 'I don't know how to feel about this.'

'What do you mean?'

'Well, on the one hand, I'm hurt that he doesn't want to spend his last evening with me. I mean, what's he going to do? Drink alone at the bar or watch telly in his room?'

Clara's fingertips began stroking the skin of my pectoral.

'On the other hand, I'm also glad to be free. Today was pretty heavy and, to be honest, I'd much rather spend this evening in bed with you.'

She moved the ball of her foot over my shin to emphasise her point. I responded to the gesture by kissing the top of her head.

'Okay,' I said. 'I'm into that.'

'Are you sure?' she said. 'I don't want to wear you out.'

I gave her bottom a light slap and felt her laugh on my chest. At the same time, a part of my brain was huffing. 'Oh, so it's okay for you to tease me!' it seemed to say. As if reading my mind, Clara spoke.

'Listen,' she said. 'I'm sorry if I was a bit sensitive earlier.'

'Clara, would you stop apologising!'

'But you apologised to me.'

'That was different! I was stupid and insensitive. And if you ever do something stupid, I'd certainly appreciate an apology. But that's not what was happening.'

I took hold of Clara and moved her so we could talk properly. Our bodies were still entangled, but I was now looking her in the face.

'Clara, the moment you got home, I knew something was up. You were...' I searched for the words, '... you were in a state of heightened emotion. And the way you took me to the bedroom and, um...'

I stalled again. Seeking the right words, it struck me that however much fucking Clara and I did, we seldom spoke of it as fucking. Despite her working-class roots - or maybe because of them - Clara preferred the term 'making love' and winced at the word 'cunt'. She once told me that Suzie would tease her about how easy it was to make her uncomfortable by talking about sex, and I moderated my own language due to that anecdote. But right now, what I wanted to say required some frank talk. So I guessed my first step was to give Clara a warning. But before I could even open my mouth, I felt her hand on my arm and she was looking me in the eye.

'Jon,' she said. 'Say what you need to say. I'll be fine.'

Oh, the joy of being with a woman who gets it! I recalled how, in similar situations, Lisa would cajole me with 'What is it? What do you want to say?' while knowing damn well the issue I was trying to address. But Clara was more interested in getting to the truth than scoring points, and once more I sent up a silent prayer of thanks for this woman.

'When you took me to bed and climbed onto me,' I said, 'you weren't making love with your pussy... you were fucking me with your cunt. And Clara, I loved it! This is not a complaint! But there was something driving you... and my gut feeling is that it had something to do with the day you just spent with your father.'

Clara reddened and looked down. I took her hand and softened my voice.

'Listen,' I said. 'If you're not ready to tell me, that's fine. Take all the time you need. And if you come to the conclusion that you never want to talk about it, that fine too.'

'No,' said Clara. 'I do want to tell you. But... not while my dad is still on the island. I know it's silly, but--'

'Clara, it's not silly at all.'

I placed my hand on the side of her face and looked into her beautiful hazel eyes.

'You tell me when you're good and ready, and not before,' I said. 'And while I'll probably mention it later, I promise not to nag you about it. Deal?'

Clara's eyes went from wariness to desire in an instant. That telltale tip of her tongue made an appearance to wet her lip. The next moment, we were kissing, and Clara kissed with the same ferocity as before. While her mouth and tongue were busy with mine, I felt her grab my hand and put it between her legs. I slid three fingers into her pussy and she responded by pushing her tongue deeper into my mouth. Then, suddenly, she broke the kiss and stared into my eyes. Our faces were so close, the sides of our noses were touching and she swallowed and spoke in a husky whisper.

'I want to fuck you with my cunt,' she said.

Well, who was I to refuse a lady? In a couple of heartbeats, I was on my back and Clara was on top, grinding her hips as she rode my cock. I grabbed her bottom with one hand and wrapped my other arm around her torso. She looked right into my eyes as she fucked me, and this time I knew that no accidental dripping of saliva was going to stop her.

My Clara was a red-blooded woman and she had an orgasm to chase.

***

I awoke to a dull morning. The grey light was the sign of an overcast sky and I felt a chill in the air. But it was toasty warm under the covers and Clara's body was deliciously hot and sweaty. The room smelled of sex and my cock ached from the night before. I glanced at my bedside clock, groaned and spooned with my woman, nestling my aching groin around her peachy bottom. She snuggled up to me and sighed.

'How much time do we have?' she said sleepily.

'It depends,' I said. 'If we get up right now, we have time for a shower and a quick breakfast.'

'Or...?'

'Or we stay in bed for twenty minutes, then jump in the shower... and have breakfast at Bar Pablo after we've seen your father off at the airport.'

'I vote for the second.'

'All right, motion carried.'

I gave her breast a playful squeeze. She responded with a small bottom wiggle against my groin. But both of us were sore after our marathon evening and we were content to just lie holding each other. I felt Clara's ribcage rise and fall, rise and fall. Then there was a great inhale and a long mournful sigh.

'Oh, dear...' I murmured into her hair. 'That was a sad sigh.'

'Yes,' she said. 'I just had a thought.'

'A sad thought?'

'Yeah.'

'You poor thing.'

I gave her body a squeeze and kissed the nape of her neck.

'So tell me your sad thought,' I said.

'What if my dad didn't want to see me...' said Clara, '... because he was seeing someone else?'

I blinked, slightly shocked. My body suddenly felt wide awake.

'You mean... a woman?'

'Yes,' said Clara.

'Who?'

'I don't know. Some lonely divorcee on holiday? Maybe a tour operator who fancies a bit of rough? It's not like there's no opportunity.'

'Yeah, but...'

'Mum having that fling still eats away at him, you know. He's not over it, not by a long chalk. And yesterday, he made a comment about "balancing the books". I didn't pick up on it at the time, but now I can't get it out of my head.'

I could feel Clara's body grow increasingly tense. I pushed myself against her and she responded by pressing closer. She reached back and grabbed my thigh, while I moved my hand to cup her other breast. She turned her head so that I could see her profile.

'Promise me you'll never cheat,' she said.

'I promise.'

'Swear to it.'

'Clara, I swear by all I hold sacred that I will never, ever betray you.'

I felt her entire body relax. Her foot found its way between my ankles and she pulled my arm tighter around her body. We lay coiled together like two pythons, feeling each other's breathing, enjoying each other's heat. Then her head turned back towards me.

'Do you want me to promise you?' she said.

'There's no need,' I said. 'I know you won't cheat on me.'

'How do you know?'

'Because you have made it crystal clear that what you want most in the world is a truthful, intimate relationship with a man. So long as I honour that, you won't ever want to screw it up. And if I start slipping or taking you for granted... well, you strike me as the kind of girl who will give a man a fair warning before doing anything. If I don't listen, that's on me.'

I was holding Clara's body against me as I spoke. Suddenly, she was twisting herself around, turning to come face-to-face, and before I could return her smile, she was kissing me. I felt such love in that kiss and as she rolled onto me, I began running my hands up and down her smooth body. There was a moment when I wanted to check the time, but Clara refused to stop the kissing.

We ended up not having that shower after all.

***

Frank Gladwell was sitting in the reception area of the hotel, a bulging top-of-the-range sports bag by his feet. He looked tanned and fresh in a clean rugby shirt and jeans, and he sprang to his feet the moment Clara and I entered the lobby. We were ten minutes late, but he waved my apology away. I also saw him wrinkle his nose when Clara gave him a hug, his mouth twitching as though fighting not to speak. But when the hug was done, he hoisted up the bag and focused his ire on the cloudy grey sky.

'What happened to the weather?' he said, as we walked through the doors and headed for the van.

'Well, better today than the day you arrived,' said Clara.

'I suppose.'

I noticed that Clara was watching her father like a hawk. Probably trying to see signs that he got laid last night. Unlike us, he was definitely showered and shaved, but that could just mean he liked to be clean. He let me put his sports bag into the back of the van, then I nodded for Clara to get in too. There wasn't room for three in the front. Frank double-checked his bumbag for his passport and tickets, then we got into the van.

The drive to the airport would take about fifteen to twenty minutes. Rather than drive along the Avenida de las Playas, I headed for the old town exit that led to a bypass. It was a longer route, but way less traffic and no pedestrians. As I navigated the roundabout and headed along an almost clear road, I could feel myself relax. Clara was perched on a giant paint pot in the back and leaning through the gap between driver and passenger seats. Frank had gone to the trouble of adjusting the seatbelt so that it fit around his bulk, and now he glanced back at his free-sitting daughter.

'That would be illegal in England,' he said.

'It's illegal over here,' I responded. 'But Clara has orders to hide if we see the police or the Guardia.'

Frank opened his mouth to say something, then changed his mind. He looked out of the side window at the low hills of the valley we were driving through. Glancing in the rear-view mirror, I saw Clara's forehead wrinkle with a frown.

'So, Dad...' she said. 'What did you do last night?'

'Oh... this 'n that.'

'Like what?'

I saw Frank grip his knees and turn his head in her direction.

'I tell you what,' he said. 'You tell me what you did last night, and then I'll tell you what I did. How about that?'

Clara went bright red. I kept my eyes on the road, looking out for the sign that said two kilometres to the airport, trying to will it into existence. Frank turned his head and I could feel his gaze on me. I risked a glance and saw his eyes. He looked... bewildered. The seething anger of our first meeting had gone, replaced with a kind of confusion. There was also a feeling of sadness, although whether it was for him or his daughter, I couldn't tell.

The airport sign appeared and zipped past. The Carmen bypass joined up with the two-lane motorway, but almost at once I was taking the turn-off. The road curved to the right, heading for the airport. As we drove along, an aeroplane came in overhead, flying so low we could see the rivets on the undercarriage. I heard Frank give a sigh and realised that he too was looking forward to getting this drive over and done with.

I found a spot in the outdoor long-stay car park and parked the van. I let Clara out of the back and retrieved her father's bag. There were lines and arrows marking the tarmac, a pedestrian path that led to a concrete stairway that went all the way down, past the coach park and taxi ranks, to the departures building. The plan was to go with Frank to the check-in desk and see him through passport control. I locked the back doors of the van and was going to lock the side doors, when Frank spoke up.

'There's no need for that, mate,' he said. 'I'll say goodbye here.'

'Come off it, Dad!' said Clara. 'We're coming with you!'

'No, you are fucking not.'

'Dad--'

'Now you listen to me!' Frank had his thick finger pointed at her face. 'You've made a big fucking deal about how you're a grown woman now, and how you have the right to make your own choices! Well, that works both ways!'

'Dad, don't fucking point at me like that!'

Frank lowered his finger and clenched his fists, forcing himself to calm down.

'Listen...' he said through clenched teeth. 'I accept that you've chosen this man. I accept that you're talking about marriage and having kids, even though I think it's fucking madness at your age. But I have a right not to like it!'

'Dad...'

'And I am not having the two of you walk me to the gate like we're one big happy family! We are not a happy family, Clara!' The big man swallowed and his voice went hoarse. 'We're just not...'

I stared at the ground. Clara was in shock. Frank seemed to sway like a tree, uprooted by the words he'd just spoken. Then he picked up his bag in a big meaty hand and marched off. I watched him follow the lines on the ground, the sports bag swinging and bashing his legs as he walked. He reached the steps leading down to the next level and disappeared from sight. For a moment, Clara and I stood in paralysed silence. Then we looked at each other.

'Jon,' she said. 'I have to go after him.'

'Of course you do,' I said. 'I'll wait here by the van.'

She ran up and gave me a kiss.

'I love you,' she said.

'I love you too.'

I gave her a playful pat, then she was off, following the path her father had just taken. As I watched her disappear down the same steps, I had the thought that I'd been wrong about her womanhood. The question of whether Clara was a girl or a woman wasn't an either/or question. Clara was a full-grown woman and she was her daddy's little girl. She was both. But how she handled that was entirely up to her.

***

I sat in the passenger seat of the parked van, making the most of the extra leg room. The clouds were the colour of steel and I even saw a few drops of rain on my windscreen. I watched another aeroplane fly in to land and thought that if I had arrived today for a holiday in the sun, I'd be super pissed off.

I checked my watch.

Just over ten minutes had passed. I groaned and gently thumped the passenger door. This was driving me mad. I unlatched the door, pushed it open and got out. I reckoned it would take Clara at least twenty minutes before her father got his bag checked in and went through passport control. And that was assuming they didn't have a last-minute coffee. I had time to stretch my legs.

I walked along the pathway marked out for pedestrians, although I went in the opposite direction. My plan was to walk around the entire perimeter of the airport car park. I estimated it would take me about fifteen minutes, plus there were several stretches where I could keep an eye on that outdoor stairway to see if Clara was coming back. She was wearing a pink top and was pretty easy to recognise from a distance. Beautiful girls often are.

So intent was I on keeping an eye out for her that I neglected my more immediate surroundings. I noticed the white stripes of a zebra crossing up ahead and assumed that the road was part of the one-way system. I learned my mistake when I stepped out and heard the screech of brakes and the blast of a horn. I jumped and turned with my shoulders hunched and my hands in the air. The words 'Lo siento!' were in my mouth, when I saw the green-and-white jeep and my mouth went dry.

It was a Guardia Civil vehicle.

The windscreen was reflecting the sky, so the two men inside were like shadows with peaked caps and black moustaches. Then the officer in the passenger seat leaned out through his open side window and beckoned to me.

'Oye, inglés!' he called out.

My knees turned to water. It was the same fucking officer who had shown up at my bungalow! Sending up a silent prayer to ask God what the fuck He was playing at, I reluctantly walked along the narrow pavement to stand by the open window. The jeep was built high and I was looking at the other man virtually eye-to-eye. He was not wearing shades and he seemed amused to see me.

'Qué está pasando, señor?' he said with a grin. 'El aeropuerto está allá.'

'Yes, I know, officer,' I said in English, not wanting to include his partner. 'But I got tired of waiting, so I thought I'd take a walk.'

'You are expecting someone?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Someone... I may be familiar with?'

I looked down and smiled. It was partly because I realised that the man was trying to be nice. But it was also because he assumed I was here to pick up Clara from the airport, which meant he didn't know she had missed her plane on Sunday. I thought her absence would have triggered some sort of red flag in immigration, but... clearly not. I looked back up.

'Yes, officer,' I said. 'I think you are familiar with the lady in question.'

He gave me a smile. Then, as though not wanting to be too familiar with a foreign civilian, he wiped the smile from his face and spoke in his official voice.

'Buena suerte, señor,' he said. 'And remember... in this country, we drive on the right side of the road.'

He touched his cap and the jeep drove off. I watched it go and then looked up at the overcast sky.

'Sorry,' I said.

***

It was nearly an hour before Clara returned. I was sitting on the white wall near the top of the concrete stairway and I watched her cross the bus lane and head up towards me. She gave me a quick wave from a distance and I returned it with a raised palm, but otherwise there were no dramatics. Her shoulders were hunched, her tread was heavy and there was a dazed look on her face. But as she got closer, I saw that she was dry-eyed. The image that came to mind was of an exhausted football player coming off the field after the final whistle; a player who had given their all to the game, only for it to end up in a goalless draw.

I stood up as Clara approached and she came straight in for the hug. I felt her hands dig into my flesh as she pressed the side of her face against my collar bone, the place where our height difference took her. I had my own arms around her and I rested my cheek against her head. I felt her take slow, deliberate breaths and I resisted the urge to ask questions. More than any woman I had known, Clara gave me the sense that she loved my physical body. I could feel her muscles relax, her breathing slowed down, and a kind of serenity flowed in to dissipate her tension. After a minute, she had completely calmed down. She loosened her grip enough to lean back and look me in the face. Her eyes were clear and her gaze was serious.

'I love you,' she said.

Those words were uttered with such sober simplicity that I felt my heart crack open. It felt cheap to just say 'I love you too', so I leaned in to kiss her. She returned the kiss with plenty of tongue, but there was also a sense of restraint. To make it sexual felt like disrespecting our love, so we kept it simple. And when the kiss ended, we smiled at each other in silent understanding. Then, I let go with one arm and, with my other arm still around her waist, I turned my body in the direction of the parked van.

'Come on,' I said. 'Let's go have some breakfast.'

Clara smiled and nodded. We walked together, joined at the hip, Clara seeming to drink in the bodily contact. When she finally had to peel herself off me to get into the van, she gave the same groan as when I pulled out of her yesterday. It gave me a vicious hard-on and when I settled behind the steering wheel, I had to adjust myself with my hand.

As I drove out of the car park and joined the road that would take us back to Puerto del Carmen, Clara had her foot on the dashboard and her attention out the windows. She was watching an aeroplane that had taken off and was heading into the grey clouds. A quick glance at the colours on the tailfin told me it was an airline that flew to the UK. Clara gave a great sigh.

'Well, that's it,' she said, and she turned to look at me. 'It's just you and me now.'

'Wasn't it before?'

'No,' she said. 'Although I didn't realise that until yesterday.'

I gave her my puzzled face. Clara smiled and leaned her elbow casually on her knee.

'You know, I keep saying that the age gap doesn't bother me,' she said. 'And it doesn't, it truly doesn't. But the same is not quite true of committing myself to a man at the age of eighteen.'

'I can appreciate that.'

'Starting a family, getting married... I mean, these are big steps. And my dad kept asking me over and over "Are you sure?" and "How do you know you're ready?" And the honest answer is... I don't know. Not a hundred percent.'

'Okay.'

'Well, much as I hate to admit it, my dad does know when I'm not a hundred percent sure about something. So he kept pressing that weak spot and I started to get scared that maybe he was right - that maybe I was so caught up in our love story that I just wanted it to be true.'

Clara bent forward to rest her chin on her knee. We were just entering the town, driving along the Avenida de las Playas. Clara stared out at the sea as I slowed the van down and joined the traffic. I glanced over at her.

'When was this?' I asked.

'Yesterday, when we drove up to Teguise.'

'You were in Teguise?'

'Yes.' She sighed. 'I remember on Sunday thinking it was a beautiful town, but I wanted to see it without all the market stalls. But Dad just ripped into it, saying that it was twee and touristy, that I was meant for better things, and that I'd be bored of Lanzarote in a month.'

Clara turned her head to look at me.

'And then he started ripping into you,' she said. 'He said you were a sad git who had run away to the island after a failed marriage and that you saw me as a second chance. He also said that you put me on a pedestal so you could kid yourself that I wasn't too young for you.'

I found myself gripping the steering wheel too tightly. I took a deep breath as Clara continued.

'Well, I asked him to give me an example and he said: "Get this: Jon said he admired you!" And his tone made it crystal clear that the notion that an eighteen-year-old girl could be in any way "admirable" was utterly ridiculous to him. Well, of course, I asked him to elaborate.'

Clara leaned over to me. She had not readjusted the seatbelt after her father had worn it, so she was able to put both her hands on my leg as she spoke.

'Jon,' she said. 'The things you said about me... I fell in love with you all over again.'

'I just told him the truth,' I said.

'I know,' said Clara. 'That was clear from the moment Dad started his rant. But he didn't realise it! And when he could see that it wasn't working on me, he began to say that marriage itself was thankless and soul-destroying and that if I had any sense, I wouldn't get married at all. That's when I realised he wasn't actually talking about you.'

She leaned even closer, so I could feel her breath on my ear.

'And that's when I realised there was nothing he could say that would stop me from wanting you,' she said. 'That's when I knew I was free.'

***

I parked the van at home and Clara and I walked to Bar Pablo. After our conversation about Rosa, I knew it was important to Clara that we held hands. Not that I minded - the way Clara looked at me was the way that any man wants to be looked at by his woman. If Rosa had a problem with that, so be it.

As we walked up the three steps from the street to the terrace, I saw that my favourite table was occupied. We went for a corner table instead, where Clara could sit to the side of me. I took her hand as we sat with our elbows on the table and I scanned the café to see if anyone was giving us a dirty look. I felt Clara give my hand a squeeze.

'Hey,' she said. 'Do you know what my Aunt Katherine would say?'

'No, what?' I said.

'The people who matter don't mind... and the people who mind don't matter.'

I smiled and looked at my lovely young woman.

'I like that,' I said.

'Good.'

Clara looked at me, smiling. She lifted her chin so that her lips were in kissing distance. I raised an eyebrow and moved my forefinger on the palm of her hand. Her smile broadened and I felt her foot under the table. It was at that moment that Rosa appeared.

'Señor Jon!' she exclaimed. 'Dónde has estado?'

'Ocupado,' I said.

'Sí...' said Rosa, coming up to the table and looking at Clara. 'Yo lo veo.'

Rosa stuck out her hand.

'Rosa,' she said simply.

Clara took the proffered hand and shook it.

'Clara,' she said.

'Nice to see you again, Clara,' said Rosa in English.

'Thank you.'

'Tell me... are you the reason Señor Jon has not been here for his café con leche?'

'I'm afraid so.'

Rosa gave a nod, then her gaze swivelled to me. It was a warmer gaze than I expected, but beyond that it was hard to tell what she was thinking. Rosa permitted herself the ghost of a smile, then she pulled out her order pad and clicked her pen.

'So...' she said to us both. 'What can I get you?'

We ordered a breakfast of orange juice, Spanish omelette, and bread rolls with a platter of serrano ham and goats cheese. After Rosa disappeared back inside, Clara looked at me with mild concern.

'How are you doing?' she said.

'I'm fine,' I said. 'No, I'm more than fine. I am extremely happy.'

'I love that I make you happy.'

'Well, you do.'

I retook her hand and we leaned close to each other. Part of me wanted to kiss her, but I restrained myself. I'm not fond of people who snog in public and I didn't want us to be that kind of couple. Clara turned her head to look over the café terrace.

'This is where it all started,' she said.

'Yes,' I said. 'I can't believe it was just over a week ago.'

'Well... for me, it was two years.'

'Seriously?'

'Oh, yes.'

Clara's expression became earnest.

'I'm not saying I was obsessed,' she said. 'But you were like "That Guy in Lanzarote". Every time my friends talked about men or manliness, you would pop into my head. And whenever a guy did something stupid, I'd think "That Guy in Lanzarote would have known better." You became like a benchmark I compared other men to.'

'Wow... no pressure, then.'

'But you can handle pressure. That's what I like about you.'

Clara looked right into my eyes.

'And I'll tell you this,' she said. 'When Suzie first suggested Lanzarote for our trip, I had no intention of having a relationship with you. I was just curious to know what it would be like to have sex with a man who knew what he was doing.'

'You were going to pump me and dump me?'

'I'm afraid so.'

Clara's crooked smile and half-closed eyes emanated lust. I leaned closer and spoke in a low voice.

'Well...' I said. 'You got more than you bargained for, didn't you?'

'I certainly did.'

Clara's tongue flicked over her lip and she whispered.

'And I can't wait to have you inside me again.'

Fuck it, I thought. I'm going to kiss her. Then Rosa appeared with a loaded tray and Clara and I sat up straight and let go each other's hand. Clara pushed back her hair as Rosa placed the glasses of orange juice and plates of food on the table. She added a complimentary dish of olives and a small tub of cocktail sticks.

'Here you are,' she said.

'Gracias,' I said.

'De nada,' said Rosa. 'By the way, this breakfast is... how do you say in English?... my treat.'

I stared at Rosa. She looked back with a sad smile.

'Buena suerte, señor Jon,' she said. 'And you too, Clara.'

She gave us a nod and walked away. A middle-aged couple were leaving and Rosa went over to thank them and clear the table. Clara spoke and there was a tremor in her voice.

'That was really sweet,' she said.

'Yes, it was,' I said.

'Sorry, but what does "buena suerte" mean?'

'It means "good luck".' I smiled to myself. 'You know, that's the second time today that someone has wished me luck.'

'Oh, who was the first?'

I told Clara about my encounter with the Guardia Civil. She laughed out loud, but was also struck by how fortuitous it was - almost as though the Universe was on our side. I raised my glass of orange juice, not only to toast our good fortune, but to mark the official beginning of our relationship.

'To the future,' I said.

'No,' said Clara. 'To our future.'

As if on cue, the sun broke through the clouds and the gloom under the terrace parasols turned into warm, golden light. There were smiles and murmurs as people looked around at the transformation. Clara's eyes shone at this miracle of timing, her face pink, her smile gleaming. In my mind, I once again saw my vision of us getting married on a beach, with Clara barefoot and pregnant in a white summer dress. I raised my glass of orange juice.

'To our future,' I said.

We clinked glasses and drank, our eyes on each other. Clara smacked her lips at the taste of the freshly-squeezed juice, then put down her glass. With our feet touching under the table, we began eating our first breakfast as a couple.

It was strange to finally have a future. I know that we all have one and that the future happens whether we know it or not. And yet... there was a sense in which this was the first time I could see it with open eyes. There was the near-future, when, after our breakfast, we would walk home hand-in-hand, take our clothes off and make love. Then there was the further future, in which Clara and I made a life together, whatever that life was going to look like. But the irony was that I could only see this because I was so aware of the present moment.

Clara was chewing on her bread and serrano ham while looking at me with a smile in her eyes. I was returning her smile as I began work on a morsel of Spanish omelette. Meanwhile, the café was busy with people chatting and laughing, as Rosa and her waiters ran around serving their customers. And outside the café were the taxis and buggies, the tourists and locals, the boulevard and the beach. And above it all was the sun, shining down on my own piece of Heaven as the waves washed in from the salt cerulean sea.

***

THE END