Page 30 of It Takes Three To Tango

We stand on the terrace above the parade ground. From here, we can walk around all four sides and look out over the whole of Barcelona. It’s an impressive view. The Castle is a military fortress, built in the seventeenth century. Beinginvolved in both the defence and the subjugation of the city, it’s seen several wars and skirmishes over the centuries.

I’ve not seen Barcelona from this vantage point before. Why is it we can live somewhere and never visit some of its heritage and museums? We don’t become tourists in our own cities.

“Do you think Florencio will be ok?” Rafe asks, his gaze focussed on something in the distance.

“Today or long term?”

“Both, I guess.”

“Yes, he will, on both counts. He’s strong and resilient. He’ll think of a way. We will do what we can to help him.”

Rafe gives me one of his brilliant smiles. The way his face lights up when he’s happy makes him one of the most beautiful men I’ve ever met.

Just like yesterday when Estrella said he could write her biography, which is a brilliant idea. I didn’t know he’d been planning it. We walk around the walls, then down past the stone bastions and sentinels across the harbour. We walk in silence, but it’s not uncomfortable, more that we’re caught up in our internal thoughts.

Since yesterday I’ve been reflecting on Estrella’s words. I was angry with her for a while, but I don’t think she’s correct. I haven’t wasted my life, I can’t have, because the alternative doesn’t bear thinking about.

We walk along the moats, now excavated and landscaped, until we reach a dead end. There’s a walkway several metres above us on one side and the fortress walls on the other. I stop as we can’t go any further, but Rafe walks round the perimeter, lost in thought.

When he reaches where I’ve been waiting for him, he looks up. There’s a crease in his brow.

“Is everything okay with you?” I ask. I don’t like to think that he’s worried about something.

“I don’t know. Well, I think so.” He gives a half smile, but he doesn’t sound convincing.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I offer. He leans back against the fortress wall, tipping his head back and exposing the long white column of his throat. It’s distracting and I struggle to tear my eyes away from it so I can listen to him.

“Since I’ve been in Spain, I’ve felt different. Not at first, but I was mostly ignoring everything—including my feelings—at the time. But since I met you and Florencio, I’ve felt something changing, especially since we’ve all been at Estrella’s house.

“I feel free. I’m no longer afraid of my future, though there is still so much that’s uncertain. I’m also not dwelling on the past because I’m beginning to understand what it feels like to live in the now. Does that make sense?”

He turns his head, his amber eyes searching mine for some confirmation.

“I think so,” I say, his face captivating me. I know I can answer better than that, but I have no practical advice. After all, am I not guilty of living in the past? “It makes sense to me.”

“I thought at first, it was just being in a different country, but whilst that is a part of it, I think there’s a catalyst. Like you and Florencio. And Estrella, well, she’s a force of nature, isn’t she?”

He laughs and I join in. “She certainly is.”

“She has a way of making me think outside of myself,” he says. I join him, leaning against the wall, looking across the old moat.

“I’d say it’s her speciality,” I reply in solidarity. “She has me questioning my whole life.”

“Does it need questioning?” he asks quietly.

“This is the very question I’m asking myself.” I sigh andwe lapse into silence for a few minutes before Rafe speaks again.

“Do you think she was the same with all those stars she met? I can just imagine her down in Cannes telling Audrey Hepburn what she thought of her many affairs and marriages. I wonder what impact she had on them all and the long-term consequences of that. It might have changed the course of many people’s lives.”

“She’s like a pebble thrown into a pond, the ripples reach the shore.”

“That’s very poetic, but then we know you’re the romantic one.”

I turn to look at him, and he’s smiling at me. I can’t help but return it. “I would never consider myself romantic.”

This time I don’t look away, watching his soft golden-brown hair being moved by the gentle breeze blowing across this high ground. His smile fades, and he starts chewing on his bottom lip. My eyes are drawn to it.

“Something else is changing,” he says hesitantly. I give him my best “I’m listening” look, allowing him space to talk if he wants to.

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