Page 42 of It Takes Three To Tango

“It’s a great project, Dad. It’s what I want to do.” Not outright lies, but I’m used to giving them contorted versions of the truth. I hear a little sigh, and I don’t think for a minute he believes me, but he agrees to look over the contract for me that evening and call me back. Having a lawyer as a father does have its advantages.

I thank him and ring off. Now for the more difficult conversation.

“You’re doing what?” Helen’s shrill voice almost pierces my eardrum and I hold the phone away from my face. It’s the response I expected, though, so I’m not surprised.

“Yes, as soon as the contract has been checked, I’m making a start.”

“Have you gone completely mad?”

“I don’t know, have I?” It’s perhaps not a question I should ask, but it does take some of the wind out of her sails and she stops yelling.

“I don’t know what’s got into you,” she says more in her normal tone. “It’s like you’re deliberately trying to be the most unsellable author on my books.”

“This isn’t about you, Helen,” I reply. “It’s about doing something that feels right.” This is really all I’m trying to do in my life.

“I can’t sell this, Rafe,” she says, her disappointment clear. I skip the part where I could point out that she couldn’t sellmy Blackwater series either. I’m not that mean, but I’m also not going to back down on this.

“Maybe the problem isn’t me then,” I say and ring off, aware I might just have lost my agent. The thought doesn’t bother me as much as it would’ve a few months ago. For now, I’m going to concentrate on writing this book and worry about trying to sell it later.

My stomach rumbles, and I realise how late it’s getting. I also haven’t seen Florencio and Constantin for most of the morning. I miss them and want to ask for their help with the diaries.

I go in search of them and find Florencio in the kitchen, turning what look like small pasties in a cast iron pan.

I snake my arms round him, and he turns his head for a kiss. It feels easy and I’m happy Flo initiated the talk we all had this morning. I’d got caught up in the expansiveness of my own horizons and was careless about how the others would deal with it. That they haven’t told me I’m being ridiculous is a huge relief, and the large feeling in my chest keeps growing even if they have brought me back down to earth.

“They smell delicious,” I say, reaching around him to try to sneak one out of the pan.

“Hey!” He hits my hand with the spatula.

“I can’t help it. I’m starving, and they look so good.”

“Give me five minutes and they’ll be ready.”

“Hmm, if I have to. What are they?” I grumble.

“Empanadas.” They still look like little pasties to me.

“You know I’d pay good money for your cooking, though I’m glad I don’t have to. I’m already poor.”

He spins round. “Say that again.”

“I’m poor.”

“No, not that, the other thing.”

“I’d pay for your food?” I ask.

“Yes, that. Would you? Do you think people would pay? For my food?”

“Absolutely. I’m not an expert, but it’s miles better than most of the food I’ve had since I’ve been here. Lucky me.”

“Maybe that’s it!” he says excitedly. “My way of not having to rely on my father.”

“That’s great,” I reply, and his excitement is infectious. “But how?”

“I don’t know yet, but there has to be something I can do.”

“Um, what about doing something with those?” I point to the pan, which is smoking slightly, just as a burning smell hits my nostrils.

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