Page 56 of It Takes Three To Tango

“But Auntie, you haven’t been out of bed since the dinner party a few days ago!” She looks so frail, even if her spirit is strong.

“We can always find the strength in ourselves to do something we really want to, don’t you think?”

I know that arguing with her was futile, so I agree. “All right, when... and I mean when”—I hold up my hand to emphasise my point—“you’re feeling strong enough, we can arrange a day out for you.”

“Good, that’s settled.” She reclines her head back on her pillows and closes her eyes. I know when I’ve been dismissed. She’s the most admirable woman I’ve ever met. I wish I could summon a fraction of her strength. But right now, I need to work on my own problems.

I look at the unfamiliar email in my inbox. It’s not unusual to receive emails from strangers; most of them are spam, or offering marketing services, explaining how much they can help me market my book with emails full of grammatical errors and questionable spelling. But this one catches my attention. It starts off polite enough, overly polite even. Well, more of an archaic style of writing, which I find intriguing. Then it veers into effusive and apologetic but inherently charming. On top of all that, the subject matter is interesting. He’s offering his services as a literary agent.

I look at the name again: Noah Ellington. It’s vaguely familiar. The email also mentions a connection to my father, so that’s the first call I make.

“Dad, do you know a Noah Ellington?” I ask once we’ve exchanged greetings.

“I’ve not met Noah, but I do know his father, Henry Ellington; he’s a client of mine.”

“Did you recommend he contact me?”

“Ah, yes, I might have suggested it. I should have warned you, but I didn’t think he would go through with it, or at least not so soon. I only met with Henry a couple of days ago.”

“Well, he’s keen, I’ll give him that. But I wasn’t aware I was in need of a new agent.” I can’t help bristling slightly at the interference by my dad.

“From what you’ve told me about Helen, I was under the impression it was imminent.”

I have been putting off thinking about my agent for the last few days. With her not being able to sell my series, her refusal to try to sell Estrella’s biography, along with taking on Sloan Thorpe, I’m not sure I can trust her anymore. But to find a new agent seems a drastic step to take. Still, there can’t be any harm in finding out a bit more information about him, just in case. I compose a quick reply and go to find Constantin. I’m walking down into the city with him today.

Although it’s early, there are already plenty of people also enjoying the fine weather as I amble down La Rambla. I don’t have any particular destination in mind, I just want to soak in the atmosphere. I hardly did any sightseeing when I first arrived in the city, but I walked along the La Rambla almost every day. I look at the shops and cafés I used to pass on my daily walk from my hotel to Constantin’s bar. Everything feels different even though it’s familiar. Even the gentleman I used to see reading a paper with his espresso is in exactly the same seat. As I walk, I try to fathom the incongruity of it all. The sights, the sounds, the smell, and even the very air is changed somehow. I stop in the middle of the wide pedestrian streetand allow humanity to flow round me. The bewildered feeling dissipates as I hear snippets of conversation—parents calling their children, lovers having heated arguments. I don’t catch all of them, as they speak fast, and my vocabulary is still fairly limited, but the last time I walked down here, it was just background noise. I tip my head back and stare up at the sky, a grin forming on my face and jubilation bubbling up so I can barely contain it. Barcelona hasn’t changed, I have. I already knew change was happening, but I considered that more centred around my sexuality and the expansiveness of feelings I have for Florencio and Constantin. This feels different; it’s weightier somehow, more fundamental. I pick a seat at an outdoor table at a café and a waitress approaches. Without hesitation, she addresses me in Spanish. Previously, either the servers would instantly discern I was British and choose English, or they would speak Spanish and wait patiently for me to hesitantly try to tell them I didn’t speak it, or try not to wince as I murdered their language. I answer in Spanish and am still rather dazed that she doesn’t grimace, but appears back with my coffee very promptly. As I sit and watch the world go by, only one thought comes to mind: I could do this forever.

“Can you teach me some phrases in Spanish?” Rafe asks, putting his coffee mug down and sitting back against the pillows on the bed. Dragging him away from the biography for a rest was hard work, but he was practically falling asleep at his computer. We’ve finished most of the diary translations and he’s planned the structure of the biography. Once he gets into the work zone, we have to remind him to eat. I’ve been making sure he rests regularly, which is where we all are. Florencio made us coffee after we had a siesta.

“Your Spanish is getting better. What phrases did you have in mind?” I ask, taking a swig of my coffee.

He runs a hand through his hair.

“I want to suck your cock.”

I nearly lose my coffee while Florencio tips his head back and laughs.

“Quiero chuparte la polla,”I say when I recover.

“Quiero chuparte la polla,”Rafe repeats, then utters it a few more times.“Quiero chuparte la polla.”

“You say it one more time and I might take you up on the offer.” I’m only half joking because hearing him say it in Spanish with a tinge of an English accent is goddamn sexy, and I’m getting turned on.

He laughs. “I’d rather you did more of what you did the other night.”

“You liked that?” I ask, moving up the bed until I’m kneeling between his legs.

“I did.” He licks his lips expectantly.

Florencio leans close to him and whispers.

“The phrase you want here isfóllame.”

“Fóllame? What’s that mean?”

“Fuck me.”

“Fuck me?”

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