Taking out his wallet, Pedro threw money onto the plate. “Um, you said you wanted to leave.”
“I’ll need a taxi to take me to the bus station.” Carla raised a finger. “I do have another few questions, though...”
Pedro stood up, knocking his leg against the table. “I am feeling tired now,” he said, faking a yawn. “It has been a nice night but I want to go home.” As they left the bar, he shared a strained look with the waiter.
They crossed the road and he waved for a taxi, directing the driver where to go. After opening the door for Carla, he ushered her inside.
She wound down the window, doubting she’d ever see him again, something she was more than fine with. There was no way he was the man she was seeking. “Gràcies i adéu, Pedro.”
“Sí, adéu, um...” His eyes went blank.
“Carla,” she said, winding the window back up. “My name is Carla Carter, soon to be Mrs. Carla Taylor.”
The taxi dropped her off at the bus station and she looked all around, trying to find one to take her back to Blanca del Mar. A man wearing a green uniform asked Carla if he could help and pointed her in the right direction. “Your bus is leaving now. You will have to hurry... Quick,” he added.
Carla sprinted across the concourse, her feet slapping against concrete. She felt her phone jiggling in her pocket and then heard it clatter to the ground. After stumbling in her haste to scoop it up, she just managed to squeeze through the doors of the bus as they swished shut. “Gracias,” she panted.
The driver mopped his brow, indicating she was lucky to have made it on board.
She nodded, showed him her ticket and slumped down into a seat.
It was dark outside, making the window next to her look like a mirror. The humidity had caused her bangs to retract, so they appeared blunter and shorter—even more outdated, if that was possible. Carla burst into laughter at the absurdity of her situation, because if she didn’t laugh, she’d cry. She was a happily engaged woman with a wonderful fiancé and had come here to meet a lothario who’d been a minuscule part of her past, and who’d now given her a terrible haircut. She cursed herself for going to see him again, for coming to Spain at all. What had she ever seen in someone so arrogant and selfish? And he didn’t even remember her. Carla took Pedro’s business card from her bag and scrunched it in her fist.
Looking down at her phone, she saw its screen had cracked, splitting her reflection in two. “Damn it,” she groaned aloud.
She desperately wanted to hear Tom’s voice, to convince herself she didn’t have to trace any more men from her past, but her spirits fell further when she could only reach his voicemail. “Hey, just checking in with you,” she said, a tremble in her voice. “Call me when you get this message.”
She opened Tom’s Instagram page and saw he’d already posted several photos from his trip. Her fiancé grinned in front of a huge event prop, a two-stories-high game of Monopoly, where the pewter dog and top hat were almost as tall as him. In the other couple of shots, he smiled among a group of people in a bar. One was an attractive blonde woman, all teeth and glossy hair, holding up another prototype of Destination Next.
Carla chewed the inside of her cheek, feeling wounded that her version of the game wasn’t the only copy, and she rammed the phone back into her bag.
You have no right to feel jealous, she told herself as the bus pulled onto the highway and sped back toward Blanca del Mar. No right whatsoever.
Eleven
Eyeliner
Carla couldn’t have been more relieved to hear noisy chatter and “I Got You Babe” blasting out at midnight from Babs’s Place. She stood in the doorway of the bar, looking into the dark crowded scene. Bodies were silhouetted against the sparkles of silver and gold reflected from the revolving mirror ball, and Babs stood onstage beside Fran and a karaoke machine. She wore a black leather corset and tight jeans, and had back-combed her hair into a messy beehive. She and Fran gazed into each other’s eyes as if they were actually Sonny and Cher in the sixties. They’d never have matched through Logical Love, but their chemistry crackled.
Their duet was met with whoops and applause and, as a finale, Fran swept Babs back in his arms and nestled his face into her neck.
Maybe, just maybe, Carla thought as she clapped, it suits some people to meet through chance alone.
Unable to summon the energy to push through the crowd to reach Babs, Carla trudged upstairs instead. Pedro had left her feeling like she needed a shower when really it was all her own doing.
She splashed her face in the sink and peeled off her clothes, leaving them in a heap on the floor in her room. After climbing into bed, she pulled a pillow over her head and clamped it to her ears while “Bat Out of Hell” made her floorboards jump.
The next day at noon, Carla and Babs sat on high stools at the bar, facing each other with rounded tired shoulders. The area was dark, devoid of the life and lights of last night, and smelled of whisky and air freshener. Fran had gone out to buy strong coffees and pastries to boost their energy levels.
“I overdid the sangria,” Babs groaned, rubbing her forehead. “The fruit makes it seem more innocent than it actually is. How did the search for your first fella go?”
Carla echoed her grunt. “I’d score our match twenty-five percent, and subtract five for the hideous haircut he gave me.” She pointed to her bangs.
“You do look a bit like Joan of Arc,” Babs said. “Never mind. Plenty more turtles in the ocean. Hopefully you’ll have more luck with the next guy on your list.”
“There isn’t going to be a next one.” Carla let out the deepest sigh. “Meeting Pedro was a disaster and I’ve had enough.”
Fran arrived back and placed brown paper bags and huge cardboard cups on the bar. “You ladies look like you need sustenance. I know I do.”
They nodded at him wearily but gratefully.
He crossed the room and used a screwdriver to lever the front panel off a speaker, displaying more tattoos across his back.
Babs’s eyes fixed on him. “I hope you know what you’re doing...” she said.
“Don’t worry about it. I’m an expert.”
Babs rolled her eyes to Carla. Fran’s biceps rippled and Babs looked down at her own hands, tracing a finger over her raised blue veins. There was a touch of regret in her eyes, and she suddenly looked all of her sixty-plus years. She tore the corner off a pastry and batted the flakes off the bar with her hand. “I cleaned your room earlier and spotted the tarot cards on your bedside table. Are you interested in those things?” she asked Carla.
“Not really.” Carla’s coffee was so hot it made her tongue feel fuzzy. “A fortune teller gave them to me. They’re supposed to relate to the men I’m going to meet.”
“Me and Suzy Soo used to drink cider, look at the tarot and tell each other’s fortunes. It was probably a load of rubbish, but a lot of fun,” Babs said. She thought for a moment. “You know, she used to tell me that your family believed in some kind of relationship curse...”
Carla nodded and sighed. “Unfortunately, that’s true.”
“Can I take a look at your cards?” Babs asked. “Someone in the bar told my fortune a few weeks ago, so I might remember some of them.”
Carla went to her bedroom to retrieve the pack. She handed them to Babs, who lingered over the ones with the sticky notes attached.
