Chapter Fifteen
Isobel pulled out her phone and flicked through the messages. All but a single one, from Maria, were from Ryan. As she contemplated whether to call back there and then, or to wait till she had freshened up, the ringtone made her musing redundant.
“Wow, babe, I was beginning to think you had disappeared off the planet.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I went out without my phone and I only just walked in the door.”
“But you messaged me earlier.”
Isobel tensed, thankful that no computer screen revealed her expression. “I know I did. What I meant is I just popped out to get some milk, and forgot the phone.”
“The help falling down on the job?” he asked, scepticism etched in his voice.
“What do you mean? I tried you earlier and you didn’t pick up. I’ve been waiting for you to call back.”
“No worries, babe. You had a good time…sightseeing?”
“Yes, I’m just a bit exhausted, that’s all.”
“If you want we can talk later, when you’re in your negligee.”
“I’ve still got the odd bruise from the bike fall, I wouldn’t make a pretty sight. Anyway, what’s up your end? What’s new in LA?” Isobel’s eyes were on the photos from Julian as she spoke.
“Well, that’s one of the reasons I’ve been bombarding your phone, there is something new in LA. I’ve got some news, great news maybe, and I wanted you to be the one I share it with first.”
“Something to do with the film project you’ve been obsessing about?”
“Hey, you’re spoiling my moment of glory here. You want to hear my news or not?”
She flopped down onto the sofa and kicked off her shoes. “I’m only teasing, I’m all ears.”
“Well, it’s something I don’t want to get too excited about, not until I’ve got it locked down. But I’ve got the principal backer lined up for my screenplay.”
Isobel knew this counted as big news for Ryan. Based on what he’d told her, getting the main investor nailed down was the key to a two- year project he had gambled his future and much of his savings on.
“That’s brilliant, I’m so pleased for you.”
“There’s plenty more I want to tell you about it. I have to see you. We’ve got to celebrate.”
“Maybe we should wait till the pen is on the paper and the ink is dry, better not to tempt the gods of fate.”
“I’m pretty confident on this, or else I wouldn’t be telling you. So I’m calling to ask you to come up tomorrow. We could go out somewhere special, Spago maybe; didn’t you say you wanted to go there?”
“Tomorrow?” she said, buying time, “yes, I’d love that, but I’ve got Maria to prepare for.”
“What’s there to prepare? You planning to redecorate the place in her honour, like she’s the Queen or someone.”
Isobel didn’t want the conversation to escalate into an argument. She kept it light. “Well, the place could do with a freshening up, now you mention it. But what you boys don’t understand is we girls like to plan these things properly.”
“No worries, no worries, it can wait till the weekend, you can stay over. Might be better anyway, there’ll be more going on.”
“I’d rather we set something up for the middle of next week. Can I call you tomorrow when I know what’s happening for sure with Maria, and I’ve got my diary and everything in front of me?”
She waited for him to respond. She hated herself for stalling, procrastination fuelled by Lance’s interest rather than Maria’s needs.
“What gives, babe, we’re not talking about a business meeting here. You’re my girlfriend, remember, and I want to see you.”
“And I want to see you, too.”
“Then just tell Maria she’ll have to manage without you for a couple of days.”
“Ryan, I don’t want to go back over old ground, but—“
“But you’re about to.”
“No I’m not. All I’m saying is that I need to do the right thing by Maria. She’s travelling halfway across the world to see me and, if I remember, isn’t that exactly what you kind of told me last time I asked to see you, that you had something more important to attend to in LA?”
“Well, that sounds like old ground to me. But I didn’t call to argue and you’re not going to burst my bubble. I’m feeling good about life and about you, and about us, and I want to see you, celebrate with you, get down and dirty under the covers. Isn’t that what you want too?”
“Ryan, please—“
“It’s okay, babe, as I said, no worries. Let’s talk again in the morning, unless you’ve mislaid your phone again. Love you.”
She heard him make a kiss and the line went dead.
A week earlier, a week before Lance had turned on the charm, Isobel had been certain in her heart and in her mind that she missed Ryan, in spite of their differences. But she had also been relishing her freedom and her independence, the growing feeling that she really could get her life back together, and rebuild some sort of a career in the art world. Now, as she stared at the photo of a smiling couple in period dress, uncertainty again consumed her, about Ryan, about Lance, and where she was going with her life.
Something of a last-minute panic enveloped Isobel. Her latest painting and her complications with Lance and Ryan had taken all her focus, and preparations for Maria’s arrival had been the casualty. She had been running around all morning doing last minute shopping as if it were Christmas Eve. With Maria’s arrival imminent, she still had not fully prepared the spare bedroom. As she cursed her own tardiness, Juanita arrived.
“It is only me, señora,” shouted Juanita, as she let herself in.
“Aren’t you supposed to be at the art gallery?” called out Isobel, struggling to force the reluctant corner of a bed sheet over the mattress. “I’d swear they make these damn things six inches too small just for the fun of it.” She sensed Juanita’s presence in the doorway and turned to find the girl holding Clarita.
“Pauline, she does not need me this morning, so I came to see if you needed anything because I remember your friend is arriving.”
Before Isobel could say that Pauline had no right to let her whims dictate when she needed Juanita, the girl’s butterfly sunglasses drew her attention.
“Oh my god, what has happened to you?” The reason for the dark glasses, despite their outlandish size, needed no explanation.
“It is nothing, señora, a bang to my head.”
“Let me have a look.” She took the baby in her arms and Juanita removed her glasses. The half-closed eye and bluish-red colouring suggested a recent blow. “How did this happen?” Isobel demanded, her fingertips brushing the swelling. “And don’t tell me you fell down the stairs.”
“It does not matter, it is done now. And I did not think Pauline would want me in the gallery with the face of a street woman.”
“Of course it matters how it happened.” Isobel sat down on the bed, still holding Clarita, and tapped the sheet. Juanita dutifully took her place beside her.
“You should not be doing housework, señora, there is not enough for me to do here already.”
“Stop changing the subject, and tell me what happened.”
“Last night Pablo visited the house. He had the crazy head that drink gives him, and he wanted to come to my bed. I should not have let him in. But he still the father of Clarita.”
“And he hit you because you would not sleep with him?”
Juanita laughed. “I think, señora, you live in a different world from El Cajon. I know too well not to refuse Pablo into my bed when his blood is up. He hit me because he wanted money and that I did not want to give it. He drinks whatever I give him, or spends it on other women.”
“And has he hit you before?”
“He has not visited me in a long time. But now he hears I have more money, from the gallery and the other work you have helped me with, now he has started to call again. But no, he does not usually hit me.”
“Except when he is drunk and wants money?”
“Si, señora. If I did not give it then I fear for what he might do, and not just to me. I worry for Clarita.”
Isobel knew only snippets of Juanita’s domestic circumstances and did not want to rush to diagnosis or to prescription. “What about your family, do they know about what’s happening?”
“My family is all in Mexico. It is only me and Clarita.”
“And you have never called the police about it?”
“La policia? They do not care about us Braceros. They call us field rats and river niggers.”
“Juanita, that’s silly, surely all of the police in San Diego cannot be against Mexicans?”
“Believe me, they do nothing if I call them. They say they serve and protect but they only serve themselves. The people where I live, they go crazy, loco, if I call la policia. They only make trouble for everyone. We do not talk with la policia, we say the tongue must guard the throat.”
After her own experience on the border, Isobel had little desire to contest her extreme views on the forces of law and order.
“But that is just it, Juanita, things can be changed, and there must be people besides the police who can help.”
“Please, señora, do not worry for me, I will find a way to deal with Pablo.” She stood once more, seemingly set against accepting advice or help. “You must get ready for your friend.” The baby stirred in Isobel’s arms and Juanita held out her hands. “Now I think I must feed Clarita. Then let me finish these beds for you, I have taken up too much time already.”
Isobel thought it prudent to let the subject of Pablo rest, deciding it better to research what professional help might be available than to foist unwanted advice on the girl.
“If there is anything I can do, anything at all, then you must tell me,” said Isobel.
“You must not make my problems your problems. And you have already been too kind. Please, señora.”
The doorbell chimed and Isobel passed over the baby. “Let me just get that,” she said.
The caller turned out to be a deliveryman requesting a signature. Isobel scrawled her name on the screen, and the man retrieved a bicycle from the back of the van, the tyres visible through the cardboard packaging. A simple message had been pinned to the documentation. “To recompense you for my part in the destruction of your bike. Lance.”