Page 39 of The Lost Story of Sofia Castello

38

PORTUGAL, 2000

I stop typing and wipe my eyes. When Sofia was telling me how she and Trafalgar met, I was in full ghostwriter mode, gently prompting and probing to coax more out of her. But now it’s almost midnight and I’m alone in my bedroom transcribing the recordings onto the page, they’re having a much deeper impact.

I gaze out of the open window into the dark. The sea is gently lapping down below like sighs against the sand. I swallow down the lump in my throat and wonder why Sofia’s words have affected me so deeply. Even though she’s been heavily hinting that things do not end well with her and Trafalgar, her description of the chemistry between them has left me with a bone-deep longing. I think back to earlier when I was with Gabriel on the beach and how I’d felt when our fingers had touched and when he’d held my hand. It had been so exciting to feel myself spark into life like that, but now I can’t help feeling wistful that I’ve never experienced anything like it before.

I stand up from my desk and go and sit on the wide windowsill where I’d placed the little driftwood rooster Gabriel had given me. I pick it up and hold it tight. A warm breeze perfumed with the fragrance of the garden flowers drifts past me into the room. My wistfulness grows as I realise that, at thirty-five, I’ve never, ever experienced the kind of powerful attraction Sofia had with Trafalgar.

As I gaze out into the darkness, a memory comes back to me, a memory that immediately makes me cringe.

About five years ago, I ghostwrote a self-help book for a relationship therapist who has a regular slot on a morning TV show. The book was called Rekindle and it was for couples looking to reignite the romance in their relationships. One of the chapters was all about rekindling sexual desire and it was full of exercises designed to bring the spark back to your love life. In my desperation, I decided to give one of them a try. It was called ‘Hide and Peak’ and it involved hiding in your home fully naked, as a ‘sexy surprise’ for your partner when they got home from work. According to the therapist, this would be guaranteed to whip them into a frenzy.

Sadly, she hadn’t factored Robin getting stuck on a broken-down train into the equation. Or me falling asleep hiding in our walk-in closet while I waited. When he finally returned home in a foul mood an hour late and found me, his reaction was one of shock and ridicule, which in turn made me feel desperate and ridiculous, none of which was conducive to whipping anyone into a frenzy.

Thinking back on that evening now, I’m able to see that a kinder, more good-natured man would have been able to laugh at what had happened and appreciate my efforts. The thing that had drawn me to Robin in the first place – his sensible, strait-laced nature – had ended up feeling more like a straitjacket.

I look at the driftwood rooster and stroke its intricate feathers. I hope Gabriel was right and that it will bring me good fortune.

I return to my laptop and gingerly log on to AOL.

‘You’ve got mail!’ the cheery automated alert announces, sending a shudder right through me. Ever since Robin’s and Nikki’s emails, the notification has taken on a way more menacing tone. I cautiously look at the screen, but thankfully there are no new emails from them. There is one from Jane though, intriguingly titled: The crack in the chrysalis . I open it and begin to read.

Dear Lily,

I’m thrilled to hear that you feel that your Portuguese adventure will jolt you out of your butterfly soup and, without wishing to overdo the metaphor, I thought it might be useful to share another butterfly fact with you – or perhaps a butterfly misconception might be more accurate. I think most people assume that when the butterfly is ready, it just bursts out of the cocoon like a rabbit from a magician’s hat. But, actually, the act of bursting out of the cocoon is a very delicate and dangerous process. The butterfly has to squeeze itself through a tiny crack in the chrysalis – and it’s the tightness of the squeeze that forces fluid into its brand-new wings and gives them strength. If it happens too early or if the butterfly is helped in any way, it won’t be strong enough to fly away.

I wanted to share this with you as I’m aware that you’ve been through so much this past year – and, who knows, there might be some more trying times to come. But trust me, Lily, it’s the tough times that will be the making of you, and I can’t wait to watch as you step into the strength and wisdom that these experiences have given you.

All my love,

Jane

‘Wow,’ I whisper as I finish reading her email. It is so perfectly timed and so beautifully put. What if all the pain I’ve felt over the past ten months has been helping me grow stronger? What if, instead of feeling wistful that I haven’t experienced what Sofia did with Trafalgar, I can feel hopeful that now I’m no longer with Robin, I’ve at least created the potential for it to happen?

I click on reply.

Dear Jane,

Thank you so much yet again for your words of wisdom. I can’t tell you how helpful and timely they were. Today has been a bit trying, but now I can comfort myself with the thought that it’s all making me stronger. And I really believe that it is.

Thank you for being so much more than an agent to me. I’m so grateful.

Lots of love,

Lily

I press send and turn off my laptop and, as it powers down, I recall there being something strange Sofia said at the end of our session together today. What was it?

I pick up my voice recorder and rewind the tape a little before pressing play.

‘“The date fate brought us together.” Then he kissed me lightly on the cheek, put his hat back on and left. I stood rooted to the spot, gazing after him, feeling dazed. Maybe it was all of Trafalgar’s talk about fate, but I had the certain knowing that the eighth of May 1941 was the date my life had changed forever. And, of course, I was right, but for reasons I never, ever could have anticipated.’ Then there’s a clatter as Sofia stood up and knocked her empty wine glass over on the coffee table. ‘Shit!’ she exclaimed. ‘OK, that’s enough exorcising demons for one night. I need to go to bed.’

‘Are you all right?’ I hear myself ask, and then the recording clicks off.

I stop the tape. Why did she get so rattled all of a sudden? And who or what were the demons she was referring to? Presumably she meant Trafalgar, but why? Normally when I ghostwrite an autobiography, the client is only too happy to talk about their lives and themselves – in fact, in many cases, I find myself having to rein them in, visions of their book’s word count spiralling out of control. But in Sofia’s case the reverse is true. The real challenge in this job is getting her to open up fully.

I return to the windowsill and gaze up at the inky black sky, trying to imagine what it would feel like to know that bombers could appear at any moment. To be afraid of a full moon because it made it easier for the enemy to hit their targets. There’s something so perverse about this notion, it makes me shudder. I look up at the thin crescent moon glowing silver in the sky and feel overwhelming gratitude that I haven’t had to go through that.

I’m about to get ready for bed when a light goes on downstairs and I hear the back door creaking open. I quickly turn off the lamp so I won’t be seen and peer out. Sofia is standing motionless with her back to me in her dressing gown, illuminated by the shaft of light spilling through the back door. What is she doing up at this time? I notice a trowel in her hand. Surely she can’t be about to do some gardening.

I watch, mesmerised, as she sets off along the path, coming to a halt by a rose bush about halfway down. She mutters something under her breath, then gets down on her knees and starts digging a hole, tearing at the earth with the trowel like a woman possessed. I wonder what her gardener, Rosária, would have to say if she could see her. Something tells me she wouldn’t approve.

Sofia’s still muttering, but I can’t hear or understand what she’s saying, although it’s clear from her tone that she isn’t happy. She stops digging and fumbles in her dressing-gown pocket, taking out a small box. I watch, hardly daring to breathe, as she shoves it into the ground and hastily covers it with soil. What on earth is she doing?

She stands up and I quickly step back behind the curtain. As I hear her come closer, I risk peeping out. She’s only visible for a split second before she goes back inside, but it’s long enough to see that she’s been crying. Her face is streaked with black from her eyeliner. I contemplate going down to see if she’s all right, but that would mean revealing that I saw what she was doing, and something tells me she would not be happy to know that I witnessed her late-night digging spree.

I move away from the window and start getting ready for bed, unable to shake a growing sense of unease. What was in the box Sofia has hidden and why would she go to the lengths of burying it in her garden? The only person she can be hiding it from is me.