Page 9 of The Lost Story of Sofia Castello

8

LISBON, 2000

Sofia sits back on the sofa and shoots me a sideways glance. All the time she’s been talking, she’s been staring straight ahead, as if watching her memories play out on a screen in front of her.

‘I take it that the sinister thing building was the war,’ I say, pressing stop on my voice recorder.

‘Yes, it’s hard to imagine now, but some terrible things happened here during World War Two. Terrible things.’ She closes her eyes, as if trying to block them out.

‘Here in Lisbon?’ I ask, surprised and intrigued. I can’t remember my school history lessons ever mentioning Portugal during the war.

‘Yes, and here in this very hotel.’ She opens her eyes. It’s hard to be certain, but I think she looks frightened.

‘This hotel—’ I break off, not wanting to appear stupid.

‘It was a favourite haunt of the Gestapo.’

‘But I thought Portugal was neutral during the war.’

She gives a tight little laugh. ‘Supposedly, but that brought its own set of difficulties. Spies from all sides came here, to try to win the support of Portuguese dictator Salazar. And refugees fled here from all over Europe, trying to escape to America and other relatively safe places. It was a lethal mixture.’

I think back to what she said a moment ago about singing in the tavern preparing her for what was to come. ‘Were the duplicitous characters you met members of the Gestapo?’ I ask cautiously.

‘What duplicitous characters?’ She stares at me, her eyes narrowing.

‘You said a couple of minutes ago that singing in the tavern prepared you for liaising with spies and some of the most duplicitous characters you ever met.’

‘Hmm. I can see that you aren’t going to miss a trick.’ She places her empty glass on the coffee table and stands up. ‘Why don’t we have a quick bathroom break? Please do help yourself to more wine.’

I nod but don’t take her up on the invitation. One thing’s for certain – I’ll need to have my wits about me for this job. Getting Sofia to open up to me is going to take all of my skill in tact and diplomacy, not to mention human psychology.

I go over to one of the huge windows and gaze outside. Sofia’s room, like mine, looks out onto the square, and as I watch the people bustling about down below, it’s almost impossible to imagine this vibrant city flooded with refugees and crawling with spies. I remember feeling the same way about London on a visit to the Tate art gallery when Robin told me that the pockmarks on the walls were shrapnel damage from the Blitz. Thinking about the ghostly imprint of those dark days had made me shiver and, as if realising, Robin had wrapped his arms around me.

I gulp down a sudden wave of sadness at the memory and think of the Portuguese word Sofia mentioned about longing for a person or a place. Saudade . It perfectly sums up how I’ve been feeling these past ten months. But now is definitely not the time or the place to be thinking about Robin or our time together.

I glance down at a small side table next to the window and see a folder with my name printed on the front. I fight the urge to look inside. Knowing my luck, the minute I’d open it, Gabriel would pop through the door, but still…

I hear the toilet flushing and quickly lift the bottom corner of the folder just an inch. I see a handwritten note in what I assume must be Portuguese and the bottom of some newspaper cuttings, which puzzles me initially, until I realise that they’re probably reviews or features about some of the books I’ve ghostwritten. Before I can take a better look, I hear the bathroom door open, and I quickly move back to the window.

‘Quite a view, isn’t it?’ Sofia says, and I turn and nod.

‘It’s stunning. I’ll just pop to the loo before we carry on.’

‘Pop to the loo!’ she shrieks with delight. ‘You Brits have such wonderful turns of phrase.’

I grin, relieved to see her happy and relaxed again, and I make a mental note that the next time she seems stressed all I need to do is say ‘by jingo’ or ‘golly gosh’ and hopefully she’ll be smiling again.

The bathroom is as plush as the rest of the suite and about as big as our living room back home. My heart sinks as I realise that I still think of the flat as ours . A couple of months after the break-up, when Robin had moved in with his new partner, Nikki came over and helped me redecorate the living room. We painted it a vibrant shade of orange with a stencilled green vine border – something Robin would never have agreed to, having always preferring a muted palette, both in his clothes and home decor. The room makeover made little difference. The jaunty stencilling was about as effective as a sticking plaster over a gaping wound, and it did nothing to mask the memories imprinted into the walls from our thirteen years living there.

The saying ‘wherever you go, there you are’ pops into my mind. I’m not sure where I heard it; Oprah, probably, but it’s annoyingly accurate and slightly depressing to realise that even meeting a world-famous singer risen from the dead isn’t enough to wipe Robin from my mind.

I’m torn from my thoughts by the sound of a door opening and Sofia speaking in Portuguese. Obviously, I can’t understand what she’s saying, but I’m sure I hear my name being mentioned, and there’s an urgency, almost anger, to her tone. I hear the low deep cadence of Gabriel replying, and it sounds as if he’s trying to placate her.

I flush the toilet and all goes silent in the room next door. As I wash my hands, I wonder if they were arguing about me, and I really hope it isn’t anything that might jeopardise me getting the job. If I’m to have any hope of moving on from Robin, I need to write this book. I need to fill my brain with the mystery of Sofia’s story, so there’s no more room for memories of him and us. No more room for saudade .

I come out of the bathroom to find Sofia sitting on the sofa lighting a cigarette and Gabriel standing by the door, putting on his coat, his expression grim.

‘Is everything OK?’ I ask cautiously.

‘Yes, Gabriel is just going to get us some lunch,’ Sofia says with a smile, but there’s a definite tightness to her tone.

Gabriel gives a laboured sigh. Ignoring him, Sofia pats the sofa beside her for me to join her.

‘Now I’m going to tell you about the night I lost my virginity and how it dramatically changed my life path,’ she says loudly, and Gabriel beats a hasty retreat. As the door to the suite slams shut, she laughs. ‘I knew that would get rid of him.’

I grin and get my recorder ready. But just as I’m about to press play, I glance at the table by the window and I see that the folder with my name on it has mysteriously disappeared.