The Wedding Proposal Page 5

  Picking up the menu cards, he passed one to her. ‘Hungry?’

  They ate as the sun disappeared, the lights of Sliema beginning to glitter across the short stretch of water.

  As they pushed away their plates, he released the question that had been jumping in his throat since she’d walked back into his life. ‘And how about you?’

  She raised enquiring eyebrows, so blonde that they’d nearly disappeared in the cafe lights.

  He took a draught of his beer. ‘Boyfriend,’ he said, casually. ‘Partner. Significant other. Husband.’

  ‘Oh.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘Not right now. The last man I dated was a drummer in a band. We saw each other for a while.’

  They lapsed into silence. To the right, past the mouth of the harbour to the open sea, Lucas could see lights from boats, pinpricks in the darkness as if a couple of the shining stars above them had slipped. He quashed an impulse to ask more about the drummer. How long was “a while”? Had she considered making a future with him? Had he made her happy?

  Or had he driven her away with demands that she reveal herself, commit herself, yet signalled his own commitment with a marriage proposal that had come out more as pragmatism than love?

  Had the drummer been as obsessed with Elle as Lucas had been? Had the end of the relationship cut caverns in his heart?

  He stole a glance at her as she stared out across the water, her profile perfect, her body curvy and firm, her satin hair stirring in the breeze. Then he took a breath and moved the conversation back to safer ground. ‘How long do you think you’ll stay in Malta?’

  Blinking, she turned back to him. ‘Four months is my initial commitment. I’m going to be working as a volunteer at the Nicholas Centre, a drop-in youth centre. I’ll be responsible for the internet cafe. Young people hang out there, of all ages and backgrounds.’ Suddenly animated, she pulled herself up in her chair, placing her elbows on the table. ‘I had plenty of IT skills but I had to take online courses in child protection and safeguarding. It made me realise what the Nicholas Centre is all about.’

  He listened, intrigued. How different an Elle she was, now. The Elle he’d known had been very much on the fast track of a competitive post-graduate programme in an IT company, working hard, playing the game, living the corporate life. Giving to charity had been through sensibly Gift Aided money, not with time and effort.

  ‘So what happens after the four months?’

  She spread her hands in a “who knows?” gesture. ‘I might find a way of staying. I might move somewhere new. I’ve only myself to please.’

  ‘What about your parents?’

  Elle looked down and began to toy with a fork on the yellow tablecloth. ‘They split up, actually. Dad went off with a woman who’s quite a lot younger than him. Tania.’ She smiled, faintly. ‘She has two kids, both at university, and is a bit defensive in case I take up too much of Dad’s time or money. But, of course, that’s not an issue.’

  He stared. ‘Your dad didn’t strike me as the kind who’d leave. How did your mum cope?’

  A shadow crossed her face. ‘It was hard for her.’ She changed the subject. ‘So, you’re diving? What made you decide on such a completely new career?’

  He accepted the change with grace. It probably wasn’t nice when your parents parted, no matter how good or bad your relationship with them. Elle’s parents had always seemed as unchanging as the rock the island was made of. ‘I started recreationally and just loved it. I worked my way through the courses to divemaster and diving was taking up more and more of my time, so I decided to make it my main job for a while. Simon’s got some graduate covering my job at Rose Wines for a year and then we’ll reassess.’

  She listened in silence as he told her about his job at Dive Meddi in St Julian’s Bay, about Vern, the owner, and the other instructors, Lars and Polly, and the fellow divemasters, Brett and Harriet. He kept the conversation light and entertaining.

  He didn’t say he’d had to get away from the vineyard because it turned out that there wasn’t much pleasure in living a dream alone.

  Elle lay in bed and let herself explore how the middle of the night felt when you were on a boat in Malta. The water lapped and few vehicles still rumbled on the main road. The darkness was warm and complete. The sea was calm and the motion slight.

  Just one sheet lay between her naked skin and the soft night air.

  She’d had a long day and hadn’t slept well last night. Yet, here she was, staring into the darkness and thinking about Lucas asleep in the other cabin.

  Why on earth had she told him about dating a drummer in a band? She hoped Lucas never found out that it had been a marching band, because she’d made Jamie sound like a rock star. It was sad that she’d actually wanted to spark Lucas’s jealousy, see that possessive expression in his eyes, the one she’d once known so well.

  Sighing, she wondered about the unknown Kayleigh and Lucas’s smile when he spoke of her.

  She brushed a tear from the corner of her eye.

  Falling out of love was a lot harder than falling in it.

  Chapter Five

  Elle made use of the surprisingly efficient, if compact, shower, then dried herself and slid into a flowered summer dress of unexceptional length. The welcome pack from Joseph Zammit at the Nicolas Centre had requested that volunteers dress in ‘everyday clothes, not too brief and not too expensive’.

  There were no signs of life from Lucas’s cabin. She breakfasted on cereal, yoghurt and chopped banana, sitting in the gardens, her hair spread over her shoulders to dry in the morning sun, watching people parking their cars along the marina access road and disappearing in the direction of the shops and other businesses. The occasional yachtie moved around on a boat. The gardens smelled of pine needles and, a little way off, a gardener was watering shrubs with a hose.

  Despite another unsatisfactory night’s sleep, Elle had woken with a feeling of serenity.

  Someone had once told her that the key to dealing with grief was acceptance. Well, during the wakeful hours she’d done some accepting.

  It was cruel that fate – or, rather, bloody nutcase Simon – had to bring her and Lucas back together in order for her to finally understand that there was to be no fairy-tale ending. She hadn’t quite got as far as being glad that Lucas had found someone he could be happy with. Maybe that would come later. But she had accepted it.

  Lucas had moved on.

  Having to share the boat with him was definitely making her fantastic new life a little less fantastic. She’d anticipated looking forward, living in a foreign land, transforming herself from wage slave to free spirit.

  Not looking backwards and wondering and reliving.

  ‘Get over it,’ she told herself aloud, scraping up the last of her yoghurt. ‘History’s not for changing.’ She’d throw herself into working at the Nicholas Centre and aboard Seadancer, and she’d spend her free time exploring the island, learning about its history and its treasures, or swimming in the beautiful Mediterranean. Later in the summer she’d decide what came next and hers and Lucas’s lifelines would uncross for the last time.

  She went back on board the Shady Lady to leave her dish and pick up her tiny, lightweight backpack, popping into it her purse, hat, sun cream and a bottle of water. And, because she’d been in IT rooms before, she added a pack of cable ties and a roll of sticky labels she’d brought with her from England.

  It was only eight-twenty when she went ashore, after flipping off the isolator switches, locking up the Shady Lady and dragging the gangplank back onto the shore with an effort.

  Joseph had said it would take her fifteen minutes to stroll to the Nicholas Centre. She fished out her street map, crossed the gardens and the road, then began up Triq San Gorg, her bag over one shoulder, the bottle of water cool against her through the fabric.

 
Once she’d left the shops behind, houses lined the road, all with flat roofs, many built of the pale honey-coloured local stone. She’d read that some thought the name Malta came from the Greek and Latin name for honey, Melita. Red geraniums and other plants nodded through balcony railings. Painted shutters stood open to the morning light either side of windows, some of which were protected by curving wrought ironwork.

  Around her, people went about their morning routines: beautiful brown-eyed children in school uniform, golden-skinned women with babies or wearing smart lightweight business suits, dark-haired men in short sleeved shirts, carrying their jackets and briefcases.

  She tried to catch the rhythms of the language she could hear over the traffic. It sounded almost like Arabic, full of rising notes and glottal stops.

  As she followed her map away from the sea, the houses became smaller and the pavement more uneven. The occasional doorstep protruded into her path, an ankle-rapping trap for the unwary. Lines of parked cars narrowed the way.

  After loitering to take a picture with her phone of a blaze of vermilion flowers climbing over a high wall and creeping along a telephone wire above the street, Elle eventually found herself in Triq Bonnard.

  The street was short and narrow and crowded with houses, some in disrepair. One had its windows boarded up with For Sale painted on the wood.

  Elle paced along the pavement looking for signs of life, wiping a sheen of sweat from her forehead. She’d been e-mailed a picture of the entrance to the Nicholas Centre, a tall wall with a green door set into it, but looked for it in vain. And there was no one around for her to ask. No car tried to navigate the narrow strip of road left by parked vehicles.

  At the top of the street, bemused by the absence of green doors set in tall walls, she prepared to make her way down the other side.

  Then a smiling man appeared from around a jink in the road. ‘Elle? I’m Joseph Zammit. I saw you through the lounge window.’

  Recognising the small, thickset man immediately from the Nicholas Centre website, Elle stuck out her hand in relief. ‘Joseph. I’m glad you found me, even if I couldn’t find you.’

  Joseph wore black-framed glasses and his hair was conventionally short. He was middle-aged, a little overweight, and socks showed at the toes of his sandals. ‘You turned away too soon.’ He ushered her a few steps further and she realised that what she’d assumed to be another street was actually a continuation of Triq Bonnard, and there was the green door in the wall standing ajar beside a small black plaque: ‘Ic-Ċentru Nicholas’ and, underneath, Nicholas Centre.

  It wasn’t a grand entrance, but it opened into a courtyard with a bench and a limestone fountain, although it wasn’t working. Tall windows and balustraded balconies made the building itself unexpectedly imposing.

  He led the way across the courtyard, up the steps to the double doors and into a hall with archways opening into other rooms. After the sun outside, the coolness was a relief.

  Joseph’s office was to the right. A desk was shoved against the wall under the weight of a heap of paperwork and a laptop. Several mismatched chairs faced one another untidily.

  From e-mails, Elle knew that Joseph’s mother was English, a retired teacher, and his late father had been a Maltese hotelier. He spoke perfect English, if with a Maltese rhythm and flow, but when his telephone rang he slid it out of his shirt pocket and answered in rapid Maltese.

  Elle took a seat while he located a piece of paper from the chaos of his desk, and then read something from it to the caller.

  After he ended the call, he apologised. ‘I spend too much time on the phone.’ He took one of the other seats, a green office chair with its sponge filling escaping, and his smile flashed. ‘Welcome to Malta.’

  All the joy and anticipation of the past weeks swooshed through Elle’s heart and she found herself beaming as volunteering began finally to transition from pipe dream to reality. ‘It’s fantastic to be here.’

  He inclined his head. ‘And welcome to Nicholas Centre. Some of our computers are old and cranky but I hope that you can get the best out of the equipment and encourage the youngsters to make the most of what we have.’

  ‘I’m sure I can.’

  ‘We have all kinds of young people attending the centre. Some use the gym, others play games, some keep up with Facebook. They come for company, because they’re bored or because their friends do. Some participate in workshops or want help with a project. Sometimes—’ He smiled. ‘Sometimes, you’ll find you have to step back from your expectations. People won’t turn up for a workshop or they’ll bring eight friends who haven’t signed up. They’ll leave halfway through, they’ll decide to play a game instead of completing a task. You should be aware.’

  ‘I understand. Will it be a problem that I just speak English? I’ve only learned a little Maltese.’

  ‘Sometimes,’ he said, honestly. ‘But English is one of our official languages. Lots of companies come to Malta because English is widely spoken. Lots of tourists, too. English is part of Maltese education.

  ‘I’ll show you around and introduce you to Maria. You don’t have your first structured session until Friday but you said that you have a programme of work to get through first?’

  Elle followed him across the hall. ‘I want to assess the equipment and see where improvements can be made.’

  The Nicolas Centre had once been quite grand. The rooms were large and lofty and wrought iron graced the outsides of the windows. Ornately moulded plasterwork on the ceilings was a recognisable remnant of splendour, though patched and pitted.

  But in the lounge, the furniture was worn and the walls scuffed. DVDs and CDs in tatty cases flanked television and music systems and a bookcase was jumbled with books and magazines.

  A notice board displayed photos of Joseph; his wife, Maria; and others – a sandy-haired man with freckles and a wide smile; a darker man with a thin, sensitive face; and a more mature woman. Under the sandy man’s picture it said, Oscar, from the Netherlands and beneath the thin man, Axel, from Germany. It was written in Maltese, also. The woman was, Aileen, from England (but a long time ago). Elle already knew that Aileen was Joseph’s mother, who came in to help, often in the computer room. She was great with written English but not a techie.

  Elle was touched to see her own photo: Welcome to Elle, from England, who will be looking after our internet cafe and running our IT sessions. After Lucas’s reaction, it was nice that someone was glad to see her.

  Down the passage, a games room held a pool table and two lads playing table tennis across a ragged net. It led into a gym room containing a cross trainer and a rowing machine, a mini rainbow of gym balls and a rack of weights. ‘Impressive.’

  ‘We were lucky. This equipment was donated.’ Joseph patted the cross trainer.

  Across the hall he showed her a small musty room filled with racks of clothes. ‘People donate what they no longer need, which Maria, in her housemother role, kindly washes. Some of the children welcome the clothes.’ Joseph grimaced. ‘But it sometimes seems that the more in need a child is, the less likely he or she is to accept. Even Maria cannot find a way to make a gift to some of our young visitors.

  ‘Let’s find Maria. Her first language is Maltese. Me, I speak English with a Maltese accent and Maltese with an English accent.’ He laughed.

  The kitchen held a refectory table, cupboards, counters, and a couple of smaller tables. They found Maria unpacking a box of fizzy drinks, her thick dark hair clipped up. A door to a small street stood open, letting in the air.

  ‘Welcome.’ Maria took Elle’s hands and kissed her on both cheeks. ‘We are pleased you are here, someone who understands the computers, because when they do not work …’ She pulled a comical face of frustration.

  Her English wasn’t quite as effortless as Joseph’s. Silver was beginning to shoot an occasional strand in
her hair, but her eyes were dark and sultry. Like Lucas’s.

  Elle shoved the thought away. ‘I know that feeling.’ She felt an instant liking for Maria. They hadn’t conversed via e-mail, as Elle and Joseph had, because Maria didn’t write English well enough to enjoy doing so, but her smile was warm.

  They left Maria unpacking and returned to the broad staircase, walled on either side.

  On the first floor was an activity room with tables and chairs, paintings on the walls and sewing in trays. ‘You’ll usually find Axel up here and Oscar down in the games room and gym, making a noise with the energetic children.’

  Joseph showed Elle where to find the clean but antiquated toilets. And then, with an air of ceremony, threw open double doors at the end of the landing. ‘The big salon. At first, I thought I would divide this room. But it’s useful for parties or carols at Christmas. Sometimes, entertainers will come. So the big salon remains big.’

  ‘Wow.’ Elle gazed down a room lined with windows at one side and two chandeliers dangling from the high ceiling. ‘The building is quite a place.’

  ‘It belonged to my Great Uncle Nicholas. He was a kind man and used to try to find little jobs for local children so they could earn pocket money.’ He smiled, reminiscently. ‘He had compassion. When he made me the beneficiary of his will, I decided to use the house in a way he would have liked.’

  ‘That’s beautiful,’ said Elle, softly.

  They retraced their steps along the landing to a door at the top of the staircase. ‘I’ve left the computer room till last. I don’t think you’ll say “wow” to it.’ He thrust open a door labelled: Internet Cafe. And, underneath: Ikel u xorb projbit. No food or drink.

  Inside were eight computers ranging from what Elle would have tossed away five or six years ago, with deep monitors and dingy mismatched keyboards, to one that might actually have come out of its box this year. Two printer/scanners squatted on a cupboard. The tables and desks were a motley selection, and wires were gaffer-taped to the carpet.