Dancing in the Shadows by Anne Saunders

wandered out to the patio overlooking the swimming pool. A maid, older than her own Teresa, but with the same dark eyes and shy demeanour, appeared to ask her if she would like her breakfast served on the patio.
    â€˜Is it usual?’ said Dorcas, before she noticed the table there for apparently just that purpose, complete with the remains of somebody’s breakfast which had not yet been cleared away.
    â€˜
Sí
, señorita—’ Stacking the pretty breakfast service with painstaking care ‘—The young señor prefers to take his breakfast on the patio.’
    Dorcas touched a coffee pot that was still warm to the fingers. ‘I suppose don Carlos has left for work?’
    â€˜
Sí,
señorita.’ The maid added the coffee pot to the things on the tray. ‘I will bring the señorita’s breakfast at once. Has the señorita any preference?’
    â€˜No. How are you called?’
    â€˜Brigida, señorita’
    â€˜Then, Brigida, just bring me fruit juice, rolls and preserve—any kind. Oh, and coffee please.’
    â€˜
Sí
, señorita.’ Brigida’s taut features warmed into a shy smile. She returned with Dorcas’s breakfast in express time.
    As Dorcas ate the flaky, crusty rolls to the aroma of perfect coffee, she felt deliciously lazy, pleasantly unrushed. She couldn’t help comparing this feeling of relaxed content with her past rushed existence.
    About this time she would have been staring at some ghastly patterned wallpaper, choking down toast, in all probability after its burnt edges had been scraped in the kitchen sink because she didn’t seem to have the knack of choosing landladies who could achieve even an elementary stage of cooking. And then, after gulping down a cup of weak coffee, or worse—stewed tea—she would dash off to a day dedicated to strenuous dance routines. She wondered if it was wicked of her not to regret overmuch what had happened.
    The dancing that had been her very life, and which she thought would always be her first passion, was already fading into insignificance. She dare not admit to herself that Carlos was responsible for this.
    â€˜You’ve had breakfast?’
    Dorcas looked up to see the slight elevation of Rose Ruiz’s exquisitely shaped eyebrows.
    Dorcas said she had.
    â€˜A second cup of coffee, perhaps? To keep me company?’
    â€˜It will be my third,’ said Dorcas in acceptance.
    Brigida brought a fresh pot of coffee. Rose Ruiz poured out two cups, placing one in front of Dorcas.
    Dorcas lifted her cup as a child might, hoping her fingers would not disgrace her. Charming as her hostess was, there was still that something indefinable in her manner that made Dorcas feel nervous.
    Yet no eyes could have been kinder as their owner enquired: ‘Did you sleep well?’
    â€˜I had a wonderful night’s sleep, thank you. And I love the room you have given me.’
    â€˜I am so pleased. And Teresa? Do you find her compatible?’
    â€˜Oh yes! Teresa and I are friends already. I feel spoilt having her. You must know I’m not used to having my own personal maid.’
    â€˜A little spoiling does nobody any harm. You are a natural target for a bit of cosseting. You have a charming lack of avarice that makes giving a pleasure. It isn’t in your nature to covet what is someone else’s.’
    Dorcas had the feeling that this was not idle flattery. The sweet talk was leading up to something specific, something less sweet. Irrelevantly she noticed that Rose Ruiz’s lipstick and nail varnish were the same pearly shade. It made her want to fold her own unvarnished nails into the palms of her hands. When she looked they were already there.
    â€˜If there is anything you want, Dorcas, don’t hesitate to ask. Try to look upon this as your home, if you can. Make free use of any of the rooms. If you’re a reader, you’ll find a fair selection of books