Relatively Dangerous by Roderic Jeffries Page A

His work permit had just been refused. True, his lawyer said that they’d probably win the appeal, but there was bound to be delay. And unless they opened soon, they’d miss the main season which was when any tourist-based business had to make enough profit to last through the rest of the year. He looked through the nearest window at the bay. That view was worth a fortune. Diners with any souls would sit outside, in the shade of the palm trees, staring at so much beauty that they’d never notice whether the meat was tough—what meat in Mallorca wasn’t?—and would feel impelled to order another bottle of wine . . .
    ‘Well, is the maitre d’ satisfied?’
    He turned to face Helen as she stood in the doorway of the kitchen. ‘If you’re interested, I’m thinking of committing suicide.’
    ‘If you come to a decision, do it outside; so much easier to clean up the mess.’
    ‘I’d die much happier if I knew I’d died a bloody nuisance.’
    She left the doorway, went behind the bar, put her hands round the back of his neck and brought his head forward so that she could kiss him. ‘What total disaster has occurred this time?’
    ‘That call was from Ferrer. They’ve refused the work permit.’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Bloody yes.’
    ‘Oh well, I suppose we shouldn’t have expected it to go through first time. Stop worrying. Pablo will sort it all out.’
    ‘Why are you always revoltingly optimistic?’
    ‘It makes life more fun.’
    ‘I suppose you do realize that if we don’t get a work permit . . .’
    ‘Relax. We will. I’ve complete faith in Pablo.’
    ‘I don’t suppose you know how he feels about you?’
    ‘Someone told me that his nickname’s Don Juan.’
    ‘If he ever dares make a move in your direction, his nickname will become Dona Juana.’
    She chuckled as she unclasped her hands and stepped back. ‘I’ve nearly finished. When did the builders promise faithfully on the pain of excommunication to start work?’
    ‘Yesterday.’
    ‘Then there’s just a chance, I suppose, they’ll turn up tomorrow . . . As soon as I have finished, let’s go for a swim?’
    ‘Slacking?’
    ‘That’s right,’ she said, happy to see that his black mood was beginning to lift.
    He watched her return into the kitchen, lit a cigarette. A year ago he’d been bumming around the world, weighed down by the chip on his shoulder. In the tiny fishing village of Amozgat, in the south-west corner of Turkey, he’d fallen ill with some kind of intestinal infection so severe that he’d become convinced he was dying; a conviction which the villagers had obviously shared and which equally obviously had not caused them any concern beyond the problems that his death might raise vis-a-vis the authorities. On the third day, when death would have been welcome, Helen had appeared in the squalid, stinking room and had nursed him with a devotion which was extraordinary since they were strangers, she was not a trained nurse, and the side effects of his illness were highly unpleasant. Later, he’d learned that her presence in the village had been pure chance. She’d been travelling a hundred miles to the north, had stopped at a cafe for coffee, and had heard one of the other customers mention the name Amozgat. For some reason, still completely inexplicable, she had been overwhelmed by the certainty that she must visit this place whose name she had only just heard . . . But for that, he might have died and she would in all probability have returned to the man from whom she’d fled two months before . . .
    All right, so fate moved in mysterious ways. But why in hell had it moved to turn down his work permit?
    She returned to the restaurant. ‘Let’s go.’
    They went out by the kitchen door, walked round the building, past the patio and the palm trees, across the road, and on to the sand. She took off her T-shirt and shorts to reveal a bikini; he was wearing trunks.
    He was a much stronger swimmer than she and while she stayed