I watch and listen to her, enthralled. She is passionate and eloquent, painting a vivid picture of her country and her home. She tells me Albania is a special place where family is at the center of everything. It’s an ancient country, influenced over the centuries by several cultures with differing ideologies. She explains that it’s both Western and Eastern-facing, but more and more her country looks to Europe for inspiration. She’s proud of her hometown. Kukës is a small place in the north near the border with Kosovo, and she enthuses about its spectacular lakes, rivers, and gorges, but most of all the mountains that surround it. She comes alive talking about the landscape, and it’s clear this is what she misses about her homeland.
“And that is why I like it here,” she says. “From what I have seen, the landscape in Cornwall is also beautiful.”
We are interrupted by Megan and fish pie. Megan plunks the plates down on the table and leaves without a word. Her face is sour, but the fish pie is warming and delicious, and there’s no sign that anyone spat in it.
“What does your father do?” I ask cautiously.
“He has a garage.”
“Does he sell petrol?”
“No. He fixes cars. Tires. Mechanical things.”
“And your mother?”
“She is at home.”
I want to ask Alessia why she left Albania, but I know it will remind her of her harrowing journey to the UK.
“And what did you do in Kukës?”
“Well, I was studying, but my university closed, and so sometimes I work in a school with the little children. And sometimes I play the piano….” Her voice tails off, and I don’t know if it’s because she’s feeling nostalgic or if it’s for another reason. “Tell me about your work.” It’s clear she wants to change the subject, and because I don’t want to tell her what I do yet, I fill her in on my DJing career.
“And I’ve done a couple of summers in San Antonio in Ibiza. Now, that’s a real party place.”
“This is why you have so many records?”
“Yes,” I answer.
“And what is your favorite music?”
“All music. I don’t have a favorite genre. What about you? How old were you when you started playing?”
“I was four.”
Wow. Early.
“Did you study music? I mean, music theory?”
“No.”
That’s even more impressive.
It’s gratifying to see Alessia eat. Her cheeks are rosy, her eyes aglow, and I suspect that after two beers she’s a little tipsy.
“Would you like anything else?” I ask.
She shakes her head.
“Let’s go.”
It’s Jago who brings over our bill. I suspect Megan has refused or she’s on a break. I settle up and take Alessia’s hand as we leave the pub.
“I just want to make a quick detour to the shop,” I say.
“Okay.” Alessia’s lopsided smile makes me grin.
The shops in Trevethick are owned by the estate and leased to the locals. They do good business from Easter right through to the New Year. The only one that’s actually useful is the general store. We’re miles from the nearest big town, and it carries a huge range of items. A dulcet bell rings as we enter.
“If there’s anything you need, let me know,” I tell Alessia, who is looking at the magazine display, swaying slightly. I head to the counter.
“Can I help you?” asks the sales assistant, a tall young woman I don’t recognize.
“Do you stock night-lights? For kids?”
She leaves the counter and searches the shelves in a nearby aisle. “These are the only night-lights we have.” She holds up a box with a small plastic dragon inside.
“I’ll take one.”
“It’ll need batteries,” the assistant informs me.
“I’ll take batteries, too.”
She takes the package and returns to the counter, where I spy condoms.
Well, I might get lucky.
I glance around at Alessia, who is leafing through one of the magazines.
“I’ll have a packet of condoms, too.”
The young woman blushes, and I’m glad I don’t know her.
“Which w
ould you prefer?” she asks.
“Those.” I point to my brand of choice. Hastily she puts the packet into a plastic bag with the night-light.
Once I’ve paid, I join Alessia at the front of the shop, where she’s now checking out the small display of lipsticks.
“Is there anything you want?” I ask.
“No. Thank you.”
Her refusal doesn’t surprise me. I’ve never seen her wear makeup.
“Shall we go?”
She takes my hand, and we walk back to the lane.
“What is that place?” Alessia points at a distant chimney only partly visible as we walk up the lane toward the old mine. I know it, of course; it stands atop of the west wing of the great house that is Tresyllian Hall. My ancestral home.
Bugger.
“That place? It belongs to the Earl of Trevethick.”
“Oh.” Her brow creases for a moment, and we continue on in silence while I wage an inner war with myself.
Tell her you’re the fucking Earl of Trevethick.
No.
Why not?
I will. Not yet.
Why not?
I want her to know me first.
Know you?
Spend time with me.
“Can we go down to the beach again?” Alessia’s eyes are alight with excitement once more.
“Of course.”
* * *
Alessia is entranced by the sea. She runs with the same uninhibited joy into the shallow surf. The Wellingtons keep her feet dry from the crashing waves.
She is…effervescent.
Mister Maxim has given her the sea.
Overcome with giddy delight, she closes her eyes, stretches out her arms, and breathes in the chilly, salted air. She can’t remember ever feeling this…full. For the first time in a long time, she’s enjoying a small slice of happiness. She has a keen sense of connection to the cold, wild landscape that somehow reminds her of her homeland.
She feels like she belongs.
She is complete.
Turning around, she regards Maxim as he stands on the shoreline with his hands deep in his coat pockets, watching her. The wind ripples his hair, the traces of gold glinting in the sun. His eyes are full of mirth and shine a burning emerald green.