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wall table, one of the few pieces from the former stock that remained. I could see why, but my house is old, and it was quirky enough to fit in. ‘That,’ I told him. ‘I think I’ll have it.’
    He nodded, checked the price label, then took out a calculator and hit some numbers. ‘I can give you a twenty per cent discount that will take the price down to one hundred and forty euro,’ he announced.
    ‘Done.’ I handed him my credit card.
    ‘Do you want it delivered, Senora Blackstone?’ he asked, as he entered the details into his reader, and handed it to me, to insert my pin.
    ‘No, my Jeep’s parked just outside; it’ll fit on the platform.’
    ‘I’ll carry it out for you . . .’ he paused, ‘. . . once we’ve discussed the other reason for your visit.’
    So much for oblique, but I played it cute. ‘Oh yes?’
    ‘Justine told my wife about your call into her office, and about the problem that you and Ben have with his wine fair. You’ve come to ask me if I can twist my father’s arm and get him to relent.’
    ‘And to buy a very nice table, but yes, you’re right.’
    ‘I can cancel the sale if you like, for I’m not going to be able to help. My father and I haven’t spoken in over a year. He has never been in our house.’
    I looked around. ‘But you manage his business.’
    Angel shook his head. ‘No. It’s my business now, to my dad’s great regret.’
    ‘Does your father like anyone?’
    He chuckled. ‘Good question. Not really.’
    ‘Then why does he keep on getting elected to the council?’
    ‘Because he stands for certain values that he shares with the majority of older Catalans . . . and maybe not only Catalans, maybe most Spanish people of his age. He was anti-Franco in his time, in his suppression of our identity, but he was right-wing nonetheless. He’s against the European Union, against NATO, and against immigration. Foreign residents are anathema to him, just as most of his views are anathema to me.’ He grinned. ‘He’d never have given you the discount that locally born customers have always received. But he’s not a fascist, and he’s not a racist; he’s a monarchist to the end, and he employs a Moroccan couple as his gardener and housekeeper.’ The grin became a quick chuckle. ‘OK, it’s because they’re cheap, but I know people who’d repatriate them all.’
    ‘You sound fond of him.’
    ‘He’s my father. I am.’
    ‘But you don’t speak.’
    ‘His choice. When Elena and Ben broke up and we got back together, he was furious. He told me that she was soiled, damaged goods. I laughed in his face. When I told him we were getting married, he exploded. He said he’d disinherit me; tried to throw me out of this shop. I told him, “You’re too late, old man. You’ve already made this business and the property over to me.” He said, in that case he’d never set foot in it again, and walked out. He’s been as good as his word.’
    ‘Yet he went to your wedding.’
    ‘How did you know that?’
    ‘Father Gerard told me.’
    ‘Ah,’ Angel murmured. ‘But Gerard probably doesn’t know that it was his boss, the old priest, who insisted that he go. He told him that L’Escala would never trust a man who would boycott his own son’s wedding Mass. Papa’s very proud of his position in the town; it’s the only thing anyone could threaten him with.’
    ‘Then maybe I will.’
    ‘It won’t work. His voters don’t care about an Englishman holding a wine fair in St Martí, or anywhere else. They’d support Papa if they knew what he was doing.’
    ‘So you won’t speak to him about this?’
    ‘It would only make him more resolved. Let me tell you something else about our wedding, something nobody knows. As I understand it, in Britain the custom is for the bride’s father to pay for the wedding feast. We don’t do that; here each family invites and pays for their own guests, and so do the couple. My father didn’t invite anybody. So Elena and I