Don Joaquin's Pride

Freshening up had tired her out again. She walked slowly over to the bedroom windows. There she froze in her tracks, for the view beyond those windows made her head swim afresh. She clutched at the tassel-edged curtain to steady herself, shut her eyes and opened them again, but still that breathtaking vision of steep, lush forested green slopes and wildly colourful tropical vegetation confronted her stunned gaze. She could hear but only now recognise the cries of exotic birds which had become eerily familiar during her illness. Surely such a fantastic and exotic landscape could not exist close to Fidelio Paez’s little stucco retirement home? Where on earth was she?

‘Welcome to the most boring place on earth…’ A female voice murmured drily from behind her.

Startled, Lucy spun round so fast she staggered slightly. A tall stunning brunette with smooth black hair and a perfect oval face was studying her from the far side of the room. Her short strappy silver dress and her jewelled choker exuded designer chic and sophistication.

‘Hacienda de Oro…literally the House of Gold. The conservationist’s paradise, the archaeologist’s dream destination…but the It Girl’s living death,’ the self-possessed brunette completed, with a dissatisfied twist of her sultry mouth.

‘The It Girl’s living death…?’ Lucy repeated weakly, not quite sure she had heard her correctly.

‘I’m Yolanda Del Castillo, Joaquin’s sister. Surely you know what an It Girl is?’

Lucy nodded, but only slowly. She had read about the cult of the new It Girls in newspapers. Young, rich, high society British women, who were wildly popular with the media. They partied from dawn to dusk, wore fabulous clothes and dated only the most newsworthy men. Such an existence was so far removed from Lucy’s own that she just stared at Yolanda Del Castillo, who undeniably seemed to possess all the attributes it took to be an It Girl, continually photographed, pursued and envied. Even in daylight, it seemed, Yolanda dressed as if she was about to go to a party.

‘You speak wonderful English,’ Lucy remarked, awkward in the presence of such exoticism.

Yolanda uttered a rueful groan. ‘Where do you think I was educated?’

Most probably in a British school, Lucy gathered, feeling foolish.

‘Where is this house?’ Lucy pressed.

‘You’re still in the Petén, just a different part of it.’

‘So how did I get here?’ Lucy asked.

‘Joaquin had you airlifted in.’

‘Airlifted?’ Lucy interrupted helplessly. ‘Who are you people?’

‘You really don’t know, do you?’ Yolanda rolled her dark eyes in dramatic disbelief, momentarily looking much younger than the twenty-two or twenty-three which Lucy had estimated her to be. She threw the bedroom door wide again. ‘Hang on a minute—’

‘Yolanda…is there a phone I could use?’ Lucy hastened to ask, before Joaquin’s sister could disappear again.

Yolanda’s attention shifted to the vacant spot by the bed. She frowned in surprise. ‘Well, I don’t see why you shouldn’t have a phone!’ she remarked with instant sympathy. ‘You may be a con-artist, but for Joaquin to have the phone removed is total sensory deprivation! I couldn’t exist for five minutes without a phone!’

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