Virginity Despoiled: The Corruption Series, #3

By Charles Brett

Enrique and Lili, the latter a Canadian ex‐banker, produce premium Extra Virgin Olive Oil in southern Spain´s resplendent olive region of Úbeda. They barely survive in a ferocious, competitive and corrupt market.

Oleg and Andrei muddle through on illegally earned funds in Estonia. They hatch an extraordinary plot to become rich. Their aim is to ruin one‐third of the global olive harvest, that grown in Spain. Their ally: the olive fruit fly.

Ana and Inma are cousins and business partners in Madrid. They find themselves embroiled in Enrique and Lili´s struggles while wrestling with their own dilemmas. Should Ana accept an inheritance tainted by the Spanish Civil War? Will Lili resolve an uncertain sexuality.

Once the flies strike, the question becomes: who will emerge with a future?

[This is the third in the Corruption Series of novels. It involves food crime in Spain and Estonia]
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: C3B Consultng Ltd
• Release date: Jul 10, 2017
• ISBN: 9781534796287

Book preview

Virginity Despoiled

(The Corruption Series, #3)

Charles Brett

ISBN-13: 978-1534796287

ISBN-10: 1534796282

© 2016 Charles C C Brett

This novel is a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed within are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is entirely coincidental.

First published in 2016

By

C3B Consulting Ltd

registered at:

School House, St Philip's Court, Church Hill,

Coleshill, Birmingham, B46 3AD, UK.

All rights reserved © 2016 Charles C C Brett

The right of Charles Brett to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. This book is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

www.charlesbrett.net

To Lourdes

Who has helped with, and supported the writing of, all my novels, tolerated my eccentricities and learnt to appreciate the very best quality olive oil, albeit after initial doubts about my sanity.

My thanks for help with this novel go to Eric Olverson, Salvador Ortega, Carolyn Baurle, Graham Hutton, Ian Murphy and Rob Harris for being willing to read early versions and offer valuable feedback.

In addition, I thank Graham and Amanda Hutton for inviting me to discover the joys of olive picking in the wonderful La Tocella, as well as Eugenio and Louise Grippo for showing me how to turn those olives into olive oil on their Umbria hill top estate and, in so doing, producing a wonderful oil, alas long since consumed. Both were experiences not to be missed.

Rob Harris, with his deep knowledge, corrected my mistakes and clarified about the best olive oils and their production.

Nevertheless, all flaws, oddities and errors are of my own making.

Charles Brett

Madrid and Nicosia, 2016

Prologue

Spring

Andalucía, Southern Spain

By midday the Andaluz spring sun warms both air and soil. With the temperature rising, buds emerge on olive trees as they reawaken from their long winter lethargy. Within days those buds develop. Some will provide the shoots that grow into branches to provide the base for future buds. Others will become blossom before developing the first signs of the fruit that, months later, will yield olives to eat, oil for cooking, oil to enhance the taste of food as well as to provide light, soap to clean, perfume to smell, even leaves to steep as tea. This is the marvel of the olive tree's natural cycle.

Nature collaborated this year, cooperating to pull plant progress forward. A whole week of rain drenched trees and soaked the earth, augmenting each tree's normally-scarce water reserves. Subsequent weeks brought occasional rain showers, delighting each tree's owner. Compared to two years earlier, when acute drought meant tiny olives producing tiny quantities of oil, this year those who cultivated olives salivated at the promise of a rich crop.

With each passing day the prospect of a good, then abundant, then excellent, then extravagant harvest grew. Such profusion cheered all who worked in the olive groves. They smiled to each other as they laboured.

They laughed in the bars after work. Exuberance was in the air, if always accompanied by that mournful streak of anxiety common to those who work the land – the fear that Mother Nature will devastate without notice. Whether an unexpected chill, a cascade of hailstones, gale driven winds or prolonged aridity, each can wreak huge damage to delicate fruit in hours.

These were good weeks. Harvest preparation was undertaken with enthusiasm. The grinding heat of two years earlier was moderated by those irregular showers and their clouds. The powers-that-be, from Comarca to Provincia to Ministerio to Brussels itself, pontificated by using ever more effervescent statistics to forecast record-beating production levels, albeit always accompanied by the caveat 'if the weather cooperates'.

Meanwhile, in olives from the previous year, an ever-feared menace lurked. Inside these forsaken fruit all was not peaceful. The late spring warmth inspired last year's olive fruit fly eggs to hatch. These became larvae. The larvae fed on their host, unseen. Successful larvae pupated in hollow areas beneath each infected olive's outer skin. Pupae became adults before, as adult flies, they broke out from the confines of their personal olive nurseries.

The flies buzzed. They flew. Males sought females and, as the sun set, they mated. With consummation this year's first generation of female flies sought out the fresh, new olives now developing in profusion on the trees. Perhaps ten times a day, over several days, each female deposited eggs, one egg in one olive at a time.

This is how natural olive fruit fly infestations commence. At first all goes unnoticed, lost in the sheer profusion of trees and olives. With so much fruit available this year's Bactrocera oleae, the olive fruit fly, was in its equivalent of pest heaven.

A month later, the second generation matured and bred. A month after that came the third generation. The multiplication factor was massive.

At last the olive tree owners of Jaén in Andalucía took notice. Within days their earlier good cheer, previously stoked by the benign weather and a total absence of Mother Nature's other threats, had disappeared. Disaster beckoned.

Chapter One

Three years earlier

Friday: Tallinn (Estonia)

Oleg ambled through the Old Town Square in Tallinn. He gathered his thoughts about what to say at dinner. As he threaded through the city's inevitable late season tourists his ruminations were all too often disrupted by over-zealous celebrants, most notably ridiculous British ones draped in fancy dress and out to enjoy stag or hen nights. Why anyone would want to go to Estonia for the purpose of becoming blind-drunk before getting married was beyond his imagination, even if it did conjure up hints of his Russian ancestry.

From Harju he made his way into Rüütli and onto the Georgia Tavern. He hesitated before entering. Why had Andrei chosen a Georgian restaurant? While Oleg liked Georgian food, he disliked Georgians, and Armenians for that matter. Only Chechens and Azerbaijani were worse because neither were Christian. Most Georgians and Armenians were Orthodox, rather than being dirty Muslims. He wished that most famous of all Georgians, Iosif Vissarionovich Dzhugashvili, Stalin, was still around. He knew how to crush pests.

On the way up the Tavern's steep steps he recalled Ivan's reasoning for preferring this to the Tchaikovsky, the excellent Russian restaurant in the old Post and Telegraaf building, which was now an expensive hotel. Part of the Georgia Tavern's seating lay on a raised platform set above the main dining floor. The three or four tables were invisible to those downstairs.

This was pertinent. The conversation tonight would be one where he did not want to be associated with Andrei. Too many questions might arise.

Oleg gave Andrei's name. The Maître D', a grandiose title for someone who introduced himself as an Armenian, showed him to the stairs and explained the one remaining table there was reserved for Mr Andrei and his three guests. Oleg started. Had Andrei invited others? He hoped not. What he wanted to discuss was for no one's ears other than Andrei's.

He examined those at the tables nearby. One possessed a party of eight loud-dressed and even louder-voiced American ladies, judging by their accents. They were not in the first flush of youth, or sobriety. Excellent: they'd take no notice of anyone and the noise they made would hide almost everything. At the other table sat a couple of earnest Scandinavian businessmen. At odd moments he overheard what sounded like Finnish. They too shouldn't be a problem.

Andrei was, as so often, late. As Oleg waited he retraced his and Andrei's first encounters. They had both attended the training academy for what was to have been the KGB (had Gorbachev not given the USSR away) and what became the FSB under Putin. At the academy Andrei and he detested each other. Few were surprised when, just before graduating, Andrei had disappeared, ejected. To their class Andrei had been a loud-mouthed bore possessing the sensitivity of an elephant crushing an ant. Ironically, his name, with its Prince Andrei associations from Anna Karenina, was too delicate for a man mountain resembling an imperfect combination of a barrel and a tank with no obvious neck. Andrei had been born in the wrong era. He would have made an ideal enforcer under Stalin, exuding the aura of mindless brutality that intimidated on sight.

For more than twenty years Oleg and Andrei hadn't met. Out of the blue Oleg saw Andrei in Narva, the Russian-dominated town lying just inside Estonia's eastern border. Both had been climbing onto the slow train from Narva to Tallinn. When Oleg recognised him he had hoped Andrei hadn't seen him or, if so, he did not remember.

On purpose Oleg chose a different carriage. For Oleg the next three hours on the slow train, more like a 1950s' bus on rails, were interminable.

Not before time the train slid into Tallinn's main station. Oleg held back to afford Andrei every opportunity to make his exit. Oleg remembered how he'd helped a pensioner with her luggage. By being courteous, chatting and escorting her to a taxi, he bought himself additional time.

After her taxi had departed he waved down another. It moved forward. When it stopped he climbed in, finding it already occupied – by Andrei. Unless he opened the door and dived out escape was impossible.

By the time he'd worked this out this option was too dangerous to attempt with the Estonian driver speeding across town to the Palace Hotel located opposite the obscenely-named Freedom Square. As always, Oleg questioned why Yeltsin, in January 1991, had recognised Estonia's independence at the moment when Soviet tanks were trundling into Latvia and Lithuania. Those tanks could have been in Tallinn. For Oleg, Gorbachev and Yeltsin spelt the USSR's death knell. They were its poisoners making him, like so many others, a loser.

Andrei paid the taxi driver. Rather than enter the Hotel, without uttering a word, he beckoned to Oleg. In silence they walked along Pärnu Maantee before Andrei dived into some form of disco bar. Inside the staff greeted him with enthusiasm. With a wave of the hand Andrei introduced 'my friend Oleg' in bad Estonian before taking over the only empty table.

Oleg's apprehension had become fascination. That evening proved to be a life changer. Tonight he hoped he might recreate an equivalent or superior opportunity to benefit them both. Oleg frowned. Would Andrei appreciate the elegance of all he was about to propose?

Friday: Tallinn

Andrei disembarked from the black Land Cruiser, his preferred transport. Although unrefined, it was tough and capable of driving on Russian or Estonian country roads or tracks, and large enough to accommodate his bulk. This wasn't true of the fancier BMWs or Mercedes he would have preferred.

With casual abandon he parked the Land Cruiser where it was forbidden, confident the worst he could receive was a parking ticket, which he would ignore. One advantage of big, automatic four-wheel drive SUVs like the Land Cruiser is they are as mobile as a lump of mechanical concrete when you don't have the key. Most traffic police were aware of this and gave up before summoning a tow-truck.

Andrei paused before the steep steps up to the Georgia Tavern, like Oleg had earlier. In truth he remained surprised by Oleg's phone call. Although they'd worked together on a few occasions, to mutual if illegal profit, they'd only become friends of a sort. Oleg was not one who often took the initiative.

Oleg's caution surprised Andrei. Oleg was clever. He had been born with the sort of devious mind able to plan ahead and envisage multiple, parallel scenarios – along with all their possible outcomes. If his ideas lacked raw immediacy they were ingenious, though sometimes over-elaborate. In contrast Andrei acted more on instinct. They'd never found anything major to do in combination thus far. This was a pity. Combining their strengths promised to release an as yet unrealised potential.

One small aspect, however, bothered Andrei. Oleg had been a star at the academy. He'd worked for the KGB until its more able people transitioned into the FSB. But something had happened, curtailing Oleg's career. Oleg wouldn't discuss this. Whatever it was Oleg had been suspended before being cast out. No amount of discreet questioning by Andrei had ever furnished an explanation. The cause remained a mystery, which left Andrei uncomfortable. He needed to understand the weaknesses of those he worked with. This gave him his edge.

Irrespective, he enjoyed Oleg's company. He possessed originality, a freshness of imagination, which Andrei knew he himself lacked. He didn't resent this. Rather he wanted to harness it to their advantage.

Inside the restaurant he strode straight to the stairs, nodding at the Maître D' in passing. At the top he observed a restless Oleg. Andrei's mouth curved. Oleg hated lateness, in himself as much as others. On this topic Oleg never contained his criticism. Andrei expected to be reproached, even lambasted, at some point during dinner. The question was when, not if.

Andrei made himself comfortable opposite Oleg. He waved airily.

Don't worry about the other two places. I booked for four so we'd have space around us as well as privacy. We'll just tell them our other guests couldn't make it.

He smirked at Oleg's mix of relief and annoyance for not anticipating Andrei's tactic. They inspected each other. Oleg saw the usual Andrei, shaven head sitting above a black turtleneck sweater and black trousers, smart if cask-shaped. Somehow Andrei always looked good in his unicolour outfits. To Andrei, Oleg was the opposite – a badly-dressed beanpole. The suit was expensive, the matching tie more so. Nevertheless, the impression was nondescript. Oleg was one of those people who bought good clothes and rendered them formless. The irony was, as Andrei knew, Oleg obsessed about his fitness. Oleg ran marathons for light entertainment, even competing in the occasional 100K race. This accounted for his stringy physique even if it didn't explain how he deformed his well-cut wardrobe.

Andrei had already decided he would not beat about the bush. It wasn't his style.

So why did you want to meet? And why Tallinn rather than Narva or St Petersburg?

Within Andrei delighted as Oleg winced. Andrei had grasped long before now that Oleg hated Leningrad's original name. He remained stuck in a Soviet-shaped past and had yet to catch up with the real world.

Friday: Tallinn

Just as Andrei assessed him, so Oleg did the same. It was habit to check for signs of nervousness or something unexplained. Oleg concluded Andrei appeared normal – for Andrei.

What do you know about liquid gold?

Liquid gold? Is it a new drink? Have you given up being teetotal?

Before Oleg could reply their waiter arrived with menus. Andrei batted them away.

Bring one each of all your starters, with your Georgian bread, a bottle of your best Saperavi and a litre of fizzy water.

The waiter attempted to suggest alternatives. The order seemed so improbable. Andrei growled at him. It wasn't reassuring.

No. Please listen. I meant what I said. I repeat: one each of all the starters.

Andrei swivelled, away from the waiter and back to Oleg.

I hope you don't mind. The starters are excellent, often much better than the main courses, though these can be good. I suggest we experiment, ignoring those we don't like.

He shooed the waiter away.

So what is this liquid gold you refer to?

Think of something practical, manufactured in many ways for many purposes over many centuries and naturally occurring. Something for which some people will pay up to 300 dollars a litre and attracts financial subsidies.

The only two possibilities I can think of are oil and gold itself. I've heard of oil being called liquid gold. But that doesn't make much sense unless you've inherited an oil field, which seems improbable given that our past colleague Mr Putin, or the Arabs or the lunatic Chavez, have gathered most of these to themselves or their friends. Also, oil attracts taxes, not subsidies. As for literal liquid gold? That makes even less sense. Why would anyone want molten gold?

Andrei paused. Oleg's face creased in amusement, revealing a predatory aspect.

Interesting, observed Andrei to himself. Oleg must have a very particular idea clamped between his teeth.

You're in the wrong arena. Focus on the 'natural'.

Come on, Oleg. Stop being a prick-tease. That's my speciality. Tell me.

Oleg suppressed his disappointment. He'd hoped to string Andrei along for a good few minutes but he recognised imminent waves of unsympathetic impatience about to emanate from Andrei. This wasn't the time to irritate his potential partner.

Olives.

Olives? Are you crazy? What do olives have to do with liquid gold?

More accurately, olive trees and olives. These were and are the source of liquid gold. Olive oil, no less.

Wait a minute. Andrei's brow furrowed. Are you suggesting people exist who'll pay the equivalent of several hundred dollars for a litre of olive oil? No one's that mad. It only costs five to seven euros for an imported litre in a supermarket in Tallinn, which is not renowned for its olive groves. Around the Mediterranean it's even less. I've seen it selling for two to three euros a litre in Spain and Greece.

Americans will pay stupendous amounts for what they think is the best Extra Virgin Olive Oil. They buy it labelled as coming from Italy even though the best Italian Extra Virgin Olive Oil may contain up to 49 per cent originating elsewhere, from Spain or Crete or even Tunisia.

You're joking? ... Aren't you?

No. What's more, this liquid gold offers you and me the potential to establish our fortunes, literally and figuratively. But I'll warn you from the start, we'll need patience. My plan is not one that'll deliver in a month or even a couple of years. If we channel our impatience we'll pull off an invisible insurance coup, corner a valuable market for a short period and transfer to ourselves tens, if not many tens, of millions of clean, laundered euros. All this for an investment of perhaps two to four million between us over a three-year period. I might even be underestimating what we might make.

You intrigue. But you'll need to convince me. I do still have the odd dirty million that requires cleansing. Do I assume you have the same?

Exactly. Assuming all works, we'll convert those dirty millions and multiply them by ten, twenty, or more into clean ones.

It sounds too good to be true.

I agree. It was my own first reaction. Then I started to dig.

Andrei raised an eyebrow. Oleg continued, describing how he'd found an industry corrupt for centuries, one going back to the Romans and before. He explained how the olive tree is possibly the most productive plant imaginable – tough, able to survive treacherous conditions from snow to high heat, and with minimal water. Once mature an olive tree produces for centuries. From the pressings of its olives come different grades of eating oil, beauty products as diverse as soap, salves and perfumes as well as remnant oil for lighting. Oleg finished by explaining that even when an olive tree dies it has value either as firewood burning hot and slow or in the form of artisan products.

To add to its attractions the modern olive industry attracts subsidies. It has done so for generations. In Spain, Franco poured money into planting trees. Later the European Union followed his example, in Italy, Spain, Greece and other countries, executed in the name of employment creation in impoverished rural areas. But the sweetest spot is Extra Virgin Olive Oil, which, as a defined concept, is as slippery as its composition.

I don't understand.

You may not believe it, Andrei, but Extra Virgin Olive Oil possesses a fantastically vague, almost negative definition. Summarised, Virgin Olive Oil has to be produced by mechanical means with no chemical treatments. Extra Virgin Olive Oil goes further and must contain no more than 0.8 per cent free acidity, have an average defect level of less than 3.5 on a scale of 10 with a fruit value of greater than 0, be judged to have a superior taste and no defined sensory defects.

Are you having me on? That sounds ridiculous. Surely something more explicit must exist, like for champagne or other wines?

No. That's our opportunity. We're going to make our millions from Extra Virgin Olive Oil, if you agree to participate. But we're not going to be mere olive oil salesmen like the Mafia. We will be far more sophisticated in order to reap, in one staggering move, far greater and hidden rewards.

Do Americans really pay up to hundreds of dollars per litre?

Yes, though without realising it. Some buy quarter-litre bottles costing seventy-five dollars or more.

So what do I contribute?

Chapter Two

Winter

Friday: Madrid

Lili felt shattered. The flight from San Francisco to London had consumed its usual ten-plus long hours. Marooned in an economy aisle seat, because business class was full, she'd slept off and on, not aided by the nice little boy in the middle seat between her and his mother. Both of them had needed the bathroom during the flight, interrupting whatever sleep Lili had earned.

Heathrow was its usual crowded mess. Although tempted by a shower she had foregone that pleasure in favour of a decent meal. Her imperative was to re-establish her body clock onto European time. All too soon she had re-entered her next plane, for Madrid.

Three hours later she emerged from the Barajas terminal to take the mini-bus to long-term parking. Her car keys were at the bottom of her briefcase and, once found, she paid before driving off. It had rained while she'd been on the West Coast. Her car possessed a soggy dust coating and would need a good clean after she reached home, still three hours to the south.

Turning onto the A4 towards Aranjuez and Córdoba Lili wondered if she'd been stupid. Should she have gone into Madrid to see Enrique's cousin, had lunch and rested over a decent siesta? Or even stayed over Friday night? The first would have meant leaving Madrid on a Friday evening to compete with the regular weekend exodus. If she had opted for the Saturday morning departure there would have been minimal traffic but she wouldn't have been in her own bed on Friday night.

The lunch plus siesta option had been easily dismissed. Enrique's cousin would have welcomed her and talked without pause. Alone in Madrid, where she'd chosen to remain after her husband died, Lili would have had no siesta.

The Saturday option had been dispelled by making the mistake of checking the weather forecast while eating breakfast at Heathrow. It had predicted medium to heavy rain. Lili didn't like driving in rain. As a Canadian brought up in Ontario snow was easily handled. But rain filled her with fear. She could not forget her father's crash when their car aquaplaned off a rain-sodden curve into a tree. Although Lili was unharmed, protected in her child seat, the collision left her father with severe whiplash, permanently restricted movement in one leg and a newly brittle temper which shed the warmth he had provided before the accident. Whenever given a choice she avoided cars and rain.

So here she was, jet-lagged with too little sleep and a developing headache. Her priority was to stay awake. The next hours on the road would be tough. She must not cave in to her sense of malaise.

Her mobile phone rang. Lili pressed the hands-free answer button and was relieved to hear Enrique's voice.

"Where are you, cariño? Are you okay? Have you left Barajas yet?"

"Hola, Enrique. It's good to hear you."

Relief flowed through Lili. To chat would provide her with a bounce. The threatened headache receded.

I'm about to pass Ocaña, so I make decent progress.

When are you going to stop for a coffee? You know you'll need a break.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I'll stop, but only to fill the car. I've had enough coffee in the last day to float a hippopotamus and make all of it tingle. What I need is some good bread, fresh vegetables and some of our own olive oil. After a week in the States I want things simple, plus a warm comfy bed with you in it.

She frowned. Did she mean it about the bed?

Sounds good to me. All will be ready for when you arrive. I guess, given the time now, you'll be here about six thirty, maybe seven?

Yes. I just wish Úbeda was closer to a decent airport. Yeah, I'm always bitching about its remoteness, and I know we can't have it both ways. But it would be so much easier.

Ya, ya. Stop complaining. Think of what you are coming home to, not what you've been doing. By the way, was the trip successful? How did the Thursday meetings go?

It's too soon to assess the 'how successful' part. But I did need to make the trip and obtained one introduction with potential from Thursday alone. No, I'm not going to tell you now. I'm still thinking over what was suggested. You'll have to wait.

"Mandonísima. Always refusing to tell me what you've achieved before you're ready."

Sorry. But remember, I don't like talking shop and driving at the same time.

"Okay, okay. Just stop soon for a break. ¿Por favor?"

I promise. By the way, I did manage to sell the rest of last season's olive oil to an Italian buyer, a new one. That clears out last year's stocks. Anyhow, you'll call me in an hour or so to make sure I'm awake?

"Yes. Drive safely, cariño mio. Besos."

Enrique hung up before she responded. Nevertheless, Lili was comforted. The pleasure in hearing his voice almost always calmed her. Yet almost immediately other more ominous thoughts crowded in.

She hadn't explained to Enrique that a side-reason for heading to California was to visit one of her old bosses. Their meeting had become a formal job interview and an outline offer followed. She didn't know how to, or even if she could, tell Enrique. To do so would crystallise a host of issues she had been refusing to face. By proceeding with the interview, had she started down a road to ruining everything? Had she, who was always so meticulous in her organisation and preparation, screwed up? Her eyes watered. Lili wanted to weep. At least driving meant this was unthinkable.

The same day: Úbeda (Southern Spain)

Enrique laid down his mobile phone. While happy that Lili was well on her way back, he wasn't content. She wasn't telling him something. Furthermore, she knew he didn't like selling their good oil to Italians who would combine it with their own to resell the result as best Italian Extra Virgin Olive Oil, even though it had little more than 50 per cent Italian content.

This latest trip to the West Coast had arisen too fast. It contrasted with her normal approach where she planned weeks if not months ahead to make the most of the time and expense associated with transatlantic travel. This one she'd arranged with under ten days' notice.

Despite his concerns, Enrique knew he shouldn't complain. Lili's enthusiasm kept him motivated even as she worked the marketing and sales. They both well knew the payment for the remainder of last season's crop would be more than handy.

Enrique had first met Lili when she'd been a successful investment banker working from London for a major US firm. They had both booked a Tuscan walking and cooking holiday. In her words she was there to 'chill out', to take a break after she'd closed a major deal that would add a million to her bonus that year. When she told Enrique he hadn't been able to accept anybody less than a senior executive could earn so much, not when she wasn't anywhere near the topmost tiers of management.

Lili had also revealed that she'd chosen the holiday more for its walking component than the cooking. Ironically it was the food dimension that engaged her. By her own admission she wasn't a natural cook. Nevertheless, she had revelled in the details of how small ingredient changes produced dramatically different tastes when eaten. Olive oil had been the trigger.

By their third day they had gravitated to walk and cook together, for almost everything was done in pairs. The walks were pleasant enough and they'd exchanged more about each other. Cooking as a duo was a natural follow-on, given that most of their fellow attendees were either married or pairs of ladies who had decided to learn together. That he and Lili were at least two decades younger than the average tightened their bond. The only other single man had tried to interest her. Enrique still congratulated himself on his modest triumph.

Sitting in front of their prized log fire, a relative rarity now that most renovated houses had eliminated fireplaces or kept them solely for decoration, he thought back to that first encounter with Lili and what happened next. Which was nothing at all.

Their cooking-and walking course was to finish at midday so that attendees could reach airports and catch flights home. The previous evening, during the last communal dinner, he'd lightly suggested they go to Rome or Venice for a couple of days. As lightly she'd brushed him off. It was as if the past ten or so days and evenings amounted to zero, whether their walking or talking or cooking. He remembered all too well her lack of farewell the next morning when she stepped into a limo that had materialised before breakfast. He'd even overheard her instructions: To Rome, as fast as possible. I want the earliest possible plane to Paris.

Suddenly she was gone. All he had was the memory of a vanishingly slender ball of energy. He did not possess a photo, or an email address, or a business card. He had given her his card; she had promised to reciprocate. But it hadn't happened. He didn't even know what bank she worked for. She had been too discreet.

He'd left, bewildered. He passed through Florence to dilute his disappointment by revisiting the paintings in the Uffizi he loved most – Simone Martini's Annunziazione, Bronzino's Lucrezia Panciatichi and Piero della Francesco's Federico de Montefeltro, the last one painted in profile from Federico's left side to hide his missing right eye. They provided some soul balm until he reached his favourite, Botticelli's tiny Judith and the Head of Holofernes.

On past visits he had absorbed the curves and lines, admiring its glory albeit executed in now fading blues. That day she did not soothe as he desired. His trouble was he could see Lili in the elfin figure of Judith. He gazed for as long as usual but the more he drank in the tiny painting, the more Judith reminded him of the now disappeared, diminutive Lili.

Shocked by the similarity he headed straight to Pisa to catch