Free Lilia's Secret by Erina Reddan

just completed my Masters in Business in London. My name is Gerardo Benítez and, as you can see, I have excellent English and of course excellent Spanish – skills I believe you require.’
    Gerardo hadn’t smiled once.
    â€˜Yes, I do. Bill Bixton, pleased to meet you.’ Bill extended his hand. ‘I’m going up to Aguasecas, just a few hours out of Monterrey. I understand it’s a small place and not many people speak English, so I need a fixer. You know what that means?’
    â€˜Of course,’ Gerardo said. ‘I am available for two months. My father stipulates that I work somewhere before I join our family business, so I would be pleased to assist you in your endeavours. These are my terms.’ He opened a black leather compendium and took out a stiff sheet of white paper. He passed the page to Bill, clearing away the sugar bowl and moving Bill’s cup and saucer to the side of the table. Bill held back a smile at Gerardo’s exaggerated precision.
    The figures on the page were in dollars as well as pesos. Bill nodded; what Gerardo lacked in personality he made up for in attention to detail.

    By the time they reached Aguasecas, Bill was exhausted. He’d insisted on going by bus to avoid the impression of having money. At first, it had been a ‘comfort coach’ fitted with a television. True, the television had been in Spanish and the journey had gone on, but compared to what came next it had been a pretty easy ride.
    On day two they’d switched to a small red and blue bus with wooden window frames and no glass. The seats were also wooden and it didn’t help that Bill had extra padding. His size actually worked against him, since two people fitted on to the other seats and he took up most of one all by himself. A small child or elderly woman would perch on the edge of his seat, but they wouldn’t let him stand; Gerardo said they thought he’d take up even more room if he stood in the aisle. Bill mopped at the sweat on his face with a handkerchief that was already damp, his knees cramped and bruised from banging against the seat in front.
    It was even hotter when they reached Aguasecas. Bill felt as if the heat could lick off the top layer of his skin. He took shallow breaths, and he was so wretched with exhaustion he could hardly hold himself upright.
    Gerardo had left him and his three suitcases in the town square, the ‘ zócalo ’, he’d called it. Bill slumped on a wrought-iron bench under a lemon tree, leaning on his daypack to rest. The square was rimmed with lemon trees, which looked as if they’d been shrunk to exactly the same size. Even through his exhaustion he could feel the difference in the air. Mexico City’s frenetic energy was replaced by the stillness of searing heat.
    Three boys, who looked about twelve years old, skidded a soccer ball between them a few feet away. They seemed to begetting closer. Bill drew his suitcases into him. One of the boys stopped with his head on one side and gawked at the gringo. Bill mopped at his face again and imagined how old and flabby he must look to the boy. Why was Gerardo taking so long?
    An hour later, Bill was still waiting. Gerardo had sent a young boy with an ice-cold fresh juice for the North American. Normally Bill was too suspicious of strangers to accept anything that may have been tampered with, but this he gulped down. The river of iced watermelon tasted like a small piece of heaven.
    He sat up straighter and watched as the door of the church opened to the sound of church bells, and people streamed into the square. Suddenly kids were everywhere. Their parents stood in groups beneath the little shade the lemon trees afforded. An ice-cream cart was doing good business.
    In retrospect, Bill thought, he probably should have taken Gerardo’s advice and not insisted on arriving on a Sunday morning. Gerardo had told him that since there was no formal accommodation here