‘Good grief,’ I say as I examine our portrait. ‘It looks just like us! How did he do that so quickly?’
‘The people here are very enterprising,’ he tells me.
I’ll say.
Before we reach the end of the street, we’re offered sunflowers by a woman on a bicycle wearing layers and layers of crisp white Broderie Anglaise and a yellow turban bedecked with flowers. Something sweet and sugary in a paper cone is thrust into our hands and Spencer duly passes over the required payment. A man in a multi-coloured shirt comes along with the biggest cigars I’ve ever seen and insists that I take a puff while Spencer is coerced into recording the event on his camera. I inhale the bittersweet smoke and it leaves my head reeling and my lungs burning.
There are flowers everywhere. Terracotta pots brimming with red geraniums stand guard at every doorway. Windowboxes drip with exotic blooms in every conceivable hue that I can’t begin to name. Outside even the poorest-looking house there are cleaned-up tin cans filled with an explosion of sunflowers and begonias. Little dogs in packs run amok, barking happily. A carnival follows in our wake: musicians playing a salsa beat; dancers in gaudy costumes with frilled sleeves totter past us on tall stilts. We pause to let them pass and already I’m tapping my feet.
‘This place is so alive that it hurts,’ I say.
‘Come on.’ Spencer tugs me towards a street café. ‘You need refreshment.’
Even though it’s not yet lunchtime, he orders mojitos for us both – a potent blend of Cuban white rum, soda water, sugar and mint, served with lots of ice in a tall glass. Nectar. The Cubans, it seems, drink them like we drink tea – and from as early in the morning. I sip it through a striped straw, enjoying the sharp taste of the mint, cooling and refreshing on my dry throat. I could stay here all afternoon drinking these, kick back, go native.
‘Better?’ Spencer asks.
‘Mmm. Delicious.’ I sink back in my chair and look out over the street. Forgetting about the Factor 30 that’s in the bottom of my handbag, I let the sun beat down on my face which, even though it will give me millions of wrinkles in years to come, feels oh so good. A small band of musicians comes to our side to serenade us. There’s a guitar, someone playing maracas. They sway along to their own soothing rhythm, voices like honey.
‘They’re singing a song of love,’ Spencer explains. ‘About a beautiful woman who has two men in love with her.’
But I’m not really listening. I’m staring at this colourful, exciting city and thinking, If these folk can lift themselves from the gloom and do so much with some paint and flowers and a whole heap of passion, then why can’t the people on my estate do exactly the same?
Chapter Thirty
‘I got you some Coco-Pops,’ Johnny said as he poured them out into a bowl.
Charlie, at the table, said, ‘Mum doesn’t let me have those.’
Johnny grinned. ‘I know.’
Charlie grinned in return. ‘Ringo. Ringo.’ In response to his name the dog trotted to Charlie’s heel where he was fed a handful of the sugary breakfast cereal for his trouble.
The boy had been a bit down since Sally left. Even watching Borat together last night on DVD – something else that probably wasn’t allowed – had failed to lift Charlie’s mood completely. Sally had texted them both a dozen times before she even left the airport to find out if all was well, and Johnny had been able to reassure her that it was. They’d heard nothing from her since. But then, exactly what would she do if he texted back to say that the flat had burned down or that Charlie was in hospital with a broken leg? It was all very well appearing concerned, but the reality was that she was on the other side of the world having fun and could do nothing about it. Still, he didn’t really mind. If he blocked out the fact that Sally was with someone else, then at least it gave him the opportunity to spend some time with Charlie.
‘Everything all right?’ Johnny wanted to know.
Charlie shrugged that everything was, indeed, all right.
‘Not missing your mum too much?’
‘No,’ the boy answered, but he nodded his head subconsciously. Johnny smiled to himself.
‘She’ll be back before you know it.’
The Scissor Sisters ‘Don’t Feel Like Dancing’ blared out of the radio.
‘They’re playing our song, Charlie,’ Johnny said and jumped out of his chair.
Charlie jumped up too and they enjoyed a frenzied bout of 1970s disco-dancing together while the song lasted. Ringo yapped along enthusiastically. It was something silly that they’d done together since the tune had been at the top of the pop charts. They both loved it. When the song and their dance ended Charlie sat down again, smiling, and tucked into his cereal.
‘It used to drive Mum mad when we did that,’ he said, mouth full.
‘Yeah,’ Johnny said, and he couldn’t see the lovely Spencer strutting his funky stuff with Charlie in the kitchen just to make the boy laugh. Maybe Sally would view that as a good thing.
‘Mum says that you act like a big kid,’ Charlie informed him.
Perhaps not.
‘But that’s why I like you,’ the boy added, grinning. ‘You’re not like a real adult. You’re silly.’
Johnny sighed inwardly, relief washing over him. That moment of madness had cheered Charlie up a bit. If that branded him as silly, then so be it.
Today, it would have been better if they could have done something fun together, taken off to the fair at Southport maybe, but Johnny had promised Ronaldo that he’d do some painting at the dance studio in return for his lessons. Charlie, for a fee, had agreed to help him out.
‘Sure you don’t mind coming with me today? I’d got it fixed up before your mum decided to go away and I don’t want to let the fella down.’
Charlie shook his head. ‘I’ve never done painting before. You like it. I might like it too.’
‘Finish up your breakfast then. We’d better get going,’ Johnny said. ‘We’ve got a lot to do.’
Chapter Thirty-One
Ronaldo greeted them at the door wearing a rather more conservative outfit than he’d worn last time Johnny saw him. The bouffant hair was still in evidence and the Perma-tan, but the Lycra and frills had been replaced by jeans and a pink polo shirt. It didn’t make him look any less camp.
‘Come in. Come in, lover. This Johnny Junior?’
Johnny hated questions like that. How could he encapsulate his relationship with Charlie in one glib sentence? He opted for, ‘This is Charlie. My apprentice.’
Ronaldo shook Charlie’s hand. ‘Very pleased to meet you, Charlie the Apprentice.’
Johnny smiled as the boy bristled with pride. They followed Ronaldo up the stairs and into the studio, lugging paint and stepladders with them. The rest of the stuff was in Johnny’s beaten-up old van which was parked on a double-yellow line with his mam’s disabled sticker in the window.
‘What are you going to do for me, Mr Johnny? All lessons are cancelled for today.’ Ronaldo made a sweeping gesture. ‘I hand my precious studio over to your care.’
‘I’ve got this.’ Johnny held up one of the cans of paint. ‘Soft Sunflower Symphony.’
Ronaldo looked puzzled.
‘In other words, pale yellow. Sort of lemon.’
‘Limón?’
‘Just to freshen the place up. Then I thought I’d paint a mural over it.’
‘I love a muriel!’ Ronaldo clapped his hands in joy. ‘What kind of muriel?’
‘Dancers,’ Johnny said with a shrug. Seemed appropriate. ‘Something like that.’
‘Dancers!’ Ronaldo was in seventh heaven. ‘A muriel of dancers!’
Charlie tugged at Johnny’s T-shirt and leaned into him. ‘What’s a muriel?’ he whispered.
‘A picture,’ Johnny said. ‘A big one. All over the wall.’
Charlie’s eyes widened in approval. ‘Cool.’
‘I’ll get the rest of the stuff from the van. You can start with a roller and do the bottom of the wall. I’ll follow r
ound and do the top.’
‘I could go up the ladder,’ Charlie suggested.
‘I’ll do that,’ Johnny said. ‘You might fall off and brain yourself. And then I’d get brained by your mother for letting you go up a ladder when I’m supposed to be looking after you.’
‘I’m not a kid,’ Charlie said with a pout.
‘That’s exactly what you are,’ Johnny pointed out. Then he ruffled the boy’s hair. ‘But you’re my favourite kid.’
The boy hopped about from foot to foot. ‘What do we do first?’ he wanted to know.
‘We do what all good British workmen do before anything else . . .’
Charlie waited expectantly.
‘Ronaldo,’ Johnny instructed. ‘Get a brew on.’
‘Did my superb salsa lessons get you the girl, Mr Johnny?’ Ronaldo asked as he brought them their tenth cup of tea of the day.
Johnny stood back to admire the mural. He shook his head. Charlie wasn’t listening, but Johnny lowered his voice anyway. ‘The lady in question is currently in Cuba salsa dancing with another man.’
‘That is not good.’ Ronaldo shook his hairstyle. ‘Cuba is the beautiful island. Sexy, sultry, so romantic. The perfect place for love.’
‘Too much information, mate.’ Johnny held up his paint-smeared hand before Ronaldo volunteered any more depressing facts. Even while he was painting, visions of Sally, lying scantily clad on a white sandy beach, surf lapping at her toes, had tormented him. And he didn’t even know if there was a beach in Havana. He wondered why he’d never taken Sally away for the weekend while they’d been together. Because he’d never had any money. Because he’d always considered Charlie. Because he had his mum to think about. A thousand and one excuses and all of them valid, but lame. He should have treated Sally like the special person she was. He knew that he’d taken her for granted. But he’d been happy. He’d thought she was happy too.
‘The bloke’s a tosser,’ Charlie threw over his shoulder. Maybe the boy had been ear-wigging after all.
‘Language, Charlie,’ Johnny said. Then to Ronaldo, ‘A rich tosser.’
The dance instructor pursed his lips. ‘That is very bad.’
‘He’s with my mum,’ Charlie added. ‘He might want to be my dad one day.’The boy wrinkled his nose. ‘That’d be horrible.’
Johnny silently agreed that it would.
‘Mr Charlie the Apprentice,’ Ronaldo said. ‘You have done a very good job.’
The boy climbed down from the top of the ladder – Johnny had lost that battle within ten minutes.
Turning to Johnny, Ronaldo said. ‘The muriel is wonderful, lover.’ He sighed contentedly. ‘People will come to my studio just to see it.’ The dancer waved his arms round the room. ‘They will travel for miles and miles.’
Johnny studied his artwork. He was pleased with it. On the Soft Sunflower Symphony background, life-size couples in vibrant colours danced together, bodies entwined, heads close together. They all looked happy, in love.
‘Perhaps if your lady doesn’t love you for your dancing, she might love you for this.’
‘I doubt it,’ Johnny said.
He looked at his dancers again. He really hoped that Sally wasn’t being embraced by Spencer in a similar fashion. In fact, to be brutally honest, he hoped that, for his sake, she was having a really shite time.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Late in the evening, Spencer and I head for the Cuban equivalent of the Community Centre which is a world away from the dreary and dilapidated one at Kirberly, I can tell you. Spencer explains that even the little villages out in the country have a dedicated centre for music which everyone goes to on a Saturday night to boogie on down.
This particular one is open to the stars and a deliciously warm breeze blows over the dance floor, taking some of the heat from the steamy night. On the stage, a dozen or more musicians waft lively music into the swaying crowd. It’s an amazing place. When Spencer says that everyone comes here, he’s right; there are as many teenagers here as there are pensioners and it costs less than a Cuban peso to come inside where we’ve both been welcomed warmly.
The dance floor has been constantly filled with a crush of people from the moment we got here, one dance flowing seamlessly to the next, the dancers weaving in and out of each other like a slowly meandering river.
‘To be unable or unwilling to dance in Cuba is considered a terrible social faux pas,’ Spencer whispers to me. ‘We’d better join in.’
He leads me onto the floor, easing our way through the mass of bodies until we’re right in the middle of the throng and he takes me in his arms, moving me skilfully to the lilting beat. He might not have all the moves and turns that Johnny has, but he can still groove.
Already I know half of the songs as you can’t sit down for five minutes in this place without someone popping up behind you with a guitar and a pair of maracas. I’ve been serenaded half to death. Then the ubiquitous retail opportunity springs up too. Spencer is very generous and now must own the most extensive collection of salsa music CDs outside of the Caribbean. My date/benefactor/boyfriend – I’m still not entirely comfortable with what his title should be – swivels his slinky hips against mine, turning me with him.
I look up at him. ‘Thought you couldn’t dance?’
‘I can hold my own,’ Spencer says with a smile.
‘Why didn’t we see this hidden talent at the Kirberly Community Centre?’
‘I just didn’t want to get into a duelling situation with your ex-boyfriend,’ he says.
Probably wise.
‘Men can be very territorial. Particularly when confronted with their love rival.’
‘Johnny’s not your rival,’ I explain. ‘He’s my mate. He looks out for me.’
Spencer looks unconvinced, but his smile doesn’t falter. ‘I’ll just have to make sure that I don’t give him a reason to steal you away from me.’ He pulls me closer as if to reinforce it.
My conscience has been pricked at the mention of Johnny. I wonder how my two men are getting on, if they’re both okay and whether they’re missing me. This morning I managed to place a brief phone call from the hotel to Charlie; getting a line out of Cuba isn’t all that easy and the quality was terrible. Mobile phones don’t work at all. Despite my best efforts, his responses were non-committal and we were cut off after two minutes. I think my son’s less than happy with me for leaving him behind, and who can blame him? It’s probably the first time he’s been excluded from anything in my life. If there was another occasion, then I can’t remember it. He’ll be fine with Johnny though. Charlie adores him – as do most other people. What’s more, I’d trust Johnny with my son’s life. So I should just relax, and make the most of my time as a footloose and fancy free Superwoman.
I turn my attention back to my partner. All the mojitos we’ve knocked back today have loosened my hips. The silver sequinned number has been given another outing and I’m feeling fabulously sexy. Our bodies move together in time and it feels so good. I throw back my head and laugh and laugh while I’m spun round and round. There has been far too little of this pure, unfettered fun in my shitty little life. Charlie’s the only ray of sunshine that I’ve got. And, much as I love my son, maybe sometimes that’s not enough. Shouldn’t I be allowed a life too?
My head’s reeling and not just from the strong alcohol and excessive spinning combo, but because of all the sights and sounds that have bombarded my brain today. Cuba has blown me away and I’ve fallen in love just as Spencer said I would.
The music stops and the band leave the stage for a break. We’re both breathing heavily. ‘Let’s get another drink,’ Spencer suggests as he takes my hand. ‘I need to sit down and get my breath back.’
I touch his arm, stopping him in his tracks, and stand on tiptoe to kiss his beautiful lips. ‘Thank you for this,’ I whisper. ‘Thank you so much.’
‘It’s been my pleasure.’ Spencer’s lips are hot on mine and I can’t wait for the music to st
art again so that we can rub our bodies together!
This weekend has shown me a way of life that I never knew existed. Despite crushing poverty, the Cubans have somehow managed to make their country bright, vibrant and full of life. In the dark recesses of my mind, I’m still wondering how I can bottle all of this and bring it home with me.
Chapter Thirty-Three
It’s raining now that I’m back in Britain. The elements are playing make-believe it’s winter and have everyone huddled back into thick jackets and sturdy footwear. Because of the weather Kirberly market is quiet today and I’m able to buy some really cheap fruit and veg that the stallholders are trying to get rid of.
My friend isn’t really interested in shopping today – unusual. So Debs and I call it a day and head off to the nearest greasy spoon café on the fringe of the market. Starbucks it isn’t. We pull two of the white plastic chairs together at a table covered with a stained gingham cloth and then, while Debs picks at a bacon butty, I proceed to sink three coffees in quick succession in an effort to caffeine away that jet lag and, in the process, blow my week’s budget. So much for the cheap veggies. Charlie and I are going to be down to plates of pasta au naturel by the time my benefits are due.
My son was already in school by the time I got back from Cuba, which was disappointing. I’d have sent him a text, but they’re not allowed to have their phones on during lessons. Fair enough, I suppose. Kids find enough to distract themselves from lessons without having gadgets to assist them.
Spencer dropped me off at my flat and then headed off home to get ready for his afternoon shift teaching plebs – including me – the finer points of computing. I still don’t know why he does this. Do I believe all that ‘putting something back into society’ schtick? I don’t know. He does seem to be incredibly generous with his time and with his money without being flash. I guess I just can’t believe it. My old mum taught me that if something seems too good to be true, the chances are that it probably is.
Checking my watch, I remind myself that I mustn’t be late for my lesson this afternoon. Now that I’m teacher’s pet, I don’t want to mess up.
All You Need is Love Page 11