by Lucy Lord
There was also the filling of the swimming pool, of course. Bella grinned to herself in excitement. It was actually happening this afternoon, and she couldn’t wait.
*
‘So, darling, was Mummy completely mad to even think of this folly, or is she an artistic genius? What do you think, eh?’ Bella’s arm was still aching so much from the painting that rather than carrying Daisy, as was her wont these days, she’d fallen back on the trusty buggy.
The run-down outhouse this end of the pool had been built, in contrast to the one that Andy was using as his study, out of a combination of whitewashed stone and wood, which meant that Bella had been able to knock down three wooden walls, leaving only the back stone wall, the stone ceiling, raised stone platform, and two stone pillars at the front, facing the pool. This left a shape perfect for an approximation of a very wide four-poster bed, flanked on either side by exotic-looking date palms.
Now boasting two white linen-covered double mattresses and mountains of large white linen cushions, it was hung with vibrant Indian silks in shades of pink, red and orange. Bella had attached lanterns in jewel colours to the front pillars, arranged tea lights in Moroccan coloured glasses either side of her extravagant folly, and cleared away the weeds so there was a comfortable enough path leading to it. Andy had burst out laughing when he’d first seen it in its full glory, but it had been tinged with awe, and he had followed it up with a big kiss and the words, ‘It’s beautiful. You really are a clever, artistic thing.’
Today he was in Santa Eulalia. Their Wi-Fi was down again and he was waiting for an urgent email – which was a shame, but it couldn’t be helped. Bella couldn’t wait to see him later, when the house would be practically finished, and the pool filled.
‘Bella!’ called Jorge as he walked into the garden via the back entrance. He’d been around enough times by now not to have to knock at the front door.
‘Hi, Jorge,’ Bella replied cheerfully. ‘What do you think? I only put the finishing touches on yesterday.’
Jorge stopped dead. ‘Madre de dio,’ he said. ‘Wow! It looks amazing. You, Bella, are one creative lady.’ He gave her a big hug and kissed her on both cheeks. ‘Hola, Daisy,’ he added, leaning into the buggy to kiss the little girl too. ‘Are you still the most beautiful little girl in the world? Are you?’
Bella smiled indulgently as he tickled her daughter under the chin. She loved the way Jorge was with Daisy. That juxtaposition of manly brawn with soft, baby-like innocence reminded her of the iconic Athena poster that had hung above her, and millions of other, teenage beds.
‘Hey, what’s this?’ Jorge nodded over to the pool, which was being tended to by three muscly men accompanied by a lot of loud machinery and hoses. ‘Today is pool-filling day, too?’
‘Yup,’ said Bella, unable to keep the excitement out of her voice. There was already about ten centimetres of water in the pool, and it was filling up fast. Well, slowly, actually, but she wasn’t going to let a little thing like that ruin her enjoyment of this big day.
‘Just in time for your famous friends, huh?’ Jorge teased. ‘They’re coming tomorrow, es verdad ? ’
‘You have got a good memory. Yes, Poppy and Damian are arriving tomorrow, and Ben and Natalia too, but I’m not sure about Jack and Tamara. Apparently they had a fight or something.’
Jorge’s face dropped. ‘But they could still be coming, right?’
‘I suppose so.’ Bella wasn’t too bothered either way. Of course it would be fascinating to see these famous people, and fun to show off in front of Saffron and India (who had been bizarrely nice to her recently), but what she was really looking forward to was catching up with her old friends. ‘Anyway, do you want a drink before we get started? Coffee? Wine? Brandy?’
Jorge laughed. ‘I think a brandy would not be such a good idea, but a glass of wine – ¿porque no?’
*
Andy raked his fingers through his thick black hair in despair. The Wi-Fi in his favourite bar in Santa Eulalia was almost as temperamental as the Wi-Fi at the finca, and he watched with mounting irritation as his laptop failed, yet again, to connect. He knew he should have bitten the bullet and driven into Ibiza Town, but Santa Eulalia was so much closer to home, and the traffic into Ibiza Town was generally hellish at this time of year. Besides, he liked Santa Eulalia. It had a genteel, almost staid charm that was entirely different from the rest of the island.
Yes, it was touristy, the main street lined with bars, restaurants and shops selling flip-flops, postcards and sarongs, but it was a gentler type of tourism than the full-on hedonistic glamour that pulsated through the veins of Ibiza Town. Santa Eulalia was popular with families with young children, and this bar, overlooking the marina, was deserted mid-afternoon. It would have been the perfect place to get on with his work had the bloody Wi-Fi behaved itself.
The heat was almost overwhelming at this time of day. Taking off his glasses, which were sitting uncomfortably on his sticky face, Andy got up to order himself a beer. Much as he loved his new home, things weren’t working out quite as smoothly as he’d hoped. Rural bliss was all very well, but when you were trying to write a book to help pay for living the dream, it was extremely frustrating not to have all the mod cons at your fingertips. As he thought this, he laughed at himself for the old-fashioned expression; what did people call mod cons these days?
And Bella was so enraptured with every aspect of her new life that she seemed entirely oblivious to his concerns. Of course he was happy that she was so happy, and it was great that she was making new friends – especially Summer, about whom he couldn’t think anything bad at all . . . Andy had been so caught up in his book that morning that he hadn’t really been listening when Bella had told him that Jorge would be coming round to help her move furniture. If he had remembered, it would no doubt have increased his irritation and guilt that he wasn’t there to help her himself.
As it was, he told himself to snap out of it. It wasn’t Bella’s fault that they lived in a technological desert. He loved her, and she was a fantastic mother. The thought of Daisy’s happy little face made his heart swell, and his frustrations faded almost into nothingness. Taking a swig of his beer, he tried to reload his screen for the fifth time. Nothing. Oh well, nothing else for it. He would have to brave the traffic into Ibiza Town after all.
*
‘We’ve done it.’ Bella let out a happy sigh and looked around her beautiful new sitting room. ‘Actually, no – you’ve done it. Thank you so much, Jorge, you’ve been fantastic.’
‘All I provided was the muscle,’ said Jorge, flexing one of his impressive biceps, and Bella laughed, averting her gaze, trying not to look at the muscle for too long. Lifting anything heavy had made her right arm hurt so much that Jorge had insisted on moving all the furniture himself – except for the two white sofas, which Bella had dragged ineffectually with her left hand while Jorge heaved, lifted and pushed.
‘But all this beauty came from you. Beauty from beauty.’
‘Thanks,’ she said, her gaze still averted. Beauty from beauty? Much as she liked the comment – it was great to start feeling attractive again – she wasn’t sure how appropriate it was when accompanied by the lingering looks Jorge had taken to giving her of late. But that was just the Mediterranean way, she told herself. All perfectly harmless!
One of the walls, the one that had always been free from graffiti, was completely lined with bookshelves, but they had been in situ before today, and Bella and Andy had already filled them. The Oxford Dictionary of Quotations, Bella’s art books, Andy’s history books, beautifully bound works of Shakespeare, eighteenth- and nineteenth-century hardback novels, the complete works of Oscar Wilde (illustrated by Aubrey Beardsley) and anthologies of poetry took pride of place on the most visible shelves. The Twenties and Thirties hardback schoolgirl books (Angela Brazil, the Chalet School, early Enid Blyton – all with their original dust covers) that Bella had collected as a child, when they were cheap as chips at the book
fairs to which her mother had taken her, occupied an entire shelf above them. Next up were Penguin modern classics, literary fiction, cool vintage paperbacks – original James Bonds and the like – and some obscure foreign literature that made them look intellectual. The books that they actually read – Andy’s crime thrillers and Bella’s bonkbusters – were right at the top, where nobody could see them.
On the wall opposite the bookshelves, the one which had previously borne the nostalgic graffiti, hung three large paintings – two of Bella’s oils, and a beautiful watercolour seascape, a present from Henri, Jorge’s father. Its aquamarine hues lent themselves perfectly to the room’s slightly nautical vibe, with its mishmash of turquoise, cornflower and navy-and-white-striped cushions, battered old reclaimed driftwood coffee table that sat between the white linen sofas (which Bella had asked Jorge to position in an L shape) and warm flagstoned floor. The light flooding in from the floor-to-ceiling French windows ensured that the overhead beams never seemed too oppressive.
‘I absolutely adore it.’ Bella smiled. ‘You’ve worked so hard – let’s celebrate with a drink.’
‘That would be good – muchas gracias,’ said Jorge, who was pouring with sweat after his exertions, even though it was early evening now – Ibiza in July was always too hot for manual labour to be actively enjoyable. Bella went to the kitchen to retrieve the bottle of wine they’d had a couple of glasses from earlier, poured some olives and salted almonds into a bowl, and took them out onto the bougainvillea-shaded patio, where Jorge was sitting with his feet up on the wrought-iron table, watching the workmen completing their job on the pool. The water was almost at the level it should be.
‘Merci, gracias, thank you Bella.’ He grinned, helping himself to a couple of olives and an almond. ‘How I wish they had finished their work, so I could jump in and cool off.’
‘You must be sweltering. Have a shower, if you want – the wet room’s fab!’
‘Thanks, but it’s OK.’ Jorge turned to give her the full wattage of his smile. ‘I should go soon anyway.’
‘Bella?’ It was Andy, who had walked through the garden, clearly en route to his study, rather than coming to say hello to her and Daisy first. She bristled slightly at his priorities. ‘What’s going on?’
After an incredibly frustrating day of technological hitches and gridlocked traffic, all Andy could see was the mother of his child, wearing little but a paint-spattered T-shirt over her bare brown legs, being chatted up by that slimeball Jorge Dupont, who had the cheek to have his legs up on his table, drinking his wine. He was looking greasier and sweatier than ever, too.
‘Hi, darling.’ Bella got up to give him a kiss. ‘We’re just celebrating a bloody good day’s work! Look!’ She pointed into the sitting room and Andy’s eyes widened slightly in apparent admiration. Soon they narrowed again, though, as he saw that Jorge hadn’t even taken his feet off the table.
‘Yes, well, thanks, I’m sure you’ve been very helpful, but I’d like to have some time alone with my wife now.’
‘I’m not your wife,’ said Bella through gritted teeth. ‘You’ve never asked me to marry you. Sorry about my incredibly rude boyfriend, Jorge. And thank you so much again for today. See you on Saturday, yeah?’
‘De nada. Saturday’s cool. I was about to go anyway.’ Jorge got to his feet at a leisurely pace, kissed Bella on both cheeks and sauntered through the garden towards the back exit. ‘Hasta luego, Andy.’
‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’ asked Bella, furious. How dare he march in here like some bloody Victorian husband, when he’d done little, if anything, towards getting their home as they wanted it to be?
‘What do I think I’m doing?’ Andy’s voice was incredulous. He picked up the bottle of rosé, which was empty, although both the glasses Bella had poured were still full. ‘Who’s been looking after my daughter while you’ve been boozing all day with that slimy little toe-rag?’
‘How dare you?’ Bella was furious. ‘She’s our daughter, and she’s having her evening nap, as you’d know if you were ever around to witness anything to do with her, or me. We had a glass of wine each when Jorge turned up, after lunch, and I’d just poured another one, after about three hours’ work, before you stormed in, being so fucking rude and unpleasant. If you must know’ – she was on the verge of tears now – ‘I couldn’t have done it on my own, my arm’s hurting too much, and Jorge—’
‘Jorge did what?’ asked Andy sarcastically. ‘Did he kiss it better?’
‘What? Oh, this is ridiculous! Haven’t you even noticed how amazing it’s looking in there? You should be thanking Jorge, he’s—’
‘Ah, señor, señora . . .’ One of the workmen interrupted them.
‘Señora, yeah right, like I’m ever going to be married to you, even though I’m the mother of your daughter,’ Bella muttered under her breath, still furious, but not wanting to make too much of a scene. How depressingly English.
But Andy’s ire seemed to be evaporating as he gazed over at their swimming pool, full, at last, with clear cool water.
‘Look, Belles! Isn’t this what we’ve been waiting for?’
Bella followed his gaze and smiled reluctantly. The pool was perfect, and completed the picture of the garden she’d had in her head for such a long time.
‘Muchas gracias,’ Andy was saying to the workmen as he over-tipped them, willing them to leave him and Bella to it. ‘Muchas gracias.’
‘De nada.’ The head pool chap smirked as he pocketed the euro notes, before heading back to gather up all his equipment.
‘I’m still not happy with Jorge hanging around you all the time . . .’ Andy started quietly.
‘Why? Look at me, and stop being such an idiot.’ Bella pointed at herself, laughing. She was wearing an old sleeveless smiley-face T-shirt that barely covered her bum, was daubed in paint splatters from head to toe and had scrunched her hair up in a messy blob (to call it a bun would be stretching it) on top of her head – but she was tanned, and she’d lost all the baby weight. ‘He’s hardly going to be after my body, is he?’
Andy suddenly realized that she wasn’t seeing what he saw and what Jorge undoubtedly did. ‘If he’s not, then he’s an idiot,’ he said, taking her face in his hands and kissing her.
After a bit, Bella came up for air. ‘That’s better.’ She grinned. ‘I’ve got my Andy back. Now, isn’t it about time we christened that pool?’
As if on cue, the unmistakable sound of Daisy’s little voice made its way down the stairs.
‘She’s waking up,’ said Bella. ‘She doesn’t like to miss out on anything, does she?’
Andy smiled. ‘Well, it seems only fair that she should witness the pool christening, too.’
They walked upstairs to Daisy’s bedroom hand-in-hand, both relieved that the row was over. They rarely fought, and when they did, it knocked them both for six. Daisy was standing up in her cot, holding onto the railing and chattering away unintelligibly, her eyes wide and starry.
‘Did you have a lovely sleep, darling?’ said Bella, leaning into the cot to pick her up. ‘Owww!’
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Andy.
‘I told you my bloody arm hurt. It was painting out the graffiti that did it.’
‘Oh God, I’m sorry, you poor thing. Here, let me take Daisy.’
Back down at the pool, Daisy looked on from her buggy as her parents, naked and giggling like schoolchildren, took a running jump right from the end of the garden and landed – with an almighty splash – in the pool together.
‘Oh my God, it’s wonderful,’ said Bella.
‘It’s more than wonderful – it’s perfect,’ said Andy, taking her wet face in his hands and kissing her as they trod water. ‘You, Daisy, this . . .’ he gestured around at their exquisite surroundings. The sun was starting to set now and the west-facing garden was cast in a rosy glow. ‘I must be the luckiest man alive.’
*
Bella felt unaccountably nervous as she
sat under the vines outside Bar Anita the following afternoon, sipping at a small San Miguel as she and Daisy waited for Poppy and Damian. It was ridiculous. Poppy was her oldest friend. Why did she care so much about impressing her? But care she did, which was why she was wearing her favourite dress – the white halter-neck maxidress she’d bought in Ibiza Town; and why she’d rearranged the cushions in the guest room at least five times; and why she’d been up at the crack of dawn to buy the biggest, freshest langoustines and sea breams for their supper tonight. She’d dressed Daisy in her best new frock too – it was smocked, in the palest yellow cotton, and embroidered, appropriately, with daisies. Bella thought she had never seen anything so adorable.
‘Belles! We’re here!’ In a flurry and a whirlwind, Poppy raced into the bar, turning all heads, and flung her arms around her oldest friend. Damian followed, smiling, at a slightly slower pace.
‘Oh my God, you look fantastic! You’ve lost so much weight! So tanned, you’re like a proper local! And Daisy – how’s my beautiful god-daughter?’ Poppy picked her out of her buggy and swung her up in the air, making her giggle with delight, before blowing raspberries all over her face, until the little girl was cackling. ‘She’s grown so much! Oh it’s so good to see you both – where’s Andy?’ Finally Poppy was out of breath, and she sat down in a rickety wooden chair opposite Bella, bouncing Daisy on her knee.
Bella laughed. ‘It’s wonderful to see you too, Pops. You’re looking gorgeous as ever.’
Poppy was wearing a battered straw trilby on top of her silky blonde locks, Havaianas, and a teeny tiny strappy mint-green cotton slip-dress that kept slipping off one slim brown shoulder. She looked more Ibiza-chic even than India Cavendish, and Bella marvelled at the way she always, without fail, managed to get it right.