‘Are you kidding?’ He raises an eyebrow. ‘Did you see my stuff?’ He waves an A4 bit of paper at me. ‘That’s where I’m going. Maria Christina.’
The driver pulls away into the tooting traffic.
‘This world is getting smaller and smaller,’ I say, a bit dumbstruck. I don’t really believe in fate but this is uncanny. I meet a hot guy on the plane, he’s then on my connecting flight, and now staying at my hotel. Either this is some very generous god helping out my love life or I’m having a luck epiphany and should buy a EuroMillions ticket STAT.
The sun is twinkling on the sea as we drive along a winding beach road. It is so beautiful here, I instantly forgive Christina everything. I know I cursed her for not just booking the Chef and Brewer like my brother did, but now I totally get it. At first, coming out of the airport, it was all bleak tower blocks and bus stops. Then suddenly we went up a hill and down a hill and – boom – the shining blue of the sea hit me in the face like a cashmere face cloth.
The taxi makes a giant swerve and we pull up in front of this huge, white-stoned hotel. I think it’s Victorian, maybe older, but its face is crammed full of elegant arches, moulded decorations and those posh old-fashioned lamps. It’s like Downton Abbey is filming on location and I’m an extra in the posh dudes party scene. Cha-ching. This was so worth the white knuckles and the saucy chatting.
‘Whoah.’ Bill is also clearly impressed. He pulls my bag out of the boot. My mum would so approve of his manners.
Like some other bizarre coincidence my phone bleeps just then: it’s a text from Mum.
Amy, disaster!!!!!!!
The frustrating thing about mum is that since she’s had an iPhone, she hits send when she means to hit return. So every new sentence is a new text. And in this case, the telegram style is exasperating AND a major cliff-hanger.
Wedding OFF! Christina’s fiancée found a naughty email and he’s called it off – just this morning.
The rest of the family haven’t left yet so they’ve cancelled their booking, your uncle’s in tears.
Is anyone else there?
Call me if you’re all alone.
Haven’t got great coverage though – we’re in Sweden.
!!!!!!!
Love, Mum x
My jaw is actually grazing my collarbone. Christina! That filthy mare! I didn’t think she had it in her. And clearly she has. Oh but poor Steve! He must be heartbroken. And how humiliating, to have to call the wedding off and tell all your friends and family two days before the main event. Christina was supposed to be flying in first thing tomorrow and we were going to go to a spa with her mum and sister, plus her bridesmaid (once I’d had twenty-four hours to calm down and shake my post-flight-hysteria). Then everyone would be chilled for the wedding on Saturday. But now there isn’t one. Oh god. What was Christina thinking?
As I scroll again through Mum’s multiple messages, I think about calling my cousin, or texting her. But will she want to hear my questions right now? Like, What? When? WHY? If I was her, all I’d want was a bottomless bottle of Baileys and no prying eyes.
‘Everything OK?’ Bill calls over my shoulder, from the big marble entrance steps. His biceps are straining attractively under the weight of both our bags but I file the following emotion under ‘Inappropriate Right Now’.
I shake my head as I turn round, biting my lip. ‘Not really. I was here for a wedding, but it’s been called off. Like, just now.’
Bill puts the bags down gently and frowns. ‘You were here for a wedding? Whose wedding?’
‘My cousin – Christina Dunlop. She liked the hotel especially because of the name thing.’ I give half a shrug. ‘She is, well she was, marrying this guy called Steve Spencer.’
‘No. No way!’
‘I know, it’s shocking it’s all fallen apart like this. I mean, she was actually the one who—’
Bill’s hands wave back and forth. ‘No, well, yes. But I’m here for that wedding. The Dunlop–Spencer wedding.’
As much as my heart was turned chilly from the bad news, this just lit a tiny match-sized flame behind my ribs.
‘We’re not… related, are we?’
‘Ha!’ He barks out a laugh. ‘No, we’re not. I’m from Steve’s side. He’s my second cousin. No laws will be broken this weekend.’
And just as I’m spluttering out a response that he’d bloody well not count his chickens, the cheeky arse, he’s already picked up the bags again and is striding through the double doors that have been seamlessly opened by two be-suited footmen.
He’s at the check-in desk as I catch up. ‘We’re part of the Dunlop-Spencer wedding, but I understand it’s been cancelled?’
The deeply tanned receptionist, in a very sharp charcoal suit, nods gravely. ‘The Dunlop wedding? Yes, sir, I’m afraid so. However, the rooms have all been paid for, so any guests who have not been informed are still very welcome.’
‘I see,’ Bill says with a soft, sympathetic tone, as if it was the receptionist that was jilted, not poor Steve. ‘And how many have still come?’
The receptionist scans down his guest book. Bill leans over the desk just a fraction.
‘We have the Mackintoshes, party of two.’
‘Oh, that’s my great aunt!’ I pipe up.
‘And…’ the receptionist keeps scanning, ‘Now you both. Party of two?’
‘Yes,’ says Bill, just as I say, ‘No!’
‘Well, two parties of one, actually. Thanks.’ I bite my teeth together in an annoyed smile.
‘Very well. And do you wish to cancel or will you be staying with us?’ The receptionist holds his hands together in a collected gesture, but I can see his left eyebrow twitch with nerves. Poor guy. A big wedding cancelled at the last minute must be a nightmare. Especially with my uncle on the phone, I expect, hollering for a refund.
I lean on the shiny reception counter and push my sunglasses on top of my head, wiping under my eyes and letting out a heavy breath. ‘Cancel I suppose, seeing as there’s nothing to stick around for.’
The receptionist starts to quietly choke.
‘Are you OK?’
‘No, madam, I am sorry. It’s just… you are in San Sebastian. I’m sure the wedding would have been an unforgettable family event, but this city is unforgettable. It has history, culture, the greatest food, beaches, music, parties…’
‘I’m sold. Amy, come on, we can’t leave all this just for the sake of a small marital hiccup.’ Bill turns his coppery eyes on me. ‘We’re here, we might as well enjoy it. It might even be the best weekend of your life, you never know.’
Something doesn’t feel right. ‘I can hardly go out on the town when my cousin’s marriage just went splat. I’d be knocking back champagne while she’ll be crying into her cocoa.’
Bill locks his arm around my shoulders. ‘And you are a great cousin for being so sensitive. But Mr – I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?’
‘Tomas Sarriegui.’
‘Mr Sarri—, erm, Tomas has a great city here, one it would be rude not to explore. You can’t tell me you’re not dying to swim in that clear blue water.’
‘Well…’
‘Or try some local tapas.’
‘We call it pintxos here, actually,’ Tomas interjects.
‘Pintxos. Even better!’ Bill grins. His head is dipped to one side. I bet he knows how gorgeous he is.
‘It still feels… tacky to me. A bit gross. Like cashing in on her misery.’
‘If I may?’ I had almost forgotten Tomas was still there. ‘There is also the festival.’
OK, now I’m officially intrigued.
‘It is our Semana Grande – our Big Week, where every year we celebrate our city’s history and traditions. There are fireworks. In fact, an international fireworks competition.’
‘Wha—?’ I’m going to have to start wearing padded necklaces if my jaw is going to be dropping so often.
‘Ms Dunlop wanted to keep the fireworks a surprise from her gues
ts. They would have started just after dinner was served on the wedding day.’
Now I’m bummed out again.
‘It’s done. We’re staying. You can’t argue with “International Fireworks Competition”. That’s in the Geneva Convention.’ Bill nods decisively.
‘No, no, it’s not right, we shou—’
He turns those metallic eyes on me again. ‘Or would you like a fast cab back to the airport to take those two flights home again? On your own, of course.’
I only managed to deny Bill one thing last night (steady on, not like THAT): I refused to hit the bars straight away. I needed my bath, my bed and a full catch-up with mum when they’d docked somewhere with signal. Thursday had been crazy from start to finish.
But refreshed and fully charged on family gossip (Aunty Babs is threatening Christina with a second job at Asda to pay her poor father back for all the sodding lilies she insisted on) the next morning, I didn’t give even one groan of protest when Bill knocked on my door at 8am to get started with the exploring.
I mean, I did come all this way and risk a fiery death in order to try new things, take a few risks, didn’t I? And if new things involve the best hot chocolate on the face of the earth and a rather hot guide, I’m not going to shy away.
Though I’ll admit, I didn’t think it would involve huge jets of spa water aimed at my chalky white skin. This is the most bonkers spa I’ve ever heard off – in naturally formed caves, dimly lit and not smelling all that nice – but it has the most incredible feel to it, almost like it’s been hidden away for centuries and I’m just discovering it, this incredible secret.
‘Having fun yet?’ Bill shouts over the rushing water. He’s laughing and trying to dodge the jets in a series of weird bends and lunges. ‘I’ll be Catherine Zeta Jones, you be old Sean Connery perving on me.’
‘You are weird!’ I shout back. But I’m laughing too.
I hope the force of the water against my skin will count as some form of miraculous calorie burning because this morning started with the world’s creamiest hot chocolate and the flakiest almond pastries. Never mind feeling guilty about staying for a long weekend, I’m considering full-on emigration.
‘How about lunch?’ I yell over. ‘Tomas told me the best place for seafood.’
‘As you wish!’ Bill does a mock bow, and in bending down is caught full on the side of his head by a big jet of water. Ouch. Really shouldn’t laugh.
The food here involves another small leap of faith but as we’re sat in a gorgeous ancient courtyard, with the sun warming the cobbles under our feet, and all the other lunch-goers are fabulously stylish Europeans in chinos and designer shades, I’m not going to make a berk of myself by throwing a wobbly and ordering a cheese sandwich instead.
They have all these little nibble-sized dishes laid out on the bars. My knee-jerk and very English response is to think ‘HOW long has that been sitting out?!’ but the chilled crowds of people are all tucking in happily while they sip their glasses of wine. No one’s puking in a gutter. So it must be fine. If I do get lethal food poisoning, I’m sure Mum will set Uncle Brian on the bar for compensation, after the funeral.
‘Your round and your pick of pintxos, I think.’ Bill points at his empty glass.
‘Right. I’m definitely getting more of that ham and the oily cheese. Maybe some of those big prawns with the toast and sauce on top?’
'Sounds like a plan.'
As I weave my way through the tiny circular tables dotted in front of the many bars that face the square, strings of Spanish guitar music get louder and louder. The music weaves itself in and out of the maze of streets here, like it's a game of chase and you're just that bit too slow: as soon as you think you've found the band, it whispers away again.
But this tune is getting louder and louder, and now there are thick drums sending out a heady beat. If I was any drunker (and I'm only half tiddly so far) I might be tempted to get up and dance, like some of the glamorous Spanish grannies.
'Big bottle vino,' I signal to the amused bartender, then I point like a caveman at the plates I want. They have an amazing sense of trust in these bars. You either just take the plates of food you want directly from the bar and then bring them back at the end of the night, so they can be added up, Yo Sushi style, or you chalk a line for each dish on the bar in front of you. I don't think it'll catch on in my local Wetherspoons back home.
With my tray of wine and snacks, I start to wend my way back. The music is really crashing towards me now, so I swivel really slowly to look down the alleyway behind me.
And maybe I am super drunk after all.
These giant dolls are coming towards me, spinning this way and that, huge papier-mâché heads eight feet above the ground – men with pipes, women with baskets, priests with conical hats. The band I can hear are walking between them, deftly diving away when a doll weaves too close.
OK, so that's weird. I catch my flip flop on a cobblestone and nearly go arse over wine, but a nice old man catches me by the elbow and laughs sweetly.
It must be part of the festival week, celebrating culture just like Tomas said. Well, a bit of weirdness never hurt, not in the name of culture. Without it, Damien Hurst would be out of a job.
But just as I get back to our table, a hail storm of weird starts. Grown men start chasing children at breakneck speed, shouting something jovially but waving these big balloons over their heads with a sort of blood lust. I can only watch with horror and the feeling that I might have accidentally taken some acid, as a small boy is cornered in a baker's doorway and two happily laughing men start whacking him with balloons. They're brownish and sort of hard.
Bill's gob is just as smacked as mine. 'What the Jimmeny—’
I can tell he's not sure whether to leap forward to the kid's defence or applaud like the rest of the locals. He's rocking on the balls of his feet now, rubbing his hands across his scalp. 'Messed up,' he breathes.
'Is good luck!' My helpful little old man nudges Bill in the ribs. 'No bad! No worries! The evil is gone with pig – how you say? The pig…' He rubs his little paunch over his rough knit jumper.
'It's good luck to eat the ham?' I try to be helpful, pointing at my plate of the local cured ham.
'No, no,' he laughs again. 'In pig. In pig.'
'Bloody hell.' Bill worries at his stubbly head again.
'What?'
‘Um, sit down for this, Amy.’
I sit onto the cool iron chair and pick up a prawn toasty thing. 'What? They're not going to sacrifice the kids to a pig god, are they? Is this the Spanish Wicker Man?' I stop laughing when Bill's face stays on the stoney side.
‘You know how footballs used to be made out of pig's stomachs? You know, the ole pig skin?’
‘If you say so.’
He nods over to the square, where more and more children are getting the whacking of their lives and squealing in pleasure. ‘Look at the colour of that balloon. It's kind of brown. And dry. And irregular shaped…’
‘Ewww! No, no way!’
Our volunteer tour guide laughs and nods, giving me the double thumbs up.
It must be… a very old custom.
I rescue my ick face into a determined smile. New things. New steps. ‘OK! Culture is good, history is good. A long as I get to eat my—'
A thin flash of blue dashes past me, knocking my delicious prawn thingy to the floor.
‘Oi!’
Crouched behind our table is a whippet thin little guy, probably about eight, two tracks of tears running down his cheeks and onto his bright blue t-shirt. He puts his hands over his head, his eyes squeezed shut.
‘I think someone has had enough good luck for today,’ Bill murmurs over the table to me. ‘It's OK, mate, you're safe. Englais, si? No balloons, see, no balloons.’ He pretends to look up his sleeves, in his pockets, under his empty plate. ‘No balloons.’
The little runaway peeks up. With a big sigh he sits back on his bum and chatters away at a rate of knots.
>
‘Totally with you man, life sucks. Especially when you've got guys hitting you with an old pig’s bladder. Sucks. But things might turn up. If you look in the right places.’
Bill leans down, his hand grazing behind the boy's ear for just a second. And there's a flash of gold suddenly in his hand – a two Euro coin appears like… Well, magic.
The boy gasps in delight, taking the coin and holding it to his chest. With more chattering and nodding, he runs off.
Funny guy.
‘What was that?’ I splutter.
‘Oh, just a stupid trick I learnt when I was a kid. It's all about distraction, Ames. Misdirection and all that. Anyway, now you can tick “crazy local customs involving preserved offal” of your bucket list. Cheers.’
We clink our glasses. I wonder what else this guy is hiding under his cheeky smile?
We danced until dawn. People say that, but we really did. The live music, the processions, the natural flow between one bar to another to another; there was never a moment when it got tired or boring. Another first for me, and quite a few new drunken steps. Bill wasn't exactly a ballet dancer but he threw himself in to everything with the same ‘Why not?’ attitude that I was quickly learning to embrace. The usual me would have been sulking and trembling in equal measure at the departure lounge by now. This new holiday me twirled and whooped and jigged about with strangers young and old, sober and drunk.
When Bill and I finally skipped back to the hotel at 3am, I thought there was a moment – when we said goodbye at the lift – where he was maybe leaning down to kiss me. But he just shook his head, boozily laughed and said, ‘Goodnight, peanut!’ Or maybe he said ‘Goodnight! Peace out’? I was really too drunk to be a reliable witness.
SUNLOUNGER 2: Beach Read Bliss (Sunlounger Stories) Page 18