The Summerhouse by the Sea

by Jenny Oliver

  And Rory put his phone back in his pocket with a smile.

  CHAPTER 17

  The morning was perfect. Sky poster-paint blue. Sea calm as ice. Sand raked in perfect grooves like a comb through slick, gelled hair.

  Ava had slept badly, her dreams filled with images of Syd and her mother in an open-topped Cadillac. To block it out she’d got up when she heard Rory go for his run and took Max to Café Estrella.

  The view on the walk over was like staring at a painting come to life: breakfast was in full swing, everyone gossiping over their coffees and pastries, the birds jumping in and out of the fallen fig tree, Igor with a tray of toast and jam held high above his head to squeeze between the tables, and along the path from the car park a tiny ramshackle market – just a couple of stalls selling vegetables, fish, socks, pants and polyester housecoats. One old guy with a flat cap and a bushy black beard sat behind a small table selling mushrooms, big ones and tiny ones, measuring the weight on his scales before bagging them up. A woman opposite him was selling glistening fluorescent sweets, and next to her was a baker’s van, the infamous Everardo standing alongside selling bread.

  ‘My friend Emilio says it’s going to get windy,’ Max informed Ava as they perused the stalls.

  She squinted towards the glassy sea. ‘Really? Looks pretty calm to me.’

  ‘Emilio says his dad says that it’ll be windy this afternoon. That’s why he’s retying all the boats.’

  Ava looked out to where the path narrowed into a peninsula of towering pine trees and then down to the pontoon where, as Max had predicted, the boats rented out by the watersports shop were being fastened in preparation.

  They ordered some croissants and took the only vacant table, the market bringing everyone in early.

  ‘Emilio reckons I’ll be ready to mono-ski soon. That’s with one ski not two, Aunty Ava.’

  Ava made an impressed face.

  Igor brought their pastries and drinks.

  ‘I’m really good on two skis,’ Max carried on, delighted that he had such an interested audience, slurping chocolate milk so thick the spoon almost stood up on its own. ‘I wanted to go out today but they reckon the water will be too choppy for the speedboat. I hate the wind, don’t you, Aunty Ava?’

  Ava shook her head at him. ‘It’s not even windy yet, Max.’

  Max shrugged like that was of no consequence.

  Ava laughed, sitting back and holding her coffee cup in both hands.

  Everyone was there: Gabriela and her pug with a big bag of vegetables from the market in her basket, Rosa with her unfathomable knitting, the walrus-moustache man sitting back from the chess players, making comments to the mushroom seller when he didn’t agree with one of the moves.

  Ava watched Flora take Everardo an espresso then stand next to him, chatting while he drank. She studied him over the rim of her cup, his tall frame like a praying mantis. His skin was worn and pock-marked and he had the kind of eyes that might slide off his face, droopy but kind. She couldn’t work out whether he was incredibly ugly or dramatically stunning. He seemed to be able to make Flora laugh with very little effort; all dry one-liners that had her chortling away. Ava watched, intrigued.

  Then she looked at Max. It seemed like his kind of question. ‘Max,’ she asked, ‘do you think Everardo is really ugly or really good-looking?’

  Max swallowed his bite of pastry and did a full unsubtle twizzle in his seat. ‘Really ugly!’ he said immediately.

  Ava heard a tut from the table next to them. Gabriela was listening. ‘You are very naughty.’

  Ava winced.

  Max slithered down into his chair.

  Rosa stopped her knitting. ‘What are they saying?’ she asked.

  ‘They’re discussing how handsome Everardo might be,’ Gabriela explained. ‘And deciding not in his favour.’

  ‘That was Max!’ Ava said, momentarily thinking perhaps she shouldn’t pass the blame to a ten-year-old.

  Rosa lowered her knitting and turned to peer over her reading glasses to where Everardo was chatting to Flora.

  Gabriela sat back, arms crossed. ‘What do you think?’ she asked Rosa.

  Rosa scrunched up her face as if undecided, but veered towards Max’s opinion.

  Gabriela shook her head as if they were all being unfair. ‘I think that you can settle something like this by imagining them in a movie. Imagine him,’ she said, pointing at Everardo, ‘in something at the pictures. How many women would fall in love with him?’

  Ava laughed. ‘Would name him as their guilty crush?’

  ‘Ex-actly!’ Gabriela pointed a finger at her. ‘You’ve got it.’

  All four of them turned to stare at Everardo, Max squinting his eyes to get a better impression, Rosa leaning forwards to look over her glasses.

  Everardo, sensing he was being watched, glanced up, and they all sat back in an instant, like some choreographed comedy sketch. He frowned self-consciously and said something to Flora, who turned around to check, by which point they were all concentrating really hard on their individual tasks. Rosa’s knitting needles click-clacking away. Gabriela patting her dog. Ava furiously stirring her coffee, feeling the satisfaction of being in cahoots, being part of the gang.

  Flora shook her head and turned back. Everardo still looked wary as he folded himself into his van.

  Gabriela glanced across to catch Ava’s eye and gave her a thumbs up. Ava laughed, ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I see it.’ While Rosa sat back a little stunned as she nodded appreciatively.

  Flora strode over. She looked better. She’d had her roots done. Her hair was glossy and flounced and she was wearing a white dress covered in lemons. ‘What are you lot up to?’ she asked, eyes narrowed with suspicion.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Ava innocently. ‘So, Everardo?’ she said, pointing to where the white baker’s van was driving off up the hill. ‘Very handsome.’

  ‘Do you think?’ Flora asked, looking back to where the van was just disappearing round the bend. ‘I never know really.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Ava. She could see Gabriela and Rosa leaning forwards to eavesdrop in the background. ‘In a sort of unconventional Hollywood way.’

  Flora didn’t say anything, just looked and thought. ‘Interesting,’ she said in the end and wandered off towards the bar, the tanker of opinion slowly U-turning in her head, spurred on by someone else’s assessment.

  Once Flora was gone, Rosa did a little clap. Gabriela’s face concertinaed up in a satisfied grin, and Ava understood the camaraderie of gossip.

  Max turned, confused, and said to the three of them, ‘I still don’t get it. He’s really ugly.’

  Ava leant forwards and ruffled his hair, ‘You’re so cute. I think it’s probably a girl thing.’

  ‘Get off,’ Max batted her hand away with an imperceptible smile, smoothing his hair back into place.

  As Ava watched him preening himself, she realised that now would be the time she usually got her phone out – if she had ever found her phone since the night of Googling – to mark the end of an event. Rounding it off like a half-hour sitcom episode. And Max would no doubt have disappeared into his laptop doing whatever it was ten-year-olds did on their computers. And that was no bad thing. She and Max had fun together, even if that involved sitting side by side, both lost to their screens. But as she felt for a minute the absence of her phone, the desire for a pause, she realised that on the other side of that desire came a space to be filled. Like long car journeys or delays at airports. Time expanded before her like a bubble. Things were being said, innocuous things that might not have been said with the distraction of Instagram. The discussion about Everardo would have been a covert snap on her phone and a WhatsApp to Louise saying, Ugly or hot? But instead it got her an in to the gang, a shared laugh and a covert little matchmaking plan. She realised that at home all her friends were the same age as her, so when their life stages changed they did so en masse, with or without her. Here she was just one of many, age irrelevant. It
was as liberating as not having her phone.

  As she sat pondering this little interlude of wisdom, wondering what she might discuss next with Max, realising that his impending teenagehood would soon greatly reduce the opportunity to chat, it appeared that Max had been undergoing the same technology-free epiphany.

  So when Ava asked, ‘Hey, Max, have you got a girlfriend?’, he filled his time-expanding bubble with his own probing question: ‘Why aren’t you married, Aunty Ava? Dad says it’s because you’ve got FOMO.’

  CHAPTER 18

  ‘Jesus Christ, Max.’ Rory appeared fresh from his run, showered and changed but still a little red in the face and now even more so. ‘You can’t ask questions like that,’ he said, raising his hands either side of him in disbelief. But in so doing he knocked into Flora who was carrying a tray of espressos and a plate of pan con tomate. The coffee, the toast and the little jug of pulped tomato flipped forwards on to the table and Ava and Max jumped back as the liquid hit.

  Rory grabbed a bunch of waxy, unabsorbent napkins from the dispenser and started to mop it all up as best he could. ‘Sorry,’ he said to Flora. ‘Sorry,’ he said again, trying to control the mess but only making it worse.

  Ava had grabbed a wodge of napkins too and was trying to dab at the mixture.

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ said Rory, as he tried his best to clear up the spilt tomato. ‘Not for this,’ he added, pointing to the soggy napkins. ‘For that,’ he said, pointing to where Max was looking on with intrigued confusion. He’d picked up the camera Rory had brought with him and started filming with it on his shoulder.

  ‘You can’t blame him!’ Ava said, incredulous. ‘You’re the one that said it.’

  ‘Yeah, but not for you to hear,’ Rory replied, tone beseeching, hands dripping with tomato-and coffee-covered tissues.

  Ava stared at him, wide-eyed.

  He looked back at her, apologetic, then shrugged one shoulder and took the risk of a smile.

  ‘You are unbelievable,’ she said, sitting back with a half-laugh. ‘You get away with murder.’

  Flora bustled over with a roll of blue paper towels and, wiping up all the chaos on the table, said, ‘Are we still filming today?’

  Rory was standing to one side, quietly smiling to himself. ‘Yes. Absolutely. Let’s get started.’

  This should have been Ava’s cue to have another coffee or go for a swim, but today something made her want to join them. The appeal of company? The emptiness left by her mother’s letters? A desire to keep being part of something?

  She followed Max in the direction of the kitchen, dragging a high stool with her to sit in the doorway. An attempt had been made to wipe the window clean and the sun was streaking the air through the greasy smears.

  ‘So what are you cooking?’ Ava asked, quite excited to be in the hub, backstage, where customers weren’t usually allowed. The giant hobs and big stainless steel oven doors seeming vast and important. Like getting a glimpse into the staffroom at school, wondering what went on back there, what secrets were whispered.

  But to her disappointment, Rory and Flora looked equally unsure, turning the question back on each other.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Flora said. ‘What do you think, Rory?’

  ‘I don’t know either. Fish again?’

  Ava had been expecting to be wowed.

  The kitchen was stuffy. It smelt unused. A broken extractor fan ticked annoyingly in the corner.

  Next to her, Max sighed. ‘You need a thing,’ he said from behind the camera.

  ‘A thing?’ said Rory, perplexed, wiping the sweat from his face with a piece of kitchen towel.

  ‘What’s your thing?’ Max asked.

  ‘Honestly, darling,’ said Flora, ‘I have no idea what thing you are referring to.’

  ‘Your brand,’ said Max, poking his head out from behind the lens. ‘What you’re gonna market yourself as.’

  Rory shook his head. ‘What do they teach you at school?’

  ‘It’s branding, Dad, they don’t teach it to ten-year-olds at school. You just have to look around you. At Apple. Or Nike.’

  ‘Or the Kardashians,’ said Ava. ‘Or the Spice Girls,’ she added, getting into it.

  Max gave her a very dismissive look.

  ‘Well, what’s their brand?’ Flora asked, pointing towards Nino’s restaurant over the way.

  ‘I don’t know. They’re cool,’ said Max.

  ‘Cool can’t be a brand,’ said Ava, like she was suddenly an expert. ‘Hipster Spain,’ she added after some thought.

  ‘Good one,’ said Max.

  ‘I thought so,’ Ava agreed.

  Flora was still uncertain. ‘Well, what was Ricardo’s brand, what’s my brand going to be? I don’t have a brand!’

  ‘We’ll find you a brand, Flora, don’t worry,’ Max said, precociously consoling.

  Rory was standing back, arms crossed, looking impressed at his son, like he was basically an extension of himself, as if his right arm was the one doing the talking. Then he said, ‘I think Ricardo was all about gastronomy. Modern Spain. I think he’d want to be known for Spanish fine dining, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘So what am I?’ Flora was starting to look quite despondent. ‘An overweight British woman with a speciality in comfort food?’

  ‘No!’ said Ava, leaning forward and giving Flora’s shoulder a squeeze. ‘You’re a beautiful Brit–Spanish fusion.’

  ‘I hate the word fusion,’ Rory said, shaking his head. ‘There’s too much fusion in my opinion.’

  ‘Alright, MasterChef,’ said Ava, giving him a warning look. ‘We’re trying to look at the positives here.’

  Then suddenly they heard a hand smack the bar top and all turned to see raisin-tanned Gabriela waiting there, a startled pug sitting on the stool next to her. ‘All anyone wants,’ she drawled, ‘is simple, good food. That’s it,’ she said, making a final gesture with her hands. ‘You’re all sitting in there talking, time-wasting, when the answer is right in front of you. Get the bloody paella dish down. Get a pan on the hob. Fry up some peppers. Look at the lot of you! Talk, talk, talk, nothing gets done. That pan is not just for show, you know! Use it!’ She shook her head, exasperated. ‘You should be outside buying up the bloody market.’

  Ava was slightly concerned that Gabriela might have a heart attack, her wrinkled face flushing with exertion. ‘Come on!’ Gabriela raised her hands. ‘Get a tortilla going.’

  Flora was looking a little shell-shocked, as was Max.

  Ava turned to nod in agreement. ‘Oh, Flora,’ she said, ‘remember your tortilla? It was to die for.’

  Flora shook her head. ‘Ricardo axed it from the menu.’

  ‘So bring it back!’ Gabriela was not letting up. She was sighing heavenward as the pug quivered into the back of the stool. ‘Give me strength,’ she said, when none of them seemed to do anything. ‘You are a bunch of idiots!’ Then picking up the pug and depositing him on the cushioned chair at Flora’s desk, she elbowed her way into the kitchen, past Ava who got a sharp dig in the ribs. ‘If you want something done properly . . . I don’t know,’ she shook her head. ‘Rosa,’ she called through the hatch to her friend. ‘Rosa, get in here.’

  Rosa looked up at the sound of her name and immediately put her knitting away to scuttle towards the kitchen and join Gabriela.

  ‘Right,’ Gabriela said, pushing her sleeves up, bracelets clattering as she pointed to each person. ‘You,’ she said, pointing to Rory, ‘I saw you boiling that poor crab. What do you think you were doing? Cremating it? It’s already dead!’ she shouted like he was a complete imbecile. The tips of Rory’s cheeks flushed. ‘You have to be quick, you need to move.’ She went over and slammed her bony, ring-covered fingers on Rory’s hips. ‘Get these moving,’ she said. ‘You need el duende.’

  Max made a face to Ava, having no idea what Gabriela was talking about.

  Gabriela bent down, her face almost touching his, and whispered, ‘El duende. It’s the spirit, the emotion,�
�� she clicked her fingers, ‘it’s the passion, the magic. You can’t cook without any magic. It’s the thing that makes the little hairs,’ she took his arm and pulled his sleeve back, pointing to the fine blond hairs, ‘stand on end. Comprende?’

  Max nodded, absolutely terrified.

  Gabriela looked back to Rory. ‘Let me see the hips.’

  Rory, who clearly had no intention of gyrating his hips in a kitchen full of people, stepped back and nodded. ‘Will do,’ he said.

  ‘Now,’ said Gabriela. ‘Do it now. We want to see you can be trusted with the crab. Don’t be shy. You want to cook, first you’ve got to move your body like this. Look. I’m eighty-two . . .’

  They all watched as Gabriela started flicking her hips like a flamenco dancer, clicking her fingers above her head. Ava and Max giggled. Rory stood stiffly.

  ‘All of you, move them,’ Gabriela shouted, pointing to them each in turn with a wooden spoon that she’d picked up from the side.

  Ava wiggled her hips as best she could without getting off her chair, Max got right into the swing of things, circling around and around with the camera wobbling. Flora did some moves like a belly dancer, then giggled at herself, a little breathless.

  ‘Now you,’ said Gabriela, bashing Rory on the thigh with the spoon like a reluctant horse.

  The contact seemed to surprise Rory into a full gyration. He shocked even himself with the movement. But then, intrigued by the feeling, he did another, and another, then laughed, chuffed with himself as everyone cheered.

  ‘That is more like it,’ said Gabriela. ‘You are on the crab. We’ll make croquettes. Now you,’ she turned her wooden spoon on Ava.

  ‘I’m just watching,’ said Ava from her stool.

  ‘No one is just watching. Here,’ she reached into her shopping and pulled out a bag of potatoes, ‘you want tortilla? Get peeling. You,’ she looked at Max.

  ‘I’m filming,’ he said, voice high and nervous.

  ‘My left side is my best side,’ said Gabriela, pulling her lips into a deep-grooved pout. Then her eye was caught by something out the side window. ‘Is that the fish man?’ She pushed past Rory and opened the window, letting in the noise of an engine ticking over and the dismantling of the market stalls. ‘Marcus!’ she shouted. ‘Marcus, what fish have you got left?’