by Jenny Oliver
Ava nodded. Feeling a bit of a fraud for knowing half that info already. She turned to hand the photo back and found herself eye to eye with his chest. She stared a fraction too long as the wind caught his T-shirt, skimming it over the muscles of his chest, glanced at the sharpness of his jaw, took a step back, wondering if actually a quick one-night stand might be the answer, but then she looked up and recognised the look that she’d seen when he’d checked out the women on the beach, when he’d offered her a bed at his house for the night, a well-perfected louche prowess, an automatic response to any woman standing this close.
She almost laughed out loud but kept it in. ‘I’m going to get more lemons.’
Tom shrugged, finished his peach and chucked the stone towards the compost heap, but the wind caught it and it curved in mid-air, landing with a metallic thud.
‘What was that?’ he asked, looking over at the space between the overgrown compost heap and the tangle of brambles in the corner of the plot.
‘A wheelbarrow?’ Ava said, no idea what made metallic noises in gardens.
‘Doesn’t look like there’s space for a wheelbarrow,’ Tom said, striding over to have a look, weeds squashing beneath his flip flops, blustery breeze getting stronger.
Ava continued picking lemons, but when he said, ‘It’s not a wheelbarrow,’ curiosity got the better of her.
‘What is it?’ she asked, going over to join him, stuffing lemons in the pockets of her shorts.
‘I don’t know,’ he said, his arms scratching on the brambles as he hauled out a giant metal bowl thick with spiders’ webs and sticky with sap and old leaves.
‘There’s another bit,’ Ava pointed to a square-looking machine and some spokes in the thicket.
They both reached in to get it. The machine was heavier than it looked and stuck. The sides of their bodies pressed together as they pulled, the brambles drawing blood, the wind battering them into the fence.
Ava laughed at the effort, heaved again, pushed her hair away with the back of her wrist, and out of the corner of her eye caught a glimpse of him watching her, thick black lashes and gaze less lascivious.
She paused. Thought for a second that he looked like his character in Love-Struck High. Young. Normal.
Then the wind bellowed and her hair swept in front of her face again and the crusted earth and brambles gave up the machine and they both landed on their bums in the middle of the old courgette plant.
‘Well what the hell is it?’ Tom said, examining the silver tower, the moment between them over. He spun the big spoked wheel attached to the side, the edges scalloped with rust, the base of the tower speckled with mud, a fat black spider scurrying away over the levers.
‘It’s the churro machine!’ they heard a voice exclaim, and turned to see everyone outside watching, the wind flapping their clothes and aprons. To their surprise it was Rosa who had shouted. Quiet, knitting Rosa.
‘This was my father’s,’ she said, treading carefully over the weeds in her black leather lace-up shoes. She put her hand on her heart when she looked at it, knelt down and ran her finger along the edge of the spider-webbed bowl. ‘The best churro maker in town,’ she said, a sparkling smile beneath increasingly damp eyes.
Ava thought she might well up herself from the obvious emotion on the old woman’s face.
‘He won awards, you know?’ Rosa continued. ‘I have the trophies at home.’
‘Yeah?’ Ava smiled at her pride.
‘Oh yes, he was the very best.’
Ava looked up and caught Tom’s eye, watching her again, and he winked, mouth half-smiling, and she thought maybe the moment wasn’t over. Something between them had shifted. And unusually for Ava, it didn’t make her immediately want to back away.
‘Can we bring it in?’ Rosa asked, turning to seek permission from Flora.
‘Of course we can bloody bring it in,’ snapped Gabriela. ‘It’s gonna be the star of the bloody show.’
So together they hauled the machine inside, Rosa pointing to a spot underneath the television at the far end of the bar where it fit perfectly, like a lost relic swathed in ribbons of spiders’ webs. And they all sat, drinking red wine out of little glasses, listening to Rosa as she carefully wiped the dirt from the metal bowl and spoke about the history of Café Estrella: waiting tables after school, her mother in the kitchen, the whole town lining up for her father’s churros on the weekend, the queues snaking out on to the beach. And as they sat they ate all the amazing food that Flora and Rory had cooked. The paella bubbling with bright yellow rice and plump pink prawns, the chunks of oily purple octopus, the soft warm crab croquettes and the langoustine stew. And it made them think of possibilities. That maybe the café could rise again.
CHAPTER 21
For Ava and Tom, the next few days were spent cleaning and fixing the churro machine. Dashing from the safety of the covered bar area out into the battling wind to chuck soapy buckets of blackened water down the drain. Talking about not much. Laughing. Sort of flirting. Trying to work out how the stupid machine fitted together. Tom driving into the town to track down a new handle for the tap that the mixture came out of, and a new stand for the bowl of boiling oil that fried the churros. Every now and then Max would join them, bored of filming, moaning about the wind, and the flirting stopped. Just the odd covert look. It was all a nice distraction from her mother’s letters. Ava felt light. In the moment. Everything else shoved to the back.
She wondered how they were getting on without her at work. If she could only find her phone she would have texted Peregrine to check all was OK. She had a momentary vision of her desk, Hugo sitting there on the phone, doodling on her pad, a little jealous that they were no doubt getting on fine without her.
She had wanted to be deemed irreplaceable, but catching sight of Flora sashaying towards them, hair piled high, bright pink apron tied tight, phoenixing out of Ricardo’s ashes, she realised that no one was. The job would just be done differently. It would change to fit whoever took it. She wondered, giving the big churro bowl a last polish, whether she had convinced herself she was indispensable in order to never have to leave.
‘Darlings,’ Flora said, giving the wheel of the churro machine a little spin, ‘this looks sensational. Rosa is raring to go. She’s been here since dawn whipping up the batter.’
They looked into the kitchen to see Rosa with a dotty headscarf on, sleeves rolled up, stirring two huge vats – one of batter, the other dark chocolate dipping sauce. There was a giant lipstick-glistening smile on her face and she looked about twenty years younger.
Next to her Rory and Gabriela were prepping lunchtime tapas.
Flora stood with her hands on her hips, casting her eyes over the usual breakfast crowd. ‘Thing is we’re not really getting the word out,’ she said, concerned.
‘You need a sign or an A-board saying Tapas and Churros,’ Ava said, pointing to the front of the restaurant.
‘I do, but in this weather it’ll blow away,’ Flora said, looking out to where the wind had dropped a touch overnight but still whipped and bellowed enough to steal sun umbrellas from the sand.
‘We could do it,’ Max piped up. ‘We could shout for business.’
Ava made a face; she didn’t fancy walking up and down the beach calling for churros punters.
Tom, however, like her brother, seemed to have a knack for sensing when she was out of her comfort zone and a similar enjoyment of her discomfort. ‘I think that sounds like a great idea,’ he said. ‘Nice one, Max.’
Ava shook her head. ‘There’s no way I’m shouting on the beach.’
‘That’s very unsupportive, Ava,’ Tom said, tone serious, eyes laughing.
‘Yeah, Aunty Ava, VERY unsupportive,’ Max chipped in.
‘Oh God.’ She put her head back to stare at the ceiling. ‘Come on then,’ she sighed, resigned.
Flora clapped with delight and beckoned for Rosa to come out and get the churros show started.
Two minutes later, all
Rory could hear was Max’s voice yelling, ‘Best churros in Spain – freshly made, see it now. Get yours while it’s hot. Fool to miss it!’
Rory turned to see him through the kitchen hatch, on the beach, walking up and down in the sand, wind ruffling his hair, ushering people inside. Ava stood with her hand over her eyes, refusing to join in until Max pushed her towards a group of suntanners shielded by a windbreak, while Tom looked on grinning before casually chatting up passers-by, laughing with them, leading them in the direction of the bar where Rosa was stirring great wheels of churros in hot, sizzling oil. They’d watch her fish them out with her wire net and drench them in sugar, then nod as they tasted, dipped the warm churros into glossy sweet chocolate, and Tom would smile as they sighed, his look plain, ‘I told you so,’ and then he’d leave them charmed and beaming so they could fill up with more. Rory watched him turn to Ava as if to say, that’s how it’s done, then saw Ava’s competitiveness fire up in an instant, saw her push her hair back with her sunglasses, roll her shoulders and stalk off down the beach to do better. Her stubbornness made him smile with recognition. The ease with which she could be wound up.
As kids, their arguments would go on for days. He’d put up a wall of silence as she ranted and raved behind him and their dad went into the garden for some peace. He wondered if he was doing the same thing now with his wife.
Watching Ava he realised that Claire would describe him exactly as he had his sister. They were as stubborn as each other. He wanted both Claire and Ava to see the world as he did. The past as he did. Because he knew he was right. But then, even if he discovered he was wrong, he knew he wouldn’t back down. Just maybe tweak his argument a little bit.
He ran his tongue along his bottom lip as he thought. As he pieced together these discoveries about himself by watching his sister. Considered his final argument with Claire. Re-ran everything she had said, and wondered, if he’d just listened to her point, whether he might have agreed with her and they could have moved on.
He thought about his dad’s cool, considered response to his mother and wondered, if he asked him now whether it would have been better if they had tried harder to find out what she was chasing rather than just telling her she would never find it, what his answer would be. It would be no, he knew it without having to ask. A stubborn no. The past unwavering.
Max was still shouting. Rory briefly wondered if he should go out and tell him to be quiet. He didn’t want him upsetting people. Out the side window of the kitchen he could see the guys from Nino’s watching, shooting daggers their way. But Rory held himself back because as many people as were walking past with brows raised, were poking their heads in, were edging into the darkness to have a nose at the churro machine, to watch Rosa expertly piping her fluffy delicacies, to sample a strand drenched in the chocolate that Flora poured. And Rory thought, why not? Why not make a bit of noise for once?
Somehow Max’s yelling was like the complete antidote to everything he felt about his job and his life, to all the Twitter vitriol and his stupid #SwanLovesGoose kidnapping error. Like Pac-Man gobbling up the tweets. Max shouting at the top of his voice into the wide open air.
‘Are you planning to do any work?’ The snap of Gabriela’s voice brought him back down to earth.
‘Sorry,’ he said, turning from the scene outside and going back to prepping his sardines.
So he cooked. And cooked and cooked. His mind quietly at peace. He could hear Max shouting, Tom charming, Ava nattering, Flora laughing. He burnt things, he underseasoned, he overseasoned, he got told off by Gabriela, he started again, he got stressed when orders started pouring in – the churros customers were intrigued enough to sample the tapas – and relaxed when it started to settle down.
Relaxed enough to turn to Gabriela in a moment of quiet and say, ‘Why, before, when we started filming, did you make Flora think it would be better to sell this place?’
Gabriela looked shocked at the very idea. ‘I never said that.’
‘Yes you did. You said it would take more than the film to make this place anything, that she was better off selling.’
‘I do not think I did, young man.’
Rory frowned, pulled his bandana off and stood with his hands on his hips. ‘I can rewind the tape.’
Gabriela’s lips pursed. Then she went back to the scallops she was opening, prising the shells apart expertly with the tip of her knife. ‘Do you know what it’s like to watch someone fade away in unhappiness?’
Rory was struck by a blinding image of his mother sitting at the dressing table in her bedroom. The curtains closed. ‘This isn’t the life for me, sweet Rory. This isn’t the life I was born for.’
Looking straight at Gabriela, he swallowed and said, ‘Yes. Yes I do.’
‘Well then, you know you try everything you can to make them happy again, yes?’
Rory licked his lips, nodded.
‘We’ve seen what this place can do to people. It’s not easy. We’ve watched Flora. We’ve seen who she has become. For you she’s got her act on. But I’ve picked her up, sobbing, off the floor.’ Gabriela put the shell down on the chopping board, stood with both hands braced and turned to look at Rory, ‘You know what that’s like?’
Rory paused, glanced briefly at the floor then nodded again.
Gabriela studied him. Seemed to see straight into his soul. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I suppose you do.’ She looked down at her hands, twisted her rings, seemed to be taking a moment because she had forgotten about Rory’s mother – her dear friend Val’s daughter – and when she spoke again there was a new respect in her voice. ‘I will admit that it has been different though, since you all came. I think maybe she’s starting to realise she can do it without him.’ She sighed, as if she wasn’t sure either way, picked up the next scallop from the bucket and went back to work.
Rory thought she had finished, but then she said, ‘I admit, I was wrong.’ He felt his mouth pull into a smile. Then she turned to glare at him, waving her knife as she added, ‘I won’t say that on camera.’
Rory shook his head.
‘No,’ she said, emphatic. Then opening the next scallop shell, she added, ‘Sometimes you need other people to help you see things. Maybe that’s the case,’ as if pondering to herself. ‘Look at Rosa. She’s been my friend for sixty years, I never thought she’d tear up over some churros. I’ve never seen her so happy.’
Rory watched Gabriela shelling the scallops for a moment. Then glanced over his shoulder at Rosa cleaning down the churro machine ready for tomorrow’s breakfast, and next to her Flora, glowing with confidence, holding court with the customers.
He thought of his wife. He thought about everything she did. Everything she had done. All the time at home when he had been away filming, that in his mind was blank – it wasn’t blank at all, but her getting on with things. Getting on with life, with Max’s life. From this vantage point, relaxed and calm in the café kitchen rather than caught up in the domestic melee, he could see that she had picked up the flak for him over the years, held the fort, been the mainstay of their family. Unsung. Unthanked. He could see it. Suddenly it seemed so obvious. And suddenly his need to be right lost all its power.
Pointing to the back door, he said to Gabriela, ‘I’m just going to take a break.’
She waved her knife again. ‘Not for long, young man.’
‘Be careful with that thing,’ Rory said, backing away as he untied his apron and, leaving it on the surface, stepped out into the humid, breathless heat of the vegetable patch, the warm wind taking a rest.
He sat down on the rickety bench, hands clasped in front of him, elbows on his knees, and looked out at the dying tomatoes.
He took his old Nokia from his pocket.
I’m sorry, he wrote.
The response came back immediately. That’s a good start.
CHAPTER 22
Igor the waiter watched on, eyes curious with suspicion as the queues for churros grew, as the smell of garlic frying a
nd chicken roasting wafted out from the kitchen, as customers edged in and tables filled. And tapas now sat temptingly on big white plates, tiered on the old silver stands at the end of the bar. Igor’s days of cleaning glasses and watching TV were over as hands were raised in his direction. People wanted coffee with their churros, beer with their tapas, ice cold sherry or a fruit-packed jug of sangria.
‘Sangria?’ he frowned, as he sloped behind the bar. ‘No one’s drunk sangria here in ten years.’
‘Sangria?’ Flora exclaimed. ‘What an excellent idea, I’ll have a sangria. Igor, make some for us back here in the kitchen will you?’
‘A good sangria has to sit,’ said Igor.
‘Oh bugger that,’ Flora scoffed. ‘Just get it made.’
Igor grumbled, pulling an ancient bottle of brandy down from the shelf, expertly concocting what looked to Ava, who was sitting on one of the bar stools sampling the tapas, like a lethally strong jug of sangria. His movements became lighter, quicker, the more he made. The weight of boredom beginning to lift.
‘I’ll have one of them,’ she said. Tom, who was next to her, eating little anchovies and bread warm from the oven, held up his hand for Igor to include him in the order.
Max had been invited to a pool party at a house up on the hill by one of Emilio’s sister’s friends. He’d gone home to get changed and appeared back now all dressed up in his jeans and a shirt, a million freckles on his excited face, sun-bleached hair slicked back with what Ava presumed from the scent as he came closer was her phenomenally expensive styling foam.
‘Nice hair,’ she said. Max blushed. She’d asked him to pick up her towel and swimsuit for her, and he threw the hastily stuffed bag her way to distract from any more embarrassing grooming comments. ‘Oh this is nicely packed, Max, thanks,’ she added, brow raised as she looked down at the crushed towel and squidged-in swimsuit.
Max just grinned and, looking past her into the kitchen, shouted, ‘Dad, I’ve gotta go,’ hopping from one foot to the other. ‘Come on, we’re going to be late.’ The only thing stopping him looking like a teenager was the chocolate round his mouth from all the churros he’d eaten that day.