by Jo Thomas
‘And you.’ She blows a kiss and hangs up.
I stand and look at the restaurant, still imagining it covered in fairy lights, and some in the trees too. It could be magical, I think. And then I realise that something is different. The tables are missing from the courtyard, underneath the pergola, and there seems to be more furniture than usual crammed on to the terrace. Bonita is waving her bingo wings around, swishing her tea towel at tables and chairs. Frank is gesticulating back, talking quickly and loudly and trying to move tables into places they won’t fit.
‘Hola,’ I say, stepping up on to the terrace. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Valentina is not here and we have a birthday party. The baker’s mother is eighty. It is a family party. As well as the town’s baker, he is also the mayor of Colina de Flor. But now, with the rain, we have to move all the diners to eat on the terrace rather than under there.’ Frank points to the bamboo-covered pergola, where little trickles of rainwater are leaking through. ‘There is no sign of Antonio.’ He shrugs. ‘No doubt he’ll be worrying about his cherries. It’s all he ever worries about. That and his horses. If it rains, it can ruin the crop.’
‘Oh no,’ I say. ‘I would have thought a little rain would be good for them.’
He shrugs and smiles. ‘A little rain. But not lots. Too cold, or too much rain, and it will affect the amount of cherries. Too little water and it will reduce their size.’
‘So are you a cherry farmer too?’
‘I have a few trees. My family’s.’ He nods to Bonita. ‘Everyone here has a few. But Antonio has the most trees in our town cooperative. Now is the most important time of year in caring for the cherry trees to ensure a good crop. We barely see Antonio at the restaurant as it is, but hardly ever in March and April, or June when the harvest comes.’
‘And his visitor?’ I ask, nodding towards the apartment.
‘He hasn’t come out of his room,’ Bonita tells me.
Frank tries to move another table into an impossibly tight space.
‘Here, let me help,’ I say, pulling my bag over my head and dumping it on a chair. I try and help shift the tables this way and that, but it’s a tight squeeze.
‘And the patio heaters will need to come on here too,’ Frank says, looking doubtful. Bonita throws her tea towel up in the air and waddles back off to the kitchen, her wide bottom swinging violently to and fro.
We finally fit all the tables on to the terrace amongst the patio heaters, like a jigsaw puzzle, but there’s no room to move between them.
‘This is ridiculous!’ I put my hands on my hips.
‘It’s the only way.’ Frank shrugs.
‘Why don’t we just move some of them inside, into the house itself?’
He looks at me in disbelief, and then shakes his head.
‘Valentina would never allow it. She thinks people come here for the outside, like the bars in the port: outside eating with heaters and cocktails.’
‘But it’s beautiful in here.’ I glance into the small room with the old fireplace, then step in through the other door to the bar.
‘And no one ever orders cocktails.’ Frank follows me. ‘The tourists don’t come here. This is where the locals eat. They want jugs of wine, but Valentina makes them buy bottles from her supplier. There are so many producers round here who could provide the wine. Like they used to . . .’ He tails off as Bonita appears to see what we’re doing. I move back on to the terrace, looking at the tables.
‘Here, help me move this.’ I point to a small table. Frank frowns but does it anyway. Bonita puts her hand to her forehead and disappears back to the kitchen.
We carry the table into the little room. Beyond that, in the old storeroom, there are boxes of old terracotta jugs and brightly painted bowls – blues, whites and yellows. I pull them out and we move a table in there too.
I run down to the lane and pick some of the wild flowers from the roadside, then put a small bunch in a glass on each table. I arrange the terracotta jugs and bowls along the whitewashed shelves in the old kitchen, then move the stools no one uses out of the bar and put three tables in there at an angle.
I stand back and admire our work with pride. ‘I can’t believe Valentina hasn’t thought of doing this.’
‘She will never agree to it!’ Frank shakes his head anxiously. Bonita is staying well clear and is busy banging around crossly in the kitchen; making sure there is a pile of washing-up for me to do when I get in there, no doubt.
‘But it’s lovely,’ I say, puzzled. Outside is amazing, but these small whitewashed rooms are just incredible, so atmospheric.
‘She thinks people want to eat outside, whatever the weather. She thinks the tourists want that. She doesn’t want the locals. She thinks they don’t spend enough money.’
‘But at the moment they are the only ones spending any money,’ I point out. He nods reluctantly.
I have a sudden idea. ‘One last thing,’ I say, and run all the way to my finca, returning out of breath holding the bunch of fairy lights I brought from home to put up in the bar when I finally move in. I arrange them in the old fireplace, along the shelves and around the door to the storeroom, and switch on the battery packs. They look amazing.
Bonita comes out, mutters some kind of prayer to the gods, then heads straight back to the kitchen.
‘If Valentina turns up, blame me. Say I did it,’ I tell Frank, not wanting to get him or Bonita into trouble. ‘And if she doesn’t turn up, no one will ever know. We’ll put the tables back once the rain has passed. And this way you’ll be able to serve everyone far more easily.’
He looks at me, unsure.
‘Just give it a go. It’s that or the tables squished on to the terrace.’ I raise an eyebrow encouragingly.
Finally his face breaks into a smile.
‘OK, washing-up girl, we’ll try it. We can always put it back tomorrow.’
‘Deal!’ I return his warm smile and think about what Harold said earlier: ‘It does sometimes rain, otherwise nothing would grow.’ And something inside me feels like the rain might just help me grow a little bit too.
At the end of the evening I’m sweeping the floor, feeling not unlike Cinderella dreaming of going to the ball, only I’m dreaming that in just a couple of months’ time I’ll be in the Butterfly Bar, closing up and cashing up my till. The last of the baker’s family are leaving, kissing each other and saying goodnight loudly. Everyone is in high spirits, shaking Frank’s hand and thanking Bonita for cooking the specially requested menu: simple Spanish dishes, just as they like. Cool, refreshing gazpacho, tomatoey and garlicky, with a kick of chilli, served with fresh basil leaves and crusty pan rustico, made by Bonita in the outside bread oven. This was followed by big dishes of paella: dark yellow paprika- and saffron-infused rice, fat mussels in their shells and tasty squid, bright red peppers and chunky chopped tomatoes, wedges of sharp lemon scattered over the top along with juicy pink prawns. And afterwards, churros, soft fat doughnuts piped Spanish style, like plump sausages with grooves indented around the edges; perfect for soaking up the rich dark chocolate dipping sauce.
I smile as I watch them leave. I don’t think there’s going to be much in the way of leftovers tonight.
‘All OK?’ I ask Frank as he comes into the kitchen. I’m putting away the pans I’ve washed in the order Bonita likes them.
‘Excellent,’ he says, holding a bunch of notes. ‘They left a good tip. Here, take this.’ He hands me half of them.
I look at the notes. I’d like to refuse, tell him to keep them. But I can’t. I need all the money I can get right now.
‘It was your idea to move the tables inside. They loved it. Pedro – that’s the baker – his nephew was sitting in the little room; they got engaged. The family were delighted. It must have been the romantic lighting.’ He laughs. ‘Imagine if we’d had to cancel because of the w
eather!’
He looks out. It’s stopped raining now.
‘Maybe you’ll let me take you out some time to enjoy some romantic lighting of our own.’
‘That’s very kind of you, Frank, but . . . well, let’s just say I’m getting over someone. I’m happier on my own from now on.’
He laughs and so do I, and Bonita, who’s been listening to our exchange, seems to breathe a sigh of relief.
‘I won’t stop trying,’ he says with a cheeky smile. ‘The best way to mend a broken heart is to find new love. I can help.’
‘You are a good friend, Frank. Thank you,’ I say, laughing. If it hadn’t been for his warm welcome, I might just have packed up and gone home after that first night here.
I look at the money in my hand. Nearly as much as I’ve earned all day. It’ll go straight into my savings jar for the Butterfly Bar. I know now, absolutely, that this is what I want to do. I might never get to organise my own wedding, but running a bar will do me just fine. It feels like pieces of the broken person Will left behind are beginning to stick themselves back together.
‘You go, I’ll close up,’ I tell Frank as he pushes his share of the tip into his wallet.
‘If I can’t tempt you out, I will try my luck at the casino down at the port,’ he tells me. And with a spring in his step, he jogs across the wide terrace, following Bonita down the couple of steps and out on to the patio.
I pull the big black bag out of the bin under the sink, tie the top and carry it out through the back door.
‘Oh, blow!’ I realise I’ve forgotten to take out the scraps for the little cat. I know there was some chicken in there, and maybe some rice from yesterday’s tagine . . . or at least I think that’s what it was. I wish Bonita could choose to cook what she feels is right, like she did tonight. Local, fresh ingredients, prepared Spanish style. If her cakes are anything to go by, and tonight’s birthday menu, she’s a great home cook; just not this muddled stuff that Valentina has set her to. If she can’t get it right, will Valentina look for someone else who can? No wonder Bonita’s so grumpy. She’s worried about her job.
I reach over into the big wheelie bin and undo the top of the bag. I can barely see in the dark. Oh God, I hope there’re no rats lurking, waiting for their dinner. I pull out my phone and switch on the torch, then lean in to the bag and make a grab for a scrunched-up piece of tin foil. I smooth it out, then carefully pick out the pieces of chicken and scoop up some rice. I wrap it all in the foil and return to the kitchen to wash my hands. That done, I go back outside with another bag of rubbish.
‘Aargh!’ My heart leaps into my mouth. There’s a big dark figure leaning against the bin. I’m frozen to the spot.
‘Pardona. Sorry,’ the figure says. ‘I . . . didn’t mean to scare you,’ he adds in slightly stilted, rusty English.
‘I . . .’ I suddenly realise I’m in the middle of nowhere, on my own, with no idea how I’d get help if I needed it.
‘I am Miguel,’ he says, coming to stand in the light, and with a surge of relief I recognise him as the young man who arrived here yesterday with Antonio. ‘Here, let me help you.’ He takes the black bag from me. ‘In here?’ he asks, pointing to the big bin.
I nod. ‘Yes. Sí. Gracias.’
‘I am . . .’ He turns to me, and then stops as if running out of words.
‘You’re staying here?’ I try and help him finish his sentence. Up close, I can see he looks very much like Antonio. Big shoulders, though not quite as broad as Antonio’s. A smaller nose, almost button-like. The same big dark eyes. His hair is shorter but just as unruly; it is scraped back off his face, but the odd strand attempts to escape as he runs his hand over the top of his head. He’s young, in his late teens I’d say, judging by the teenagers I’ve served burgers to over the years.
He nods. ‘I am Antonio’s . . .’ He seems to find the words new and unfamiliar. ‘I am Antonio’s son.’ He shrugs, as if he’s not really sure what that means.
‘Well,’ I smile, ‘I’m Beti.’ I put out a hand, then run it down my apron to dry it and put it out again. ‘Looks like we’re both new around here,’ I say.
He looks at me and I feel some kind of solidarity between us. There is a sadness behind those eyes, and I get the feeling he senses the same thing in me too.
‘Pleased to meet you, Beti,’ he says, shaking my hand. For a moment neither of us knows what to say.
‘I thought everyone had gone. I was just getting some air . . . trying to get signal,’ he says, holding up his phone, ‘but there isn’t any down here. Works fine in the apartment.’
‘Ah, you’re in a dip down here. Up in the orchard is best,’ I say. ‘My finca gets it because I’m in the top corner.’
‘When did you arrive here?’ he asks.
‘Just a few days ago,’ I tell him.
‘I came yesterday.’
I nod. ‘I saw.’
‘I take it you and Antonio don’t get on.’ He glances in the direction of the apartment.
‘Truth is, I’d never met him before. I didn’t know who he was at first.’ I drop my voice.
‘Well you certainly told him what you thought of him,’ Miguel says, and suddenly laughs. I can’t help but laugh too.
‘I’m not sure it was the best first impression I could have made with my boss,’ I say. ‘I’d had a bad day. Now I’m not sure he likes me very much.’
‘I’m not sure he likes me either,’ Miguel says, though he’s still smiling, ‘and he definitely doesn’t like my mother. He only seems to like his horses.’
‘Well, we’d better stick together then. Um . . . you didn’t leave some branches on my doorstep, did you?’
‘No.’ He shakes his head. ‘Why?’
‘Oh, no reason.’ Perhaps it was Frank, I think. ‘Nice to meet you, Miguel, buenas noches.’
‘Nice to meet you too, Beti,’ and he wanders off towards the path up the cherry orchard. I turn and return to the kitchen to finish up.
Upstairs, Antonio leaned against the concrete railing outside his apartment. Ah, the girl who had told him he was sour. A tiny sad smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. So his son thought he only liked horses, did he? He looked back down at his phone and the message from Miguel’s mother. The boy was right about one thing: Antonio didn’t have a lot of time for his ex. He might not have been much of a father over the years, but how could he let this situation carry on, allowing Miguel to grow up in a home where he wasn’t wanted? He’d have to try and find a way to make it right. He’d start by ignoring Esmeralda’s preposterous demands.
He pressed delete on his phone, firmly, then shoved it back into his pocket. He watched the light up in the cherry orchard where Miguel was searching for a signal, and another winding its way around the path up to the little finca. He would have to work harder to try and get to know both his new guests. He saw what she had done in the restaurant this evening. Saved the day, by all accounts. What was someone like her doing working as a washer-upper in his restaurant? She intrigued him. He must thank her. And, he resolved, he must get Valentina back. The restaurant needed her, and he needed to make it up to her for springing Miguel on her. He would have to make more of an effort all round if he was going to hang on to his son, his home and his business.
Chapter Eleven
I sit on the broken bench outside my finca, pull off my shoes and roll my aching feet around. The little grey cat joins me on the bench, trying to get my attention, rubbing against me one minute, and flicking her tail and walking away the next. I think she should have a name. Maybe Ana, after Cortijo Ana.
‘Hola, Ana,’ I say, and stroke her head. Then I close my eyes and breathe in deeply. The rain has stopped, and there’s something in the air. It smells different. There’s a perfume there.
I pull out my phone. As I expected, there is no word from Will. I slam the cover shut on it an
d hold it to my lips. It’s time for the madness to stop. He’s not coming back. We were so close; we nearly had it all. But like a game of snakes and ladders, I’m starting from go again.
I stand up and walk into the house. I put my phone in a drawer in the little kitchen area and slam it shut. I’m not being a slave to it any more. No more waiting for Will to get in touch. From now on, I’ll check in on it once a week, to let Mum and Dad know I’m fine. That’s eleven weeks, eleven weekly updates until I take over the Butterfly Bar and invite them out to see it.
I count up my earnings at the little wooden table and jot them down in my notebook. Then I put a few euros into my purse for bus fares and the rest in my jar, and screw the lid back on tightly. I’ve still got a long way to go, but at least I’m going in the right direction. I put the jar back on the shelf next to the cups and head for bed. It feels like I’ve finally thrown the dice again, moved off go and am making my way back up the board, hoping to land a big ladder soon!
The next morning I’m woken by the sun streaming in through the thin curtains of my little bedroom window. I climb out of the huge, high bed with effort. It’s so comfortable; I haven’t slept on a bed this comfy ever. Despite doing mental sums over and over in my head last night, fretting over how much I need to make, how many hours I need to work, I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.
I put the kettle on and open the front door to let the morning air in. For a moment the sun blinds me, but as my eyes adjust, I catch my breath, then rub them, just to make sure I’m seeing things right. It’s like a snow scene, laid out in front of me all the way down the valley; a scene from a Christmas card. Except after a moment I realise it isn’t snow at all. It’s blossom. White cherry blossom. Overhead the sky is a clear cobalt blue. Just a few wisps of departing cloud. And all around me, everything is white. The branches reach out to neighbouring trees, creating canopies that I just want to run through. And the floral perfume – of red poppies, and white and yellow daisies, and the heady sensual scent of the jasmine that seems to have burst into life – it’s amazing! As if Mother Nature has suddenly waved her wand, like a fairy godmother, and transformed everything around me. The sweet floral perfume is filling the air and my soul with it.