by Jo Thomas
‘Um, look, Antonio, about yesterday . . .’
‘Ah, yes. You were telling your friend your plans for your place.’ He hooks the reins over Suerte’s head and starts to lead the horse back to the paddock.
‘About that . . . It was . . .’ I search for an explanation as I fall into step beside him, not looking him in the eye. ‘I was just joking,’ I say, only it was far from a laughing matter. ‘It’s complicated. She’s my cousin, my only cousin, but we don’t really get along . . .’
‘And you think I should have more fairy lights down the drive?’
I can’t read his face. I can’t tell if he’s about to call me out for being so presumptuous, or laugh at me. I stop walking, and to my surprise he does too. He actually looks as if he wants to hear my reply.
‘Yes, I do,’ I say. ‘I think there’s loads you could do with this place. I mean, if you wanted me to, I could suggest some things. Help out a bit more. I’ve got some thoughts I could—’
‘It’s Valentina you’ll have to talk to. She’s in charge around here. I have enough to do with the horses, the cherry trees and a watering system that’s given up on me. I don’t get involved in the restaurant . . . or do the washing-up. Tell your friend!’
He raises an eyebrow and I think he may be smiling as he walks off, leading the horse with one hand, waving at a flock of starlings with the other. He calls for Miguel again, and the young man appears with a cup of coffee in one hand and his phone in the other.
‘Hola, Beti!’ he smiles.
‘Hola, Miguel!’
Antonio looks at Miguel and then at me, and a look washes over his face, as if an idea is forming there. But I have my own thoughts crashing around my head. Antonio is right. I need to get in Valentina’s good books. Get her onside and then come up with some other money-making ideas. And if she likes them, I could get her to give me more work. Let’s hope she comes back soon. Obviously the flamenco is a no-no. I still don’t know why it’s banned, and I’m desperate to find out more, but I don’t think Antonio and I are on good enough terms for me to pry. At least yesterday’s embarrassing events seem to be forgotten. And with Olivia and Gav gone, I can put it all behind me.
I say goodbye to Antonio and Miguel and tell them I’m going to the harbour to look for a job. As I leave, Antonio has started fiddling with the pump again, whilst Miguel carries on working on the nets. I can’t help but think he must be starting to feel like a prisoner in his own home. There’s no one of his own age around here. I hope he doesn’t get too bored. Bored teenagers are the ones that find themselves in the most trouble. What he needs is a purpose. I think about my own situation, and how if I can earn the money for the bar, I’ll be able to show everyone back home that I’ve achieved something to be proud of. I hope Miguel finds his way in life too, and soon.
Chapter Seventeen
Down by the harbour it’s perfect weather. Blue skies, not a cloud to be seen and gloriously warm. The market is set up around the precinct, selling produce of all sorts: cheese, fish, meat, honey and vegetables, olives and oranges. There are also artists selling their paintings alongside potters and soap-makers. All under cream awnings that look like pointed straw hats. There’s a relaxed, laid-back feel to the market, to match the gentle sunshine; a heady mix of English and Spanish voices, setting up stalls and sharing laughter and chat. A lull before the crowds of holidaymakers return in the school holidays. I look at the wonderful variety of foods and decide to wander round after I’ve found myself some work. I wish I had a hobby that made something I could sell here at the market, but I really can’t think of anything.
Now to the task at hand. I intend to start at the beginning of the line of shops and restaurants along the harbour and work my way around. I take a deep breath and set off with determination.
After a ‘no, sorry’ from the gift shop, the kayak hire shop, the waterside bar – where the owner, from Dover, asked if I would be prepared to do topless waitressing – I reach the Pink Flamingo nightclub, where Will and I spent our last night together before he went off to play poker and my life as I knew it came to an abrupt end.
There’s no one on the front desk by the cloakroom. I push through a dusty, sun-bleached purple curtain. It’s dark inside the club, and it takes my eyes a moment to adjust. There on stage is Maxine, the manager, pacing out what looks to be a dance routine, holding a bottle of water in one hand, miming to a Cher number.
‘Hello?’ I call. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Oh!’ she says peering into the dark. ‘It’s you – Beti, isn’t it?’ She steps down from the stage. ‘You caught me in the act, so to speak. I manage this place now, but I can’t help keeping my hand in. You never know when you might have to fill in.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt. I just wondered if you had any work going – cleaning, anything? Daytimes really, because I work in a restaurant in the evening.’
‘Sorry, love, I’m all fine with staff, unless you’ve got some fabulous tribute act I could book you for. With those looks I’m thinking you could do a great Adele.’
‘Thanks, but no.’ I hold up my hand, thinking that that just about sums up my pear shape and mousy brown hair. I’ve always been a bit embarrassed about my less-than-slender figure, so unlike Olivia’s. But I’ll take it as a compliment – Adele is a legend after all.
Maxine takes a swig of water.
‘You’re great!’ I tell her. ‘Have you always been Cher?’
‘Well, I started off wanting to be the next Barbra Streisand, but then who doesn’t?’
‘Not me,’ I laugh.
‘I ended up as a dance teacher in my local village hall. Thought, “Is this it?” I wanted a change of direction and moved out here. And yes, there was a man behind it! I was doing bar work, anything I could get – a bit like you – and then I realised there was money to be made as a Cher lookalike. Did it at karaoke one night and then developed the act. It’s not quite what I thought I’d end up doing, but hey! Now, how are the plans going for taking over the Butterfly Bar?’
I let out a long, slow blow of air.
‘Why the sad face?’ Maxine asks.
‘Let’s just say things aren’t going how I’d hoped they would – and yes, there’s a man behind it!’
We both laugh.
‘Come on,’ Maxine says. ‘I’m meeting Craig for a drink. Looks like you could do with one too.’
‘Oh no, really, I should get on. I need to find some work and check my emails. Though my phone’s dead at the moment.’
‘Plug it in at Brenda and Harold’s. They won’t mind. We could always work up that Adele tribute act!’
‘I’m not sure,’ I say slowly. ‘I don’t know if I’m ready to see everyone until I’ve got my money situation sorted.’
‘Well, you know what they say, fake it until you make it. Never let the audience know you’re bricking it!’ Sensing I need a little more persuading, she puts her arm around me and directs me out of the club and in the direction of the Butterfly Bar.
Craig is already there when we arrive.
‘What’s it to be?’ Harold asks cheerfully. ‘Wine, sangria, cherry brandies?’
I smile and kiss him lightly on the cheek. I’m glad I came. I plug my phone in just inside the glass patio doors and wait for it to come back to life. It hasn’t been charged since I threw it in the drawer a couple of days ago. Despite promising myself I wouldn’t get it out for at least a week, I thought it might be useful if any jobs came up and I needed to give out my number.
‘Just coffee for me, I have to work tonight,’ I say, wondering if tonight will be as busy as it was yesterday.
Brenda joins us and shows us some new photos of their three grandsons. Then Craig and Maxine toss around ideas for my tribute act, which is never going to happen. I hate getting up on stage. I hated it at school, when we had to do singing, dancing and poetry com
petitions for the annual eisteddfod. I was quite good at Welsh folk dancing, actually, but I hated every second of being stared at. But Olivia sang and everybody made a fuss of that, of course.
Finally there is enough juice in my phone for it to blink back to life. There seem to be a number of Facebook messages for me, so I click on the app and scroll through them. The colour drains from my face and my heart seems to stop momentarily.
Olivia has posted an album of photographs of Cortijo Ana showing the busy terrace and all the cherry blossom around it. It’s titled ‘My cousin’s restaurant’, and underneath she has added: ‘Very proud of my cousin finally living the dream!’
Oh God! Everyone’s going to think I own this place! I have to get her to take it down. I can’t let this get any more out of hand. Even my mum has commented: ‘Me and Dad are so proud of you, Beti!’
Oh no! Tears prick my eyes. How could I have let this happen? Why didn’t I think before going along with Olivia’s silly assumption? Of course it wasn’t going to go away as soon as she left. She may be out of my world here, but she must have gone straight back home and told everyone! Holy moly, the album has already been liked seventeen times! How do I get this to stop?
As I’m trying to work out what exactly to say to Olivia, a message pops up on Facebook Messenger. I check and then double-check. My eyes blur and then refocus. It’s Will.
‘You all right, Beti?’ says Craig.
‘You’ve gone very pale,’ says Maxine. ‘Don’t tell me, it’s the man behind the mess you’re in!’
Olivia’s photo album blurs into the background as Will’s message practically glows at me. I’m holding my breath and I wonder if he’s holding his, waiting for me to reply. I feel hot and bothered.
Hi, I finally type.
Just seen Olivia’s pictures. Your place looks fab. Always knew you’d do it. I really am sorry for everything. I hope you can forgive me some day.
I’m trying to work out what to say, how to tell him I want to kill him, how to tell him he’s ruined everything, when the little green light beside his name goes out and he’s gone.
How dare he just pop up like that, say sorry and then leave . . . again? I’m furious! He took my money and my dreams, and now he thinks it’s OK to drop by and say hi as though we’re old mates.
Then I spot another message Olivia has posted.
‘Looks like I’ve found the perfect venue for my thirtieth birthday! Who’s up for a party at my cousin’s place in Spain?’
Oh no. No, no, no, no, nooooooo! This can’t be happening. There is no way she can have her birthday party at Cortijo Ana! My mouth has gone dry and my head is aching as I reread the post. There are thirty-two likes, and my name is tagged under a photo of me and Olivia outside the restaurant. I am almost hyperventilating.
Silently Brenda puts a large brandy glass in front of me, with an umbrella and a hunk of orange balanced on the rim, which slowly slides off and on to the table. I flick off the umbrella and down the cherry brandy in one go, feeling the burn. Somehow, I have to put a stop to this.
Chapter Eighteen
Hi, Olivia! I type on Messenger, my heart still pounding.
Hey, Bet. How’s sunny Spain? she types back immediately with a smiley face. She’s never usually this friendly to me. Suddenly, after thirty years as reluctant cousins, our relationship has completely changed, now that she thinks I can give her what she wants.
Getting hotter! I type, trying to work out how I’m going to tell her the truth.
What do you think of the photos? Should get you loads of publicity. She adds another smiley face.
Great, I reply. And they were – well, of the restaurant and Olivia. I had my eyes shut in mine, and I certainly wasn’t smiling. My finger hovers over the keys. About your idea for a party . . . I type.
Yes!! Brilliant, isn’t it? And of course, you’ve organised enough engagement parties, so you’d be able to sort the whole thing out, a real Spanish-themed bash. You could do one of your mood boards and send it over.
I’m really sorry, no, that’s not going to be possible, I type, adding a sad face.
What? Why not?! I can hear her voice as she types. Like the princess that she is, Olivia doesn’t ever expect to hear the word ‘no’.
It’s just too busy, I tell her, even though I know that by next week, when the cherry blossom has gone, it will be back to just a few locals every night.
Well book it in now! June, the second weekend! she demands.
June, I think: just when my time here will be coming to an end. If I haven’t found the deposit and first month’s rent on this place, well, that’s when I’ll be going home. June, the cherry harvest. Like the cherry trees being stripped of their fruit, I’ll be back to having nothing, starting from scratch again.
I’m sorry, it’s just not possible.
But Gav’s paying for everything as my birthday present: hire of the venue and the cost of food, drink and entertainment. It could be a really good earner for you!
I’m sure, but . . . I start to write.
Here’s the budget! She sends over a figure before I’ve had a chance to finish.
My eyes almost pop out of my head. How can people spend that kind of money on a party? That can’t be right.
I’m not a party organiser, I don’t have the experience to lay on an event for that many people, I try again.
Yes you do! You’ve organised three engagement parties and planned three weddings. And they’ve all been like military operations. Surely you can organise a birthday party! Especially when it’s your own venue!
It hits me, hard. That is what I’ve spent my adult life doing. Whilst others have had careers, homes and families, I’ve been planning weddings that never happened, chasing my happy-ever-after that never came.
Purleeeeese! Olivia is begging now. It would really knock the socks off some of the other thirtieths. Some people are doing nightclubs or skydiving, but a party in a place that my family owns in southern Spain would be perfect.
So that’s it. A place her family owns! She wants people to think she has a piece of prime real estate in Spain. Something else to brag about. My hackles start to rise. Then I reread the figure she’s sent over. It is so hard to turn down – this could change everything.
Gav will send a deposit, she persists.
It’s exactly what I need, extra income to pay for the Butterfly Bar. It’s what Antonio needs too: actual customers when the blossom has gone and the locals have tired of Valentina’s world-food menu. My brain is turning over slowly. I couldn’t really do this, could I? It would solve everything if I could just pull it off. One big party and this place would be mine. My eyes are drinking in the Butterfly Bar and the friendly locals as if it’s the first time I’ve ever seen it and I’m falling in love with it again. It’s perfect. It’s the one! I think of Will. Am I really going to let him ruin everything?
OK, I type. I’ll check the diary.
Woo-hoo! This is going to be the best thirtieth party any of them has seen! I win! It’s so retro! Rustic Spain! Make sure it’s the best party you’ve ever put on, Bet! My whole reputation is riding on this!
I think of Olivia and her wealthy circle of friends, all competing for the best parties and weddings. I think of my mum and dad, how proud they will be when I’ve got something to show for my life. I think of Uncle Paul’s face. Everything rides on this! I put my phone down on the table and look around.
‘I think I’ll have another cherry brandy,’ I say, and for the first time in weeks I finally have something to smile about. Life is about to get back on track.
‘To new beginnings,’ says Brenda, and Maxine clinks her glass with mine. Now all I have to do is convince Antonio.
Chapter Nineteen
‘No, no way. Sorry, but no,’ he says firmly.
Maybe he hasn’t heard me right. He wouldn’t be
saying no if he understood what I was telling him.
‘She wants a party, here at Cortijo Ana. A big one, for her thirtieth birthday. A themed event, pulling out all the stops. A party that everyone will remember. She’s even sent me the budget. Her boyfriend’s paying for it as a present. He’ll give us a deposit up front and the rest in June, at the party. It could be a real money-spinner for this place, and if you got more events like it . . . well. It could really turn things around. And I’ve got . . .’ my mouth goes dry, ‘a fair bit of experience in planning events.’
A gust of wind blows ups, and blossom swirls around us like confetti. Miguel is in the cherry orchard, mending more of the nets.
‘No, no big parties.’ Antonio is using the hose to fill the water trough in the horses’ paddock.
‘But why not?’ I follow him as the water reaches the top of the trough and he goes to turn off the tap.
‘Birthday parties here are family gatherings, a meal together, maybe cake. They are not big themed parties. There’s a place for that down at the harbour. Try the Pink Flamingo. Or even the beach bar. I believe they have topless waitresses.’
‘No, you don’t understand. It’s this place she wants. It has . . . rustic charm!’ I smile. ‘It’s different from the places down at the harbour.’
‘I do understand.’ He winds up the hosepipe and hangs it over the tap, then straightens up and looks at me. ‘Balloons and castanets, piñatas and pints. She thinks she is having a Spanish party, but that is not the real Spain at all!’
He walks into the barn and comes out carrying a bridle and a long leading rein, then heads back to the paddock. I follow him and stand in front of the gate. I can’t let him say no, I just can’t.
‘But Valentina wants the tourists. She wants the young professionals with money. That’s exactly what these people are.’
‘Excuse me, please,’ he says, and I step aside. He puts the bridle on his shoulder, then, instead of going through the gate, climbs the fence, swinging his long legs over it, and sets off purposefully across the dusty paddock towards the group of horses standing under the tree, swishing at early-morning flies with their tails. I call after him.