by Matt Dunn
‘About twenty euros a bottle,’ he said. ‘Seriously, you’d have to ask the French. I’ve never been able to tell the difference. And I bet most of them couldn’t either.’
The food began to arrive, each dish announced by the owner as if he was giving away a family secret: croquetas, chorizo, berenjenas con miel y queso de cabra (which Rachel decided was possibly the most heavenly thing she’d ever eaten), jamón, a plate of patatas bravas so spicy they made the top of her head prickle, and some sort of fish she didn’t really care for and that Jay explained was pickled (which, after much more of this cava, Rachel thought, might be a good description of her). As they ate and ate, they talked and talked, and although Jay had to explain his joke about ‘Spanish Tortilla’ being a good name for a language school twice, by the time they’d finished the bottle, Rachel felt as if they’d known each other for years.
The owner reappeared, and with a friendly smile and a wink at Jay, began to clear their plates, and Rachel patted her stomach, pleased to feel it wasn’t – as she’d begun to fear – currently the same size as Livia’s. ‘Delicious,’ she said.
‘What was your least favourite?’
‘The fish.’
Jay speared the last piece with his fork and popped it into his mouth. ‘That’s the beauty of tapas. You can order loads of different things, and if there’s something you don’t like, there’s still plenty more to eat. Whereas in a normal restaurant, you only get the one main course, so if you don’t like what you’ve ordered, you’re stuffed.’
‘Or not,’ suggested Rachel, and Jay laughed, though when he climbed down from his stool, her face fell. ‘Do you have to go?’
Jay nodded. ‘This may fall under the category of too much information, but yes – to the toilet.’
‘Ah. Okay. Good. Well, not good, obviously, in that you have to go because your bladder . . .’ Rachel mimed shooting herself in the temple, then picked up the empty cava bottle. ‘How strong is this stuff?’
As Jay pretend-stumbled his way to the gents, she sneakily paid the bill (asking for it using the universal ‘write something in the sky’ gesture), then smiled at Jay’s indignant expression when he returned and saw what she’d done.
‘That was naughty,’ he said, leading her out into the balmy afternoon.
Rachel bit her tongue as they made their way through the square. You ain’t seen nothin’ yet had been the first response that popped into her head, and she was pretty sure it wasn’t the cava talking. ‘Like I said – my treat. For what you did earlier.’
‘Well, thank you.’
‘No – thank you.’
‘So . . .’
‘So?’
‘This is me.’
‘What?’
Jay nodded at the graffiti-covered door he’d stopped in front of. ‘My flat.’
‘Oh. Right.’
‘I’d invite you in for a coffee, but . . .’
‘I don’t like coffee.’
‘Exactly. And I don’t have any tea.’
‘Well, I’d hate this to be the end of a beautiful friendship, simply because we’re incompatible in terms of hot beverages . . .’ Rachel said, suggestively, then she blushed. She didn’t know what had come over her. Perhaps it was the cava. But whatever it was seemed to have done the trick, given the look of surprise – mixed with pleasure – on Jay’s face.
‘So . . . did you want to come in anyway?’ he said, then he laughed.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘You just looked at your watch. Will you be timing me? Or have you only got a short window of—’
‘No, it’s not that. I’ve got a wedding to go to, and . . .’
‘Not yours, I hope?’ Jay said, mock-horrified.
‘God no! Not that I’m anti-marriage or anything. It’s my friend’s. Her name’s Livia. It’s at our hotel. The . . .’ Rachel struggled to remember the name of where she was staying. ‘Catalonia. Or something Catalonia. I forget. Anyway, it’s there. This evening. It’s why I’m here. For that. I’m flying back home tomorrow. And I’m rambling.’
Jay smiled again, and Rachel almost wished he’d stop. It was making him all the more irresistible. ‘What time does it . . . ?’
‘Sex,’ said Rachel, then she slapped a hand over her open mouth. ‘Oh my god! I’m so sorry! Six, I meant to say. Not . . .’
Jay tried – and failed – to swallow a laugh. ‘Don’t worry. Well, in that case . . .’
He’d pulled his keys out from his pocket, and Rachel stared at him for a moment. Those ‘doors’ were coming thick and fast today – both physically and metaphorically. This particular one was very tempting. And, it occurred to her, going through it – or rather, going through with it – would be an excellent way to get over Rich. Especially since she hadn’t heard a thing from him all day.
‘In that case, I’d love to,’ she said, taking Jay’s hand and following him inside.
Jed had sat awkwardly in the jeweller’s, alternately glancing down at his phone and up at the door, for about ten minutes – Livia’s usual cooling-off time – but when there was no sign of her after that, he’d mumbled his apologies and headed out of the shop. The staff had been giving him funny looks anyway, so he was glad to go. Even though he had no idea where to go.
He could head back to the hotel, he supposed. Find Livia and try to talk things through, like adults, even apologise for his outburst . . . But then again, he didn’t feel like apologising. Because none of this was his fault.
How had it come to this, he wondered. He’d been so looking forward to it – just the two of them, here to celebrate their anniversary, in the place they’d first met – and yet Livia’s proposal had hijacked the whole thing. So instead of them having the wonderful weekend he’d been hoping for – the last weekend away they’d probably be having on their own, perhaps the last weekend away for years that wouldn’t involve staying at some child-friendly hotel, eating dinner at six on the dot in some awful tourist joint that sold whatever that country’s version of fish fingers and baked beans was, or heading for some sort of family-friendly attraction that would probably give him a headache within five minutes of getting there – now he and Livia probably weren’t speaking. Not that he’d know what to say anyway.
Anxious to get out of the heat, he crossed the road and found himself on the corner of Plaça Catalunya, the city’s main square. On one side, occupying a large, ocean-liner-shaped building, was the El Corte Inglés department store. Livia might be in there, having gone in search of a toilet, so Jed headed inside, grateful for the blast of air conditioning that almost knocked him over as he pushed open the heavy swing doors.
‘Servicios, por favor?’ he said to the red-jacketed security guard, though his blank-faced reaction to the man’s ‘Abajo’ meant it was followed by a gruff ‘Downstairs.’ He nodded his thanks, made his way towards the escalator and headed down to the basement, though after he’d found the toilets, he soon realised there was no way Livia would have waited in the dozen-or-so person queue. Besides, the store’s food floor was hardly the most relaxing place to be, full as it was of tourists cramming their baskets full of shrink-wrapped packets of jamón that came from those weirdly preserved pig legs you saw hanging in most tapas bars, or turrones, strange, nougat-like confectionary items that he’d once had an argument with Livia about when she’d informed him they were a Spanish Christmas tradition, whereas he’d insisted that ‘Two Ronnies’ was very much an English thing. How Livia had laughed when they’d realised their confusion. Though she probably wasn’t laughing now.
Jed allowed himself the briefest of smiles at the memory as he rode the escalator back up to the ground floor, doing his best to hang on to the rubber-belted handrail, which seemed to be moving faster than the stairs were, then had a sudden realisation. This was exactly how he was feeling. He might have had both feet anchored steadily to the ground, but everything else was moving just that little bit too fast. Jed knew the only way to avoid falling was either to let go
or take a step up. And right now, letting go was the more appealing option.
He stumbled off at the top, still lost in thought, and almost tripped over a stroller containing a wild-eyed but well-strapped-in Barney, with a harassed-looking Oliver standing behind it.
‘Sorry. Miles away.’ Jed glanced around the shop’s brightly lit interior. ‘On your own?’
Oliver nodded down at the stroller, where Barney seemed to be trying to chew through his retaining belts. ‘Sadly not,’ he said, then he did an eye roll. ‘Oh, you mean Sally?’
‘Yeah.’
‘At the hotel, catching up on some long-overdue sleep by the pool. Which I’m under strict instructions not to interrupt for at least the next two hours.’
‘Ah. Right.’ Jed squatted down in front of the stroller, though Barney’s yoghurt, snot and god-knows-what-else encrusted face made him stand quickly back up again. ‘How was the aquarium?’
‘Didn’t even make it that far. His lordship here decided to throw a tantrum on the Metro, so we thought we’d walk, which meant he needed to wear sunscreen, and if you’ve ever tried to apply factor fifty to a child who’s hard enough to keep a hold of when he’s not covered in a slippery substance . . .’ Oliver shook his head.
‘So you took him to a department store instead?’
‘He’s two. He likes the lights on the displays, and riding up and down the escalators. Plus the aquarium’s twenty euros to get in, he’ll hardly know the difference, and even if he does, it’s unlikely he’s going to remember anything. I tell you, all they’re interested in at this age is where their next meal is coming from, and then how they can eject that from either end in the way that causes you the most inconvenience possible.’
‘Right,’ said Jed again, waiting for Oliver to enlighten him as to what the positives were, though when none came, he cleared his throat. ‘So, tell me. Is it, you know, what you expected?’
‘Fatherhood?’ Oliver let out a slightly manic laugh that Jed didn’t particularly like the sound of. ‘Want to take him for a turn round the block and find out?’
He’d pushed the stroller forwards and let go of the handles, and when Jed hesitated, Oliver laughed again. ‘Only kidding. Yeah, it’s . . . full on, obviously. And tiring. And expensive. And at times, mind-numbingly boring. But that’s what you sign up for, isn’t it?’
Jed tried to keep his expression as neutral as possible. ‘I’m not hearing much of an upside.’
‘Aha. But that doesn’t come yet, does it?’
‘When does it come?’ asked Jed, after a longer-than-he-was-comfortable-with pause, and Oliver reached down and covered Barney’s ears with his hands.
‘Once we send the little bugger off to boarding school, I guess.’
Jed shuddered. Livia wasn’t the sending-off-to-boarding-school type, plus he hardly earned a sending-off-to-boarding-school salary. And in any case, what was the point of having a baby, of creating another person, a smaller version of him and Livia, if all they were going to do was pay someone else to take responsibility for its travels out into the big wide world? Surely the whole reason was that you shaped them when they were malleable, instilled some of your sensibilities into them while you could, rather than paying a price he imagined would be similar to a stay in a five-star hotel for the best part of twelve years, in the vain hope that your child might turn out to be the next prime minister? No – Jed knew he wanted the child to be there. To be there for the child. Unlike his dad had been when he and Liam were growing up.
‘You’re serious?’
‘Deathly,’ said Oliver. ‘I married Sally so she and I could have a relationship, have some fun together, maybe even on the odd occasion have sex. Not so I could play second fiddle to this ungrateful bundle of shit and snot.’
‘Speaking of which . . .’ Jed nodded down at Barney, who seemed intent on wiping whatever it was that was emerging from his nostrils on the corner of a nearby display, though Jed doubted it was snot. If it was, it was a different colour to any snot he had ever seen.
‘Oh, goody.’ Oliver reached into the huge rucksack hanging from the back of the stroller, found a packet of wet wipes, removed one with the flourish of a waiter with a serviette in a high-end restaurant, then knelt down in front of his son. ‘Now, hold still, Barney, while Daddy tries to make you look at least half respectable . . .’
Barney struggled against the straps holding him into the stroller, trying to avoid Oliver’s frantic attempts with the wipes, then he suddenly sat dead still, and his face contorted into a frown as if concentrating on some major problem.
‘Good boy?’ suggested Jed, though Oliver was looking as if Barney was anything but.
‘Oh no . . . !’
‘What’s wrong?’
Oliver sniffed the air suspiciously. ‘I won’t go into detail, but that face generally means someone might be filling their nappy.’ He stood back up and nudged Jed in the ribs. ‘His, I mean. He’s supposed to be potty training. Though I suspect it’s called that because it’s driving us potty. Which is why he’s back in nappies this weekend.’ He glanced around the shop. ‘Listen, I’d better find a place to change him.’ Oliver patted his pockets. ‘Now where did I put the receipt?’
As Jed let out a nervous laugh, Oliver narrowed his eyes at the nearby information sign. ‘Any idea where the toilets might be?’
‘Downstairs,’ said Jed, pleased he could finally help in some way.
‘Thanks!’ Oliver was already pushing the stroller at speed towards the down escalator. ‘Might see you later,’ he called, over his shoulder. ‘We should grab a drink or six!’ And Jed nodded. A drink – or six – sounded like a very good idea.
He watched them go, then realised to his embarrassment he was standing in the middle of the hosiery department, so – at a loss as to what else to do – Jed strolled around the ground floor, making the most of the store’s air conditioning. Maybe Livia was in here, doing the same. Perhaps she was having second thoughts too – not about the wedding, but maybe about the way in which she’d gone about things. Surely she could see she’d forced him into it? And if that were the case, then she had to understand why he was feeling the way he was . . . Though as he thought about it, Jed realised Livia didn’t know how he was feeling. Because he hadn’t told her. As far as she knew, his strop had been all about the ring. But how to tell her that it was the least of his worries?
All of a sudden, Jed decided Oliver’s suggestion was spot on. A drink might make things clearer – or it might not. But right now, either of those things was appealing. He checked his watch – just gone two – then made his way towards the exit, past stand after brightly lit stand selling cosmetics, and in between the garish perfume counters, doing his best to avoid being sprayed in the eye by the demonstrator girls, who seemed determined to douse everyone who walked past with whatever fragrance they were selling, as if there was some sort of competition between them. As he reached the door, an extremely pretty girl dressed all in black stepped in front of him.
‘Escape for Men?’ she said, holding a bottle of aftershave out towards him.
‘If only,’ said Jed, as he stepped smartly around her and hurried back outside.
Livia retraced her steps and peered in through the jeweller’s window, but there was no sign of Jed. Nor was he in either of the two bars round the corner, or answering his mobile, and so she harrumphed in frustration. Maybe she had pushed him a little too far. After all, she’d known he wasn’t a jewellery man – the one time she’d tried to buy him a decent watch to replace the crappy Casio he wore, he’d begrudgingly tried it on, made a sarcastic comment about not being Liberace and asked her if she’d kept the receipt.
She swallowed hard, trying to force back down the growing fear that his response to the ring was symptomatic of something bigger. She’d buried her disappointment at Jed’s reaction to her popping the question yesterday, telling herself it was simply because of her putting him on the spot, but now it was nagging annoyingly at her. As she
thought about it, since then his mood had been . . . Livia struggled to find the appropriate word, but it certainly wasn’t ‘enthusiastic’. Not that she was worried he might not turn up this evening – she knew he’d never do that to her – but if she had read him wrong, she might have driven a wedge between them that she’d find difficult to remove.
Maybe she was overreacting, and it was simply the jewellery thing. Perhaps she should be the bigger person, apologise for losing it earlier, blame it on her hormones, come clean about everything, then they’d kiss and make up and everything would be back to – well, if not normal, some sense of normality, at least.
She pulled her phone out of her bag and considered texting him, then put it away again. Whatever she decided to do, it was probably best to give him a while to calm down. Then she’d try to talk him round. And if Jed still didn’t want to wear a ring then she supposed she could let him have that one.
She called back in at the jeweller’s to pick her ring up, relieved that a different assistant was helping her, then grabbed a taxi for the short journey to the hotel. Maybe Jed was back in the room – or more likely, Livia thought, sinking a cold beer or three by the pool with his brother. But when she spotted Liam sitting outside at the bar, talking to some woman she didn’t recognise with what Livia suspected wasn’t his first beer (or his first chat-up attempt) of the day, she began to worry a little. She stopped off at reception to phone her room, and when no one answered, she made her way over to where Liam was sitting, fixed a smile on her face and cleared her throat.
‘Sweetheart?’ she said, mischievously slipping an arm around his shoulders. ‘Who’s your new friend?’ And before he could protest, the woman took one look at Livia’s stomach, shot Liam an angry glance, then got up and left.
‘Liv!’ he said, glaring at her.
‘Sorry. Couldn’t resist it.’ She clambered up onto the adjacent stool, slapping away the ‘helping’ hand Liam placed on her backside. ‘Another one bites the dust, eh?’
‘Thanks to you!’