‘But most of all, because you’re beautiful and I love you.’
I feel the soft pressure of Mike’s lips on mine. I can taste vodka and the chocolate pudding that he had earlier. Is Mike kissing me? This is wrong. This can’t happen. It’s the kiss of death. Any relationship I touch turns to shit. If Mike leaves, I’ll have to go back to London, be a nanny again. Be a failure at my business as well as my love life. I stand up, tipping vodka onto my ivory satin shoes.
‘Fuck!’ Mike is close behind me.
‘Keys!’ I yell urgently to the barman-cum-receptionist. He tosses me Room 24’s keys and I head for the stairs.
‘Lucy, wait!’ Mike shouts urgently behind me. I hook my fishtail train over my arm, probably flashing my satin clad arse, but who cares?
‘Lucy!’ Mike calls from the bottom of the stairs. I clumsily shove the key into the lock, dropping it twice and cursing. Finally, I’m in. I flop onto the bed and the ceiling rose swirls round and round. Mike kissed me. I ponder on this for a second or two and then, in true O’Hara style, decide that I will think of it tomorrow. I close my eyes, still wearing my dress, and fall into the dreamless sleep of the truly pissed.
Chapter Twenty-six
My alarm call arrives at six o’clock in the morning in the form of Seamus, the multi-tasking hotelier. He raps loudly on the door.
‘Miss Lucy, there’s a full Irish for you here. Your taxi will be here in turty-five minutes! I have been shouting you for ages. Michael is waiting for you downstairs.’
‘Mmmmphhhmm.’
‘Miss Lucy, I don’t want to have to come in there and see you in a state of undress…’
Seamus says this as if he can’t imagine anything better. I stumble to the door, open it, and lean against it. Seamus visibly recoils and backs off slowly. He stops and places the full Irish and a black coffee on the floor. I wait until he’s gone and pick it up. Urg! Black pudding! Congealed pig’s blood for breakfast. I pick up a piece of toast and stumble to the bathroom. As I view my reflection, I recoil myself. One barf up and a very quick shower later, I stumble downstairs. I can’t look at Mike. I apologetically hand my breakfast back to Seamus, complete but for one single bite mark out of the toast.
‘Tis OK,’ he smiles kindly and disappears with it. We loiter awkwardly in the doorway waiting for the taxi. The bright morning sun is streaming into my sunglassed eyes. I notice I’m wearing odd trainers. Seamus reappears with two glasses of neat vodka.
‘Hair of the dog that bit yer,’ he announces.
‘Not a chance!’ I inform him.
Mike laughs for the first time since I saw him this morning. He looks slightly rough around the edges, but doesn’t get the killer hangovers that I tend to.
‘I will if you will,’ he smiles. I groan inwardly and take the glass. I swoop it back in one, before I can change my mind. My eyes water, as does my mouth, the water brash of the ‘about-to-puke’.
‘Please, Miss Lucy… not on the carpet.’ Seamus directs me outside. The carpet is one of those red and orange swirly ones with splodges of brown through it that looks like it’s actually been designed by someone throwing up on it. Doubt my contribution would even be noticed. I head for a bush and feel my wet hair being gently pulled off my face, my back being rubbed by a soothing hand. I slap backwards into the air and the hand stops. It makes me feel worse. The hair thing is handy though. When I finally finish, Seamus is beaming proudly at me, holding out a napkin and a shot of vodka. Mike had been the hair holder. I assumed it was Seamus. Mike laughs as Seamus thrusts the drink under my nose.
‘The bad stuff is gone now, replenish your fluids.’ I down the shot. Time stands still while we all wait with baited breath to see if there will be a rose bush encore. No, I’m good. I feel good. I give Seamus an enthusiastic hug as the taxi rolls up the drive.
‘You know what I could just go for now?’ I ask. Seamus holds one finger in the air and disappears back inside. He comes back out with two tin-foiled packages and two Styrofoam cups with lids balanced precariously on top of one another. I peer inside the foil.
‘It’s bacon sandwiches and black coffee. How did you..?’
‘Ex-alcoholic Miss Lucy, I knows all the tricks.’ He waves goodbye to us as we walk over to the taxi.
We land safely in Tenerife and wait outside in the hot March sunshine for Pablo to pick us up. There hasn’t been too much awkwardness between us. We busied ourselves on the flight with stories about the wedding, how great Becky looked and how much Bob seems to have changed. The declaration of Mike’s love for me goes unsaid. In fact, I remember it through such a fuzz - surreal almost - that I wonder if it happened at all. We have a couple more hairs of the dog, just to be on the safe side, and manage to piss off several passengers with our lairy laughter, later apologising shamefaced when the flight attendant gives us a heavily made-up scowl. No wonder they have weight restrictions on luggage, the make-up on each stewardesses must weigh a good few pounds. It all adds up. We cackle loudly at that too.
Pablo’s old familiar wreck pulls up outside the arrival terminal. There’s a new bash on the front red bumper to match the one at the back. All that money we pay him, and he won’t buy a new car. An airport security guard walks over to Pablo’s car, with the intention of telling him he can’t park there. He’s right in the zone where a tour bus is waiting to pull into. Pablo’s large frame emerges from the car and towers over the guard. Words are exchanged and the security guy laughs, shakes Pablo’s shovel hand, and shouts ‘five minutes’ in a thick Spanish accent to the tour bus driver, who rolls his eyes. He’s the perfect choice of security, our Pablo. All the way back to the restaurant, he enlightens us with excited chatter about all the latest gossip: Maria won’t be back, she is pregnant; and Pablo’s wife is also expecting a new baby in August. He actually had a lovely time with his kids over the winter months. Taught his eldest son how to fish and even took his two daughters shopping. This next baby must be a boy, he informs us, to balance things out.
On our return we find a gleaming bar, kitchen and living area. Pablo and Rosa have obliterated any signs of an entire family packed into our living space over the past few months. They moved into their new place two weeks ago and are loving every second of it.
‘My home is like a palace, I even have pool,’ he tells us. ‘My Rosa do great job. Builders were difficult, but Rosa kicked ass.’ He has reverted back to Spanish without Mike around. I smile and know that within a few days Pablo’s Scottish accent will be back. He’s like me that way – I’m very susceptible too. It’s so good to be back. It’s strange how you can have so many homes from home. Definitely one of them is here, but I also have the same feeling in London. I am very nomadic by nature, most uncharacteristic for a Taurean. But as we are the great homemakers of the zodiac, I figure that our ability to create a home makes us able to travel comfortably. Well, for me anyway.
Mike and I sit up for a while with Pablo at the familiar bar with the familiar banter. Pablo is very excited about his gift of a trip to Scotland, but has said he will take it at the end of season so he is on hand to help us.
‘Pablo, you do know you’re welcome to take a break mid-season,’ I tell him, ‘You work so hard for us and we appreciate it. We will find someone to cover you.’ He smiles:
‘And miss all of this,’ he holds out his hands to us. He is very sweet, for a hulk of a man. I know he loves us dearly.
Pablo heads home and Mike and I head up to bed. I slip between the cool, fresh sheets and think about new Specials for the menu when we open again in two days time. I don’t get very far. I’m so tired from the excitement of the past few days. Will Mike ever bring up the ‘I love you’ again? Who knows? But I doubt it. I think I made it very clear to him that I’m a no-go zone. I fail at all relationships. There’s no point even trying anymore. Relationships are fine for Becky, Mary, Mum even – and for Mike when he meets the right one. But she isn’t me, not by a long shot. I have too much to lose. My wonderful business, the best thi
ng that has ever happened to me work-wise, and I won’t jeopardise that for anything.
I wake up around ten thirty the next morning, enjoying a last lie-in while I can. The apartment is silent. Mike has obviously had the same idea. I pad down to the bathroom and have a long shower using all my lovely Christmas toiletries that smell of home. I close my eyes and I’m back in Mum’s house. Smell is the most powerful sense for me. One whiff of Lulu perfume and I’m transported back to my twenty-first birthday party. Waitrose Angelica scented candles and I’m back in my old room in Islington, smoking a Marlboro Light and drinking red wine, with Keane on the CD player. I love the way smell can awaken the memory.
I finish my shower and head back to my room. The smell of freshly brewed coffee tells me that Mike is up. I scurry along to get dressed and put on a bit of make-up. I have listened to Becky and how I should glam up a little now and then, be less boho. I put on my long white gypsy skirt, black vest and a long love heart pendant. Fine, slightly dressy, but looks effortless. Why do I care, I wonder? Probably just have the urge, since I was so glammed up the other day. It is lovely to be back in summer clothes, though. I wander down to the living room to have some coffee with Mike. We’ve planned to have a holiday day today, before the mass shopathon tomorrow for all the new stock. Pablo, Rosa and the kids will be joining us for lunch at a small seaside café little known to the tourists. So good and authentically Spanish that the Spaniards want to keep it secret. We are seen as honorary Spaniards, not ex-pats. Thanks to Pablo.
Mike and I walk down to the beach and order Virgin cocktails from the beach bar. It’s early yet to start drinking. I stir my straw around my drink thoughtfully.
‘I meant what I said, Lucy,’ Mike says quietly. Oh, here we go, I thought we’d gone past this.
‘Yes, me too,’ I reply, without looking at him. I can feel the hurt vibes and I don’t mean to hurt Mike. It would just be wrong. Mike sighs and jumps off his bar stool. He walks down to the water, and in spite of myself, I turn to look. Becky’s voice, telling me not to become a ball breaker, echoes in my head. I’m just about to shout Mike back to explain, when I feel a soft thud by my side. Marina, Pablo’s four-year-old beams up at me, before clambering onto my knee and helping herself to my drink.
‘Hello, baby girl,’ I kiss the top of her braided head.
‘Marina, down!’ orders Rosa.
‘Oh leave her, she’s fine,’ I wave a dismissive hand at her. Mike heads back up the beach towards us, and the moment has gone.
We have a great day of paella, wine and laughter, chasing the children around the beach as they squeal in the sunshine. Pablo, Mike and the younger two kids make a huge sandcastle, while Marina plaits my hair, enjoying the grown-up girlie chat with Rosa and I. It’s a perfect day. One of those, I realise, as the sun goes down and the children grow tired, that I’ll always remember. They lean against us sleepily as we chat and drink the last of the wine. I am enjoying the quiet while it lasts, in so many ways that I would never have imagined.
Chapter Twenty-seven
The new season kicks off in the usual hectic style and we fall back into the flow straight away. Me back in the kitchen, whilst also attempting to be a temporary waitress in Maria’s absence. All is going fine until mid-April. Strangely enough, I had a weird feeling about today when I woke. Right there, in the solar plexus. I looked out the window at eight this morning. All seemed calm, a few birds twittering, a couple of early beach bums taking a wander, even the sea seemed unusually calm. Flat, like a pond. I shrugged off my strange feeling and headed downstairs to the kitchen. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up a couple of times throughout the morning. Like when you know someone is watching you, but you can’t see them. The busy 11am period comes around and I forget my early morning creeps. It’s around this time that Pablo bursts into the restaurant shouting angrily about needing the day off. I hear the kerfuffle from the kitchen and listen to Mike’s attempts to find out what’s happened. I place a hot tray of lasagne on the worktop and walk quickly through the swing doors to the restaurant area. Pablo is shouting and swearing in Spanish, unable to translate through sheer fury. Eventually he calms down enough to ask for the day off.
‘OK, Pablo, that’s fine, of course you can have the day off. Just tell me what’s wrong, can we do anything?’ I pull him round to the side bar while Mike opens him a beer.
‘Fucking idiot builders!’ he shouts. ‘My children, in the bath, when the roof fall in. My children, my Rosa, could have been killed.’
‘Oh my God, Pablo, I…’
‘They did not put in… what you say?’
‘A lintel?’ Mike supplies. Pablo nods.
‘My little Marco, in hospital, he be OK they say, but bruised and in for few days. My Rosa so angry.’
‘Oh Pablo, but yes, you must take the day off, go and spend it with Rosa and Marco,’ I begin.
‘No, I go sort fucking builders!’ he shouts angrily, and slams down his half drunk beer. Pablo stands up and makes for the door. Mike moves quickly around the bar and runs outside after him. We watch, helplessly from the door as he speeds off in his rusty old car. We head back to the bar, what else can we do? We have no idea who he is going after or where. I raise my eyes up to the ceiling to offer up a quick prayer to his Mama to watch out for him.
Pablo, and luckily Marco, are both fine. Pablo comes into work the next day simmering with anger under the surface, but otherwise unscathed. Mike tries to find out what he’s done. All Pablo tells him is that he didn’t kill anyone, much as he was tempted, but they won’t be doing it again to anyone else. I don’t like the sound of this. Pablo is not a nasty person, but when his family are threatened, I know he’d at least give the person responsible a good warning off – if not a good hiding. But after a few days on tenterhooks, things settle down. I stop worrying. ‘Pablo power’ seems to carry a lot of weight on the island. It’s not so big that people won’t know who he is. The weekend after, we have the biggest downpour anyone local can ever remember. We have only five hardcore, drenched customers the whole day. Everyone else seems to have done a quick dash to the local shops and then stayed at home for the rest of the day. I stand at the door of the restaurant with Mike and gaze in wonder. I have never seen rain like it. Rivers of water rush by the door. By ten in the evening we decide to call it a night. Pablo heads off home after one drink and a quick game of cards. Mike and I sit and chat at the bar.
‘Well, at least the garden tables will be getting a good clean up. I was going to pick up some industrial cleaner on the next supplies trip,’ Mike muses, glancing out at the still falling rain. ‘Oh, that reminds me, have you got the shopping list for tomorrow? Pablo has a new supplier he wants us to try. Fresh catches of fish that day, none of the two day-old stuff we get now.’ I wander into the kitchen and hand Mike the list.
‘Cheers. Are you turning in?’ he asks. I nod wearily, glad for the opportunity of an early night. Yet when I go to bed, I can’t sleep. My eyelids droop and I jolt awake straight after. I must cut down on the coffee during the day.
I don’t remember falling asleep, but evidently I did. I awaken to hear the roar of a car engine outside and wander over to the window to have a look. Pablo’s car revs and splutters like a forty-a-day old man. Mike wanders down the steps with my list in his hand. They’re off to the suppliers. I throw on some clothes and head downstairs to start on a Spag Bol. I have a few dishes to make, so no point in having a shower now. I will be covered in grease and stinking of garlic within half an hour. I switch on the radio in the kitchen. I’m quite getting into Spanish music, though I don’t understand the lyrics. I make the Bolognese and a paella rice and stock combo, ready to throw in the fresh seafood at the last minute. I prepare the entrees of soup and seafood cocktail (or fruits de la mer as Mike likes to call it. Posh git) and make a Banoffee Pie. I head back upstairs for a quick shower and a coffee – yes, my ban didn’t last long, I know. Mike will be back by opening time to set up the bar.
I
head back downstairs an hour later, still no sign of Mike. I call his mobile, but it rings out to voicemail. Great! Now the sun has come back out hungry mobs will be pounding at the door any minute. I set up the bar and pull the curtain to one side to view the car park. Where are they? The waiters arrive with the new waitress closely behind. I don’t know what to do. None of them have ever worked the till, but they have never done the cooking either. I silently curse myself for not making sure we have multi-tasking staff. Could do with Seamus here I think, with a giggle. I try Mike’s mobile again. Still it rings out. I try Pablo’s, but it’s switched off. I grab Gina, the new waitress, from the kitchen and give her a crash course in working the till. Like a duck to water; I happily leave her there as I go back to the kitchen to prepare the first orders.
‘Table fifteen away,’ I yell, and glance again at the car park. I don’t know if I should be angry or concerned. I leave Mike a message asking where the hell he is, and start another order that’s appeared. By three in the afternoon, things slow down. Still no Mike! What if they’ve crashed? Pablo’s crazy driving combined with that shit-tip excuse for a car, anything could have happened. I walk quickly back to the bar. Gina’s English is perfect, so I will get her to call the police.
‘Gina, I am worried about Mike and Pablo, please will you call the… erm, Guardia? Police? Yes? See if there have been any accidents.’ Gina nods with concern and dials the number of the nearest police station. I listen intently as if I can understand every word. ‘Si, si, gracias,’ Gina hangs up and turns to me. ‘They will come in to take description from you soon. Yes? Is OK?’
‘Yes, thank you Gina,’ I say wearily. ‘Now you go get some rest before the evening shift.’
Crappily Ever After Page 23