by Paul Carr
“No, no, for lunch that will be fine,” said the door person.
“Thank you. We’re expecting one more person before we sit down. If we wait in the bar, can you let us know when they arrive?”
“Certainly, sir.”
Of course, our nonexistent friend would never show, leaving us to drink with supermodels for the rest of the day. We sat at the bar and Robert called over a bartender.
“Three piña coladas, please.” Robert’s playboy impression was taking a turn for the white trash, but in for a euro, in for …
“Thirty-six euros, please. Would you like to open a tab?”
Jesus Christ. I gave the bartender my card and he began mixing the piña coladas, pouring them into small tumblers.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” said Robert, “what do you think you’re doing?”
“This is how we serve piña coladas,” said the bartender.
“No, no, no,” said Robert, “piña coladas are served in those big piña colada glasses.” Glasses which just so happen to be twice the size of the tumblers.
The bartender sighed. “We don’t have any piña colada glasses, sir.”
“Well, that’s not good enough,” said Robert, “but I suppose we can make do with brandy snifters. They’re close enough. Honestly—who serves piña coladas in a tumbler?”
“Our … clientele … prefer it that way, sir.”
He said the word clientele in such a way as to make clear that we did not fall within the narrow borders of his definition.
Rob just shrugged; the customer is always right. Grudgingly, the bartender decanted two of the tumblers into a single brandy snifter and slid it over to Robert before skulking off to make two more very large piña coladas for Eris and me.
Robert called after him. “And a little paper umbrella, please.”
The three of us had only taken the smallest sip from our drinks—with little paper umbrellas—when a stunning blonde with an all-over tan and no bikini top came and stood next to where we were sitting.
“What are those?” she asked, in a heavy German accent.
“Piña coladas,” said Rob.
“Nocheinen, bitte,” she said to the bartender, pointing at our glasses. Robert grinned his victory at the bartender.
“With a little umbrella,” said Rob.
“Ja, miteinen Regenschirm,” confirmed the German woman.
Twenty minutes later we looked around the bar. “This is freaking hilarious,” said Eris.
And she was right: at least a dozen of the Ocean Club’s clientele were strolling around sipping piña coladas in brandy snifters, each replete with brightly colored umbrella.
Our work there was done.
909
“Hey, Paul, don’t drink this.”
Eris was unpacking her suitcase in our bedroom. I’d taken every possible precaution to remove any trace of Hannah from the room, but still, every time Eris opened a closet, a small wave of panic washed over me in case I’d missed a telltale hair clip or suchlike.
In Eris’s hand was a silver hipflask with an inscription beautifully engraved across the whole of one side. From across the room I couldn’t make out what it said, but clearly the contents were important.
“OK, I won’t. Why, what is it?”
“It’s my mom.”
910
Eris’s mother had passed away very suddenly a year or so earlier. This is something I was aware of, but hadn’t really pried too much into. In fact, I knew that Eris had lost both of her parents, both very suddenly, and both very recently. I was waiting for her to find the right time to share the details with me, if she wanted to.
What I certainly hadn’t known was that Eris had her mother’s ashes placed into a specially engraved flask, which she had decided to bring with her to Spain. Her plan—and it was a heartbreakingly lovely plan—was to leave some of the ashes in each of the places she visited around the world; places her mother never got a chance to visit. None of this I’d known.
But all of it I had to figure out in the split second after Eris spoke those words. “It’s my mom.”
“Oh,” I said, “OK.”
Hooboy. Thank God she’d warned me. That could have been awkward.
911
The last time I tried to keep the existence of one girl from another girl it had ended in disaster when I’d accidentally, and drunkenly, invited both of them to the same London pub at the same time. The two girls, both Americans, incidentally, had spent the rest of the evening comparing notes on what a complete and total shit I was, resulting in their becoming best friends forever. Or “BFFs” as they—both being American—would have it said.
Another result of that night was that they’d subsequently decided to do everything they could to get their revenge on me; starting by setting up a website explaining why no girl in her right mind should ever date me. Like I said, I love American girls and their fiery ways.
Keen to avoid a repeat of history, I decided that, when it came to the Eris–Hannah situation, honesty was the best policy.
“Eris,” I said—which was about as much of the conversation as I’d planned before I started to speak—“remember that girl Hannah I told you about at South by Southwest?”
“Of course,” said Eris, “the Canadian you wouldn’t shut up about.”
“Oh, yes, her. Well, I should probably tell you that she came out to the villa last week. I mean, it’s not …”
“I know.”
Eris just carried on unpacking; she didn’t even pause.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I know. I’ve been reading your blog.”
“But I didn’t mention her on the blog.”
“Exactly, you didn’t post anything the whole weekend. Total rookie mistake. It was obvious you were getting laid and didn’t want anyone to know.”
“So you’re not annoyed?”
“I flew to Spain from San Francisco and am about to climb into your bed. Does any of that say “annoyed girl behavior” to you? If I were annoyed I could have set up a hate blog from home and saved the airplane ticket.”
Touché. It was too much to hope that Hannah would be as understanding. As Eris finished unpacking, I walked out to the patio and dialed Hannah’s number. She answered on the second ring. Dammit; I was half hoping it would go to voicemail.
“Hey,” I said.
“Paul! Hey! Wait—shouldn’t you be boning that Eris chick? Doesn’t she arrive today?”
Okey-dokey.
“How did you …”
“You told me last week when you drunk-dialed me from Alejo’s.”
“Oh,” I said.
“I don’t entirely remember the conversation. So you don’t think I’m a shit?”
“Of course I do. I think you’re a total fucking dick,” replied Hannah. I started to explain: “I know, it’s just that … wait … hang on, the last time I was drunk in Alejo’s was before you came out. Why didn’t you say anything while you were here?”
“Don’t be an idiot. You’re not a dick for having another girl fly out—that’s actually kinda hilarious. You’re a dick because she’s probably lying in your bed waiting for you while you’re on the phone to me. How do you think that makes her feel, you fucking dick?”
I’m really not very good at this.
912
Another thing I’m not very good at is having sex with someone, knowing that their dead mother is in my bedside cabinet.
Not that having sex with someone’s live mother in my bedside cabinet would be any easier. Mothers, generally speaking, should not be in bedside cabinets while you are having sex with their daughters. Is all.
And yet, despite these thoughts, and their attendant performance anxiety issues, Eris’s visit was one of the highlights of my time in Spain. We’d agreed that casualness was the key—which made me feel less bad about Hannah, and her less bad about flirting outrageously every night with the waiter in the village’s only restaurant.
Scott h
ad returned to the Valle for another visit and he, Robert, Eris and I had decided to head out for food and no small amount of wine. We’d opted to take the car down to the village so I was laying off the booze for one rare night, but the other three were more than making up for my temperance.
By the end of the meal both Eris and Robert were trashed, with Scott not far behind. Eris’s waiter-flirting had become increasingly obvious; she didn’t speak the language much more than Rob or I did, but apparently Spanish men aren’t as demanding on that front as Spanish women. Scott decided this would probably be a good time to head back to the villa to finish some work.
“I’ll come with you,” I said, in what I intended to be a study in nonchalance but which, as Robert quickly pointed out, came out more as a study in how to be a sulky hypocrite.
“Don’t be silly,” said Eris, “let’s go and have another drink at Carpe Diem.”
Grateful for any plan that got her away from—let’s call him—Juan, I agreed. Carpe Diem was empty—just me, Robert, Eris and the bartender.
“I’ll get the drinks,” I said, “you guys sit down.”
Having successfully separated Eris from Juan, it was time for plan B—stop her getting any more drunk so she wouldn’t go back and look for him. My plan was as simple as it was foolproof: instead of ordering Eris a rum and Coke, I’d just get her a straight Coke and gamble on her being drunk enough not to notice. Apparently I’d moved on from sulky hypocrite to devious hypocrite.
As I stood at the bar waiting to be served, I considered the morality of what I was about to do. Spiking someone’s drink—especially a girl’s—is definitely, unequivocally, wrong. But unspiking a drink? Is that still bad?
No, I thought; if anything it’s the opposite of bad. Unspiking someone’s drink is good; a noble, generous act. I took the drinks back to the table, making sure to give Robert the Coke with the rum and Eris the non-alcoholic variation. It was all very Danny Kaye.
Eris was distracted, playing with her phone, as I sat down, so I whispered to Robert, explaining what I’d done. It was his round next and I was hoping he might help me out with my unspiking plan, what with him being my friend and all.
Apparently, though, being thrashed at the Google Maps Challenge had left Robert sporting a grudge.
“Errrrriiissss …” he sang across the table. I stared at him. Don’t you dare, you bastard.
Eris looked up from her phone.
“Paul seems to have deliberately got you a straight Coke so that you won’t get any more drunk and run off with”—let’s call him—“Juan.”
Eris looked puzzled for a second, and then picked up her glass and took a sip. She swilled the liquid around in her mouth, searching for any hint of alcohol. Then a smile started to play around the corner of her mouth, which was still full of Coke.
She leaned across the table towards me and pursed her lips into a small “o” shape … and then spat the entire mouthful—shooting like a black, sugary fountain—into my face. Robert collapsed into laughter. He laughed so hard in fact that he almost fell off his chair.
Eris, too, by now, was in hysterics. This was literally the funniest thing either of them had ever seen; me, once smug with my unspiked drink plan, now covered with Coke, dripping from my hair and running down my nose. I started laughing too. I mean, it was funny. Of course, this was the exact moment, at the very height of my sugary comeuppance, that—let’s call him—Juan chose to walk into Carpe Diem, looking for an after-work drink.
Eris stood up, her face a picture of innocence, and walked over to him, before he’d even made it to the bar. “Hallo,” he said, apparently his only word of English. But he didn’t really need any other words, as Eris immediately grabbed both sides of his face and kissed him. For about twenty seconds.
This seemed like a good time for me to leave. I headed back up the mountain, leaving Robert and Eris to their full-strength rum and Cokes, and God knows what else.
913
Two hours later, Robert and Eris finally made it back to the villa, which, given their state, was just as much of a miracle as it was every night that I’d managed it. I was sitting on the patio when they arrived, sharing a bottle of rum with Scott. Robert sat down to join us while Eris headed off, I assumed, to bed.
“Have you forgiven me, darling?” asked Robert, still not having quite finished laughing.
“Fuck off,” I said, filling his glass half with rum. He explained that, after I’d left, Juan had disengaged himself from Eris’s mouth and immediately started to panic, trying, in broken English, to apologize to Robert for “keesing the lady of your friend.”
To his credit, Robert had made the man feel as guilty as their mutual lack of communication skills would allow, suggesting through rudimentary hand gestures that this might be the end of our nightly trips to his restaurant. The fact that we only had a few days left in Spain having more to do with this than anything else.
They’d all had a few more drinks before deciding to call it a night, having served me right for my amateur womanizing and my stupid jealousy.
“Shhhh …” Scott held up his hand, “what’s that … ?”
We could hear a crunching sound coming from the front of the house. Someone was walking down the gravel driveway. And the sound was getting quieter; further away.
“Where’s Eris?” asked Rob.
“I thought she’d gone to bed,” I said.
“Yeah, I think you thought wrong.”
“Well, I’m not going after her,” I said, pouring the remainder of the rum from the bottle into my glass. Then I put the glass down, sighed as loudly as I could—in the hope that Eris would hear it, despite being well on her way down the mountain by now—and trudged round to the front of the house.
I finally caught up with her halfway down the first big hill of the mountain road. “Where are you going?” I asked, redundantly.
“To find”—let’s …—“Juan,” she slurred.
Dear God, she was nearly as drunk as I usually was.
“Don’t be silly,” I said, putting my hand on her shoulder in the hope that it might at least stop her walking. Which it did, but only for a second. Which was the time she needed to turn around and punch me, as hard as she could, in the face. And then off she ran, down the mountain, back towards the village. It was 3 a.m.
“Fine,” I shouted after her, “I’m not chasing after you.”
And I didn’t. I turned around and walked back to the house.
“Fuck her,” I said as I stormed back into the patio. “I’m not her keeper.”
Scott—now the least drunk of us—wasn’t entirely convinced.
“We can’t just let her run off down the mountain at this time of night. What if she slips—or gets hit by a car?”
I was worried, too, now that I’d got off my high horse about someone else behaving idiotically while drunk.
“We’ll have to go and find her,” said Rob.
“That’s going to be interesting in the dark,” I said.
There were no streetlights on the mountain road and seeing more than a few feet ahead was impossible; I’d lost count of the number of times one or other of us had nearly fallen to our deaths on the way home.
“We’ll take the car. Which of us is least drunk?”
Given that I’d just finished the last of a bottle of rum, the answer clearly wasn’t me. Robert had sobered up a fair amount, but was hindered by the fact that he hasn’t driven a car in his life. Which just left …
“Fuck sake,” said Scott. “OK, come on.”
The three of us piled into the rental car, Scott and me in the front and Robert in the back. The person who can’t drive has to sit in the back; that’s the rule. Scott drove slowly down the mountain; hitting Eris with the car would have been counter-productive.
Robert and I scoured each side of the road for any sign that she’d veered off into a field or fallen in a ditch. By the time we arrived at the outskirts of the village, still with no sign of Eris, I
was starting to get frantic. Why hadn’t I followed her? Just because I was in a sulk and my ego wouldn’t allow me to beg her to come back to the villa, and safety?
“Look!” shouted Scott, pointing over the steering wheel, towards the village square. And there she was, standing right in the middle of the square, looking completely lost. Scott switched off the headlights and began to creep the car slowly towards the square.
We knew there was every chance she’d set off running again if she saw us, probably down one of the four or five narrow, car-proof alleyways that lead off the square. The car reached the edge of the square, which is when Eris spotted us. She stared at us, or at least toward the dark outline of the car, presumably trying to figure out if it was us or not; we stared back.
And then she was running. Scott—and I still don’t know where he learned to do any of what followed—slammed his foot on the accelerator and the car surged forward, overtaking Eris in a second, just before she had the chance to make it to the alley. Then, with a deft twist of the steering wheel and a little help from the handbrake, Scott spun the front of the car ninety degrees, blocking the space between her and the alley. Before we’d even come to a stop, I jumped out of the front door, grabbed Eris around her waist and threw her—I mean, physically threw her—through the back door that Robert had swung open.
I jumped back in the car, Robert took over the grabbing and we were away. It took a full twenty minutes of cajoling back at the villa before we finally convinced Eris that going to bed would be a much better use of her time than running back down the mountain to see a Spanish waiter who had probably been in bed for hours.
Calm restored to the Valle de Abdajalis, I went back to the patio, saw the empty bottle of rum and sighed. “Don’t worry,” said Scott, following behind me and reading my mind, “I saved a spare bottle in my room, just for this kind of eventuality. You want me to go and get it?”
“Por favor,” I said.
“You know,” said Robert, as Scott headed off to recover his emergency booze supply, “I still don’t know what that means.”