Ollie feigns contrition as his father strides back into the house, his shoulders heaving up and down with laughter.
It's a hot and sticky evening in August. The plaça is teeming with demons and masked ghouls in black capes while up on a wide stage in front of the town hall a home-grown rock group bashes out a wild rhythm amidst rising pink and green smoke. This is the Nit de Foc, otherwise known as the Night of Fire, when hundreds of locals voluntarily hop and jump around the square as devils shower them with burning sparks and throw fire crackers at their feet. At midnight there is a spectacular firework display and everyone goes home nursing scorched legs and toes. Handily, the local firemen, known as bombers, turn up and hose down anyone who gets too singed during the proceedings. For the less valiant, the occasion offers a wonderful opportunity to meet up with friends and enjoy a sadistic sideshow completely free of charge. A large group of us are sitting outside Cafè Paris , drinking wine and discussing everything from politics to catteries. Llorenç the woodman, comes over to Alan and commiserates over his worms.
'Maybe you just need to put the wormery in a shady spot with lots of ventilation.'
'Well, a nursery in Santa Maria has offered me a stock of local worms so I'm going to start again,' Alan replies.
'To be honest, I think the English worms couldn't cope with the sun,' says Paco. 'Get some good macho Mallorcans and it'll be fine.'
Albert from HiBit gives a wry smile. 'How about some laid-back American worms? If they're from California, the heat won't get to them.'
Paco laughs aloud and nudges him. 'Miami worms might be even better because they'll probably speak some Español.'
Albert throws Alan a sympathetic look. 'Well, I think Paco's right. Get yourself some trusty Mallorcan worms.'
'I'll do that,' nods the Scotsman stoically.
Paco strains his head to see what's going on in the plaça, finally standing up to get a better look. 'What's wrong with my daughter? She does this crazy thing every year.'
Aside from bull running up in Fornalutx annually, Catalina also likes to hop around the firecrackers at the Nit de Foc.
'She's just a daredevil,' I laugh, straining to see her in the dark crowd.
'Well, it's her life,' he shrugs. 'Anyway, what have you done about your hens?'
'Alan's secured the run. We think the gate might not have been closed properly.'
'These things happen. The important thing is to learn from it,' he taps his cigarette on the ashtray. His wife leans across and touches my hand.
'Catalina's told us about your cattery idea, but where would you put it?'
This is a moot point. If we could afford to buy the land next to our orchard it really would make an ideal spot.
'Ideally, I'd put it in the orchard.'
'Are you sure? Think of the corral, and what about planning permission?'
She's right. There are a lot of issues to think about aside from Alan's bad humour and the cost. After all, is a cattery what I really want or am I just clinging to a possible escape route from London PR drudgery? To complicate matters I'm having fun planning the Crown jewels event and am not even finding the demands of Dannie too onerous. Maybe the heat's getting to me, but coordinating PR for George's absurd dog fashion show in the Big Apple has been, as the New Yorkers would say, a real blast.
Fireworks pop and crackle overhead and plumes of silver, turquoise and green sparks shower from the sky. Catalina emerges from the plaça, her clothes soaking wet.
'The bombers cooled me off. Hey, Ramon, get me a cava, will you?'
She sprawls down on a chair next to me and taps my leg.
'What's wrong?'
'Nothing. I'm just thinking.'
'Don't think, dance!'
She gets up and grabs my arm. 'Come on.'
'Where are we going?'
'To dance with the devils.'
Before I can object, I find myself whisked across the square into a maelstrom of gyrating, whooping locals and prancing demons while a cackling fireman unleashes a hoseful of freezing water which gushes over my head and right down to the soles of my shoes and to the very tips of my dancing toes.
TEN
GOING THE WHOLE HOG
The valley is dipped in golden light as I head from the Port of Sóller back along the blazing asphalt road towards the town. Trailing me on his pop-pop moto is Gaspar, the paper delivery man who has finished his round and appears to have nothing better to do than shadow me as I run, calling out bravo and tooting his horn at intervals. I feel guilty about Gaspar. Ever since our first faltering conversation a few years back he has begged me to take him running, but given his immense girth and slow breathing this would, of course, be a disaster. The sudden demise of the popular paper delivery man would not, I fear, endear me to my neighbours. So my compromise is to let Gaspar tootle along on his bike at my side whenever it takes his fancy and somehow this seems to make him feel happy, as if he is actually running the course himself. When I reach the steep hill that curves up from the port towards Fornalutx, Gaspar toots and waves, carrying on towards the town. I watch him disappear in a veil of acrid smoke, his plump buttocks, like a couple of beef joints, hanging over the side of the ancient moto and providing useful ballast as he sways along the road. With only two months to go I am desperate to keep up my training schedule. Between clients, well-wishers and friends I have accumulated nearly two thousand pounds in promised sponsorship money and have no intention of giving up now, injury or no injury. The road to Fornalutx is clear as I fill my lungs ready for the ascent. Some minutes later, perspiring heavily in the intense heat, I turn off to the right and find a tractor advancing slowly in front of me. On the narrow lane which barely allows the passing of a single car, I know it will be difficult to pass so I trot behind in some frustration until finally the tractor grinds to a halt, its engine still shuddering. An elderly man leans from the driving seat and beckons me over.
'Perdoname, I only just saw you. Venga!' he calls in Mallorcan. 'We don't mind waiting.'
I smile up at him and squeeze past the vehicle, wondering why he said we, when he appears to be alone. Maybe he's got an invisible friend. Glimpsing back to offer a wave, I do a double take. Sitting on the seat next to the friendly farmer is a fat hog, one of the special Mallorcan black breed. He looks haughtily down at me and then shakes his head as if indicating that I should run along. The man sees me gawping in confusion and pats his pet as if somehow to reassure me. I keep up the pace, reminding myself that some things are never quite as they seem in our valley. Glimpsing my stopwatch, I see that I have managed an hour and thirty minutes on the road, and only the tiniest gnawing pain persists in my right thigh. Surely it must be almost healed?
Margalida is standing outside her chalet watering plants. Her fat tabby cat watches me suspiciously as I approach.
'I wish you'd stop all this running. At your age it can't be good.'
'You used to say how young I looked.'
'That's because I'm half blind but then you foolishly decided to tell me your age.'
I swig at my plastic water bottle and throw some of the lukewarm contents over my head. Margalida is disapproving.
'That's the best way to get a chill.'
I wonder if the day will come when I meet with Margalida's approval, but then it doesn't seem to matter given that she humours me just the way I am.
'I have a bag of figs for you.'
She hobbles into the house, returning with a plastic carrier bag.
'Here, they'll give you energy.'
I give her a hug and hurry up the track. When I look round, I see her standing like a statue, her near sightless eyes following me as I go. Alan is out in the front garden hosing his herb patch as I puff into the courtyard.
'You won't believe it,' he seethes. 'Those dratted cats have dug up my new seedlings. It's taken me weeks to nurture them.'
Given that cats are becoming such a sensitive issue I mutter sympathetically and quickly slip away into the entrada. The window
s and doors are flung open as Catalina makes her weekly assault on the house. Meanwhile, Ollie has returned to school, having complained as he left that three months' holiday simply wasn't enough.
'Come here,' Catalina is calling from upstairs. I find her in what we call the snug room, the only place where we actually have a sofa of sorts. She is leaning out of the window.
'Look at those stupid cats! They're sleeping on the roof.'
Following her lead, I peer out of the window and there, curled up on the hot clay roof tiles below us, are Minky and Orlando.
'They must have climbed out of the window. Do you think they're safe?'
'Yes,' she considers. 'As long as they don't fall.'
'Very funny.'
She bustles downstairs. 'Remember the mayor is coming in an hour. You'd better be ready.'
The Mayor of Sóller also doubles as the town's vet and has agreed to pop by the finca to assess whether our orchard could possibly house a cattery and if not, to discuss other options. With a growing population of feral cats in the town and the local villages, I'd also like to suggest a possible solution to the problem.
I am upstairs in my office writing my weekly column for the Majorca Daily Bulletin when a car draws up at the gate. Catalina is bawling up the stairs.
'It's the Batle! Come!'
The mayor is accompanied by Stefan, Catalina's brother who, I am pleased to learn from her, is securing an increasing amount of work with the local council. In the few years we have known him, he has risen from lone stone mason to respected building contractor, employing many. Without ceremony, the mayor strides into the entrada, greets Alan and me warmly and then proceeds to look around the gardens.
'What a nice house,' he exclaims. 'Your work?'
Stefan nods. 'There's still a lot to do though. Paving, installing a better irrigation system and then we've got to start on the casitas…'
Ah yes, the outhouses by the pool. Another little task we've yet to accomplish.
'Poc a poc,' I say, using the 'little by little' refrain that used to drive me to near insanity when I first arrived in the valley. Now I can look at wires spewing from walls, tiles unfinished, gaping sockets and turn a blind eye to it all because it will, as the locals say, be done in time. Poc a poc.
'You must explain to the mayor about your cattery course,' says Catalina.
Stefan is already leading the way down the stairs into the orchard. Excitedly, he shows the mayor the area that could accommodate a modest wooden agricultural building.
'You own all this land?'
'Ah, no,' says Stefan, answering for us. 'Only half, but they want to negotiate for it.'
Alan is chewing his lip thoughtfully and remains taciturn.
I tell the mayor about the cattery course, a phenomenon that he finds mildly curious, but he nods encouragingly.
'Look, in principle, I have no problem with the idea. In fact, it's a good one – especially if, as you say, you would also like to address the feral cat issue in the valley. We can discuss that further. However, first we need to check planning permits. We will be in touch.'
He heads off to the courtyard with Stefan. Alan trails behind with a troubled expression on his face.
'What's this idea of yours for helping the feral cats?' he asks suspiciously.
'Well, a sort of Pied Piper pilot scheme whereby we lure the cats away from the bins to central feeding points out of the main thoroughfares.'
'And who provides the food?'
'That's for discussion.'
He gives a cough. 'It wouldn't involve us by any remote chance?'
Catalina quickly interrupts. 'That was encouraging, wasn't it?'
'You think so?' I ask.
'Well, it's a start, but the first real step will be negotiating for that land.'
Pep is sitting at our kitchen table pouring over a large desk diary.
'OK, so tomorrow this nice British hen party arrive at eleven.'
Alan sits across from him with his own diary. 'I hope they're not as moody as those Swedes.'
'Well, they were all right in the end. Your handsome plumber told me they kept inviting him round even when the water was back on,' Pep chuckles.
'Poor Pere. He must be pestered by women all the time,' says Alan.
'You mean like you and me, mon amic?'
I give Pep a look. 'In your dreams.'
Alan doesn't bother to respond. 'After this lot, your flat's free until early October.'
'Yes, so you can have a little respite.'
'Respite? You must be joking. I might be up for another commercial.'
Pep looks up from the table. 'Another bank advert?'
'No, it's for shampoo.'
Alan leafs through his diary, refusing eye contact with either of us.
I can see that Pep is savouring the moment. 'Shampoo? No self-respecting macho would do a shampoo advert.'
'Not even for six hundred euros?'
He demurs. 'Admittedly, that's not bad, but how long will the filming take?'
'Half a day, apparently.'
'And he gets to kiss his co-star,' I add helpfully.
Pep drops his pen and grabs my arm. 'What? You're joking?'
Alan is coy. 'I only have to peck her on the cheek.'
'Why do you have to kiss her at all?'
'Because she buys me a bottle of shampoo.'
Pep gets up and runs his hands through his grey mane. 'That's ridiculous! No man would kiss a woman for buying him a bottle of shampoo.'
Alan strolls over to the sink area and impatiently plugs in the espresso machine.
'Calm down. It's probably just his excuse, you know, to kiss her.'
'Per favor! No Mallorcan would need an excuse to kiss a woman.'
'Oh God, why did we start this?' Alan battles with a packet of ground coffee and manages to spill a small heap of it onto the work surface. Messily, he begins to dab at it with a cloth.
'How do you work this wretched machine anyway?'
I get up and shoo him out of the way.
'I'll do it. Want a cup?'
Pep nods. 'So tell me the whole story line.'
Alan plonks down on a chair. 'Take one is a shot of me with my hair looking lifeless, then it focuses in on the worried face of my wife. It cuts to her returning with a bottle of shampoo which I use...'
'Immediately?'
'I've no idea, Pep. Anyway, then it shows me boasting a healthy, glossy head of hair and the final shot is me leaning across to kiss her on the cheek.'
Pep's mouth opens and closes like a drowning goldfish. 'So you'll have to wear a wig?'
Alan is indignant. 'Of course not! What's wrong with my own hair?'
'Well, it's not thick like mine.'
'Yours is long, not necessarily thick.'
I push a coffee in front of both of them.
'Any chance of you two actually carrying on with some work, or are you just going to bicker all afternoon?'
It's 8.15 a.m. I am sitting at my desk wrapped in a towel while Rachel speaks rapidly to me on the phone. I make a mental note that it's actually an hour earlier in the UK and that she's already in the office. Meanwhile, I had only just showered when she rang.
'So what are we going to do?'
Rachel, normally so calm and collected, has obviously been thrown by this latest turn of events at H Hotels. A triple murder is never good for PR purposes and I can imagine Manuel Ramirez must be in a state of complete anxiety. She is breathing heavily.
'Hang on, Rachel. Let me get this straight. A maid at the Paris hotel was shot in the lobby earlier this morning by her jealous boyfriend, the gardener, who was then stabbed to death by the husband.'
'Other way around,' she says irritably. 'The husband is the jealous gardener. He shot his wife in the lobby and the boyfriend, who's a concierge at the hotel, stabbed and killed him.'
'Got it. So who killed the boyfriend? There's no one left.'
'Yes there is. Apparently the mother of the jealous husband tho
ught he was acting strangely this morning and followed him to the hotel. When she saw him dead in the lobby, she went into shock and used his gun to kill the concierge.'
'This could only happen in Paris. It's like a Feydeau farce.'
'Except that it isn't very funny.'
'Right, have you written a holding statement?'
'I've already emailed it to Manuel. There should be a copy on your system.'
'Excellent. I need to speak with Manuel and then we can put a crisis statement together.'
'He's expecting your call. I'm afraid he only wants you to speak to the press.'
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