'You sure you like my hair like this?'
'I do. It's very hip.'
She momentarily surveys her own hips.
'Not that kind. What I mean is trendy, fun.'
'Ah, OK. That is good, but Ramon says it's too short.'
'Well, that's men for you. He'll get used to it.'
She sighs and rises to her feet, stretching across the table to pick up a bundle of brightly coloured plastic strings.
'What are these things? Ollie has them all over his room.'
'They're called Scoubidou, the latest fad at his school. You weave them together to make bracelets and key rings.'
She nods slowly. 'But he's got so many.'
'Yes, he's decided to make a load of key rings to raise money for the Sri Lankan orphanage. The tricky part is that he's suggesting we hold a fete in our field and invite local kids to buy his wares.'
She digests this information thoughtfully. 'Why tricky? I went to a fete in England when I au-paired for your sister. They had sack races and stalls with English cakes and tea. I loved it.'
'I don't think I've got the energy to organise one here.'
She begins filling a bucket with soapy water.
'Don't be lazy! We can do it. Just think of all the money we could raise – I can help bake and we can have lots of stalls.'
She has a point. It would be a great way of raising money and besides, it would be fun to stage an English fete in the Mallorcan mountains.
'We'd need time to plan.'
She nods. 'Let's do it in a few months before you go off to the orphanage in Sri Lanka. When do you leave?'
With all that's been going on I haven't given too much thought to our impending trip. It's about time I did.
'My friend, Noel, is organising our flights. I told him to get us the cheapest tickets in April.'
'So we do the fete in March. A Sunday would be good.'
I'm not too sure how I'm going to juggle this event on top of everything else. In the next month I have the Crown jewels launch, a pile of work to do for Rachel and my American-based clients and have just agreed to write a five-page feature on Mallorca for an in-flight magazine, aside from my weekly Majorca Daily Bulletin column, oh, and revising for my next Catalan exam. I must be mad. Catalina begins cleaning the kitchen windows. She turns to me, soapy sponge in hand.
'You know, I banged into Rafael today. It's sad about the dog, but better he goes.'
She is referring to the imminent departure of Llamp, Rafael's dog. Following the chicken killing episode my neighbour decided to find his Labrador pup another home and today the new owner will take him away.
'I'll miss him.'
She tuts at me. 'He'll get another dog, don't worry. Forget Llamp.'
I take a gulp of tea, realising, not for the first time, how sentimental I have become about animals since living here.
Catalina gets out a diary and pen from her capacious handbag.
'Right, let's discuss our trip to Dorset.'
Ah. The trip to Dorset, yet another thing on my agenda.
'There's not much to sort out. I've booked our flights and we'll be staying with Jessie and Willie, the couple who own The Cat's Whiskers.'
'Why they call it this? It means something?'
'It's a double entendre. The cat's whiskers is just a way of saying something's the best. You know, like the bee's knees.'
'I never hear this. Do bees have knees?'
'I haven't the foggiest. Look, it's just a silly expression.'
She regards me with some scepticism. 'So where will Stefan and I meet you when we arrive?'
'Paddington Station, but don't worry. I'll find out the train times to Shaftsbury and we'll agree a time and place to meet.'
She nods. 'And you'll spend some days in London beforehand?'
'Don't forget that I have the Crown jewels event that week.'
Her eyes fill with excitement. 'Will you meet Prince Charles?'
'I doubt it. I'm just the event organiser.'
'You never know. I'll keep my fingers crossed.'
Alan strolls into the kitchen in a smart blue suit. Catalina and I exchange winks.
'Oh, look at him! Are you off to meet the Prince too?'
'Not today, Catalina. I'm going to Focus Films in Palma for this insurance ad.'
'Well, it still sounds glamorous.'
He straightens his tie and takes a seat next to her.
'To be honest, all I have to do is pretend to be working at a desk in an insurance office. I don't get to utter a monosyllable.'
'Your time will come,' I say chirpily.
'Anyway, they pay me well and it gives me a break from gardening.'
I get up and deposit a bag of chocolate muffins in front of him.
'Drop these off at Margalida's on the way.'
'How is she now?' asks Catalina.
'In pretty good form, but I've noticed she's much more frail since the fall.'
Catalina shakes her head. 'Old age can be hard to bear. And what about Nancy?'
'I popped round yesterday to see her. God knows how she's going to sort out and pack all her stuff. She's such a magpie,' I reply.
Alan rises and picks up the bag of cakes. His eyes stray to a forlorn, miniature, empty tank sitting by the sink.
'What's happened to Ollie's sea monkeys?'
I run a finger across my throat. 'All dead.'
He picks up the plastic container and studies it. 'Is he disappointed?'
'Not really, he seems to be happier catching minnows in his net.'
He rests it back on the draining board and shrugs.
'I'd better be off to Palma. Remember, I'm taking Ollie straight from school to tennis. Don't forget to feed the hens.'
These days, on top of my mounting workload, I seem to spend my life cleaning out and feeding the hens, but they do at least oblige us with eggs. The only way I can get everything done is to rise at half six every morning and even then I run out of time. There just aren't enough hours in the day. Alan picks up the car keys and strides off. We hear the revving of the car engine.
'What are you doing this afternoon?' Catalina asks, getting up to start on some ironing.
'Working in my dugout of course.'
'How about you come olive picking instead?'
'Are you starting already?'
'Segur. My mother and father will be up in the grove today.'
It is always a jolly affair picking olives, hovering precariously aloft a wooden ladder, sharing jokes and a copa de vi negre, a glass of robust red wine, with Catalina's family and feeling huge satisfaction when a wicker basket is filled to the brim.
'I shouldn't really. I've got a mountain of work.'
She smiles. 'Work can wait, but the olive season can't.'
'Good point.'
'We can have a little wine and pa amb oli.'
She sees a greedy sparkle in my eye. Pa amb oli, literally bread and oil, forms part of the staple diet of the Mallorcans and is one of my weaknesses. The magic lies in the additional ingredient of tomatiga de ramellet, a local tomato that is threaded with string and hung in rows in either the kitchen or cellar and used all year round. Rich olive oil, sea salt, tomato and a whisper of garlic on rich Mallorcan bread is the closest one might ever come to earthly heaven.
'I'll come.'
Well, that took a lot of convincing.
'Five o'clock at my house,' she beams. 'And don't be late.'
I rise to my feet and gather up my diary and pen. 'Right, that's my incentive to get cracking. I'm going up to the office to wade through all my work in peace.'
'What if anyone calls?'
'Just say I'm busy or better still that I'm up an olive tree somewhere and unavailable for comment.'
It is late January and we are experiencing what the Mallorcans term 'the January calm'. There is little wind and the weather is mild. As I sit outside Cafè Paris reading the Veu de Sóller, our local Sóller newspaper, I see Antonia from HiBit approaching.
'Have you seen the postman lately?'
'No, but he seems to be having secret trysts with my elderly neighbour Margalida.'
'Really? Well, I haven't seen him for more than a week. Another man delivered the mail today.'
'Don't lose sleep over it. I'm sure he'll tire of Margalida's sweet oranges and return to his duties.'
She laughs. 'By the way, it looks like the new shop will be ready in a week's time.'
'Fantastic. Will you have a little fiesta?'
'Sure thing. Some wine and coca for all the clients.'
Of course. Where would we be without coca?
'You skiving off work this afternoon?'
'Give me a break. I'm just reading the Veu to practice my Catalan. I've got an exam tomorrow.'
'You poor thing. I don't think my written Catalan would be very good now. You know, under Franco we learned everything in Castilian Spanish in school.'
'So Margalida tells me. At least you've got an excuse.'
She laughs. 'So how's Ollie?'
'Actually, I'm waiting to pick him up from football practice. Sometimes I think it might be easier to make up his bed on the pitch.'
'I thought he was into tennis now?'
'Both. In fact, he's sport mad. He obviously doesn't inherit it from me.'
'I don't know, you did the marathon.'
'My body was in protest, remember. I'm not a natural.'
She gives me a grin and wanders off up the road. A moment later, Senyor Bisbal stands by my table. I jump up to greet him.
'Tranquil.la, tranquil.la,' he says, patting my arm. 'I wonder if I could introduce you to a friend?'
'Of course, please join me.'
With a polite nod of the head he turns and beckons to a small troll of a man in battered brogues and worn attire. His snowy hair and withered skin denote that he must be well into his eighties. When they have sat down, Senyor Bisbal leans forward conspiratorially and takes my hand.
'My friend is Xisco. He has a good eye for land.'
He sits back and taps the forefinger of his right hand against his nose. Xisco shapes his mouth into an oblong smile, unveiling a set of blunted teeth, chipped and greying like ancient tombstones. When he opens his mouth to speak, I notice the two incisors are missing and that a gold filling is winking from somewhere at the back of his mouth.
'I know of some good fields.'
Unsure of exactly how I am supposed to respond to this riveting news, I give an enthusiastic nod.
'Marvellous. Good for you.'
Senyor Bisbal takes over.
'I hear that you are looking to breed livestock.'
'Not exactly, Senyor Bisbal. Un hotel pels moixes.'
The snowy troll spits on the floor and clicks his teeth. He studies me in the way a lab technician might an alien species.
'Moixes, you say? You joke, si?'
Senyor Bisbal's face is clouded with confusion.
'In England we have places where cats stay when their owners go away.'
'Are you serious?'
'Of course. They pay maybe twelve euros each night, sometimes more.'
Xisco hunches his shoulders and honks loudly.
'You English are completely loco!'
Senyor Bisbal is utterly baffled. 'Why not just leave the cats to find their own food like we do?'
I realise that nothing I say about cattery philosophy will ever make sense to these hoary, rural veterans so I give up.
'Look, we just do things differently, that's all. Now, might you have some land if I needed it?'
Xisco puffs out his bottom lip.
'Pues, maybe, but how much land would this hotel need? Don't tell me the cats have beds?'
He pulls a puro from his pocket and is laughing so much at his own wit that he's quite incapable of lighting a match. Senyor Bisbal throws him a warning scowl and offers his own lighter.
'Excuse my friend. Per favor, if you give us the specification, we will try to help. What materials would you use?'
'Timber.'
He looks reassured. 'Good, because you'd never get planning for a concrete structure.'
'And how many cats would you have?'
'Maybe twenty.'
Xisco erupts into hysterical laughter again, his small roly-poly form practically leaping from the chair. I sneak a look at my watch and call for the bill.
'No,' says Senyor Bisbal, 'This is my treat. Next time we meet, give me the spec you need.'
I thank him and get up to leave.
'By the way, who told you I was looking for land?'
Senyor Bisbal is inscrutable.
'You must remember that nothing is secret in the Sóller Valley.'
SEVENTEEN
THE CROWNING GLORY
Thursday 9.50 a.m., the club, Mayfair
It's a wintry day in London. Even after some invigorating laps around Hyde Park I still feel the bitter chill of the wind as it slaps my face with a frosty palm. Back at the club, Bernadette is bustling about on the third floor, a stack of clean white sheets in her arms.
'Tonight's the night!' she jabbers as I walk past the small laundry.
'For what?'
'That famous politician, you know the one with the funny hair and the glasses? Well, he's speaking at the club this evening about his book.'
'Which side of the house is he?'
'God only knows, my lovely, but he was always hanging round with that there Lady Thatcher. I'm sure he'll have some tales to tell.'
'I shall miss it.'
'Shame, and what will you be up to?'
'Launching a new book about the Crown jewels.'
'Jesus, Mary and Joseph. You never are?'
I offer her a further morsel. 'Prince Charles will be there.'
She balances the sheets on the top of the washing machine. 'Never! And will you be meeting his nibs?'
'Very unlikely, but it'll be fun anyway.'
'And where will it be?'
'The Tower of London.'
She puts her hands to her voluminous chest. 'They'll all be there in their finery and jewels. And what will you be wearing?'
A good point. What will I be wearing? The fact is that I'm still undecided. Should it be the trusty woollen suit or the overused little black dress? The suit would allow me to wear low heels whereas the dress would require something more substantial. Given that I'm a hobbling disaster in anything higher than an inch, it's probably best to play safe and wear the humble suit.
'Just a suit.'
She turns down her mouth in disappointment and picks up the sheets once more. 'Never mind, Cinders. Enjoy it anyway.'
I watch her lumber along the corridor with her load, gingerly descending the creaky old spiral staircase. To my dismay, Dannie has requested that we hold a brief meeting about Miller Magic at my club because she thinks it sounds quaint and very British. My entreaties about it being a little tired and shabby for the likes of her cut no ice with Dannie so I had little choice but to succumb.
Downstairs in the library a waitress has set a table with a clean cloth, coffee cups and a plate of custard creams and bourbons, as instructed. The poor woman has a look of terror in her eyes whenever anyone approaches the library door for I have warned her of Dannie's bite.
'She'll be fine,' I say. 'It's just that she can be rather particular. If she asks for anything strange, just humour her.'
She listens carefully. 'I'll do my best.'
I sit down and examine my notes. The Conran launch of Miller Magic products was a great success and at last we're getting Dannie column inches in the newspapers, but it's been an uphill struggle. Three interviews in the glossy press were cancelled when Tetley informed Dannie that they were inauspicious. According to Tetley, the journalists' names all ended in 'y', which didn't bode well at all. It took Rachel and me some weeks to reschedule them all with different writers who weren't called Penny, Jenny or Kelly.
The door swings open and Rachel, followed by Mary Anne Bright, strides into the librar
y.
'Oh, wow!' shrieks Mary Anne. 'This is awesome. You know, it's like a Dickensian film set. Dannie's going to explode.'
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