Michael's jaw muscle relaxes and his eyes sparkle with pride. He's like a child in class who's just won a house point. We sit for an hour in deep discussion over mugs of coffee. I'm feeling exhilarated that George and Michael seem to have hit it off and have together mocked up such an exquisite range.
'How's Prudence?' George blurts out in a rush.
'Oh tip-top,' replies Michael a tad awkwardly.
'Good girl she is,' says George with a knowing wink. 'worth hanging on to, eh?'
I squirm,
'Quite,' says Michael, pink cheeked and in some confusion.
Before I leave, I hand a small parcel of Serrano ham to George. He sniffs deeply on it and gives me a bear hug. 'You finally remembered. Better be the real McCoy, guv!'
He's still chortling as Michael and I leave the showroom and head for Piccadilly on foot. We both have meetings in different parts of town. He is wearing a heavy brown tweed coat whose collar he pulls up against the bitter wind.
'Must be a bit warmer where you are,' he mumbles into the fabric.
'But it's getting colder, if that makes you feel any better.'
He gives a little chuckle
'How are things?'
'Oh, it's been tough as you know but Prudence and I feel we're getting there'. He manages a lukewarm smile.
'Now the showroom's gone, where are you working from?'
'Sevenoaks. I'm using the stables at the house and Prudence has kindly agreed to commute there from Monday to Thursday. We've got some good private commissions. It'll just take a little time to readjust.'
I touch his arm. 'See it as a new beginning, Michael. You'll never look back.'
As a novice commuter, I've had to embrace change and to accept the new challenges that life, with a glint in its eye, has hurled at me. But that's all part of the fun of it, isn't it?
'And what are you doing for Christmas?' I ask.
He is coy. 'Oh, Prudence and I will probably spend it quietly together in Sevenoaks. Neither of us has much family.'
He hails a cab, courteously opening the door and ushering me inside. He goes to close it but then reaches in and gently pats my sleeve.
'I appreciate what you've done for me with George. It's been a lifesaver. Bless you.' He averts his gaze, slams the door after him and drifts up Piccadilly without looking back.
9 p.m., Le Caprice, Mayfair
Dresden Watts and I are sitting opposite each other at a table in Le Caprice, sipping glasses of Chablis and munching on French bread. There's a sudden commotion as Greedy George blunders in through the swivel doors of the restaurant, holding a fat cigar in one hand and an umbrella in the other which he quickly offloads on to an attendant. The Bolivian manager, Jesus, greets him warmly and shows him to our table.
'Always feel safe in the hands of Jesus.' He winks at us and plonks himself down in the vacant chair.
'Bet you miss all this, don't you, guv?' He gives me a smug grin.
'Miss what exactly?'
'You know, classy places where you can hang out and eat proper grub.' Dresden has a playful grin on his lips but remains silent, observing us both as if we're a pair of fencing partners.
'We do have restaurants in Mallorca, George.'
He puffs on his cigar and gives a scornful laugh. 'Oh come on guv, they're hardly Gordon Blue are they?'
Dresden makes as if to correct him and then stops, realising in the nick of time that this is one of George's deliberate malapropisms.
'You're probably right,' I say breezily, 'God knows why the likes of the King of Spain, Michael Douglas and Claudia Schiffer keep coming back. Maybe they stock up on M&S beforehand?'
He shakes with laughter and squeezes my arm.
'Actually, guv, it's done you the world of good moving to Mallorca. You're much more laid-back and hippy chic. Must be all the drugs out there.'
Dresden titters politely then points a finger at George. 'You may mock but what she has found is balance and perspective. Isn't that what we all crave?'
'Oh Gawd!' groans George, 'Give him a drink. He's going all cosmic on us.'
Dresden sighs and places his glass with precision directly in front of him.
'Now you two, there is a serious reason why I've invited you both here.'
George and I exchange puzzled looks.
'You're getting married?' quips George.
'I think not,' says Dresden with a frown, flicking a stray black lacquered tendril from his forehead. 'To be brief, I was interviewing the chairman of an American furniture company for The Times when he by chance mentioned Havana Leather and an interest in opening a branch or franchise in the States.'
George splutters and grabs at a glass of wine, just poured for him by a tactful waiter. 'Is that so?'
'The chairman suggested I sound you out discreetly when I told him we were friends.'
'Does he know we're meeting here?'
Dresden fidgets with his gold cravat. 'Naturally, since he's footing the bill for dinner.'
'So what's the deal?'
'I don't know. Just that he wants to set up a meeting urgently. He's a cool, immensely wealthy player and the company's products are very chic.'
George runs his fingers through his greying locks. 'I've been thinking about expanding. Just think guv, you could help set up the American operation with me.'
'Fantastic!' I enthuse. Secretly I'm feeling uneasy. If this latest trip to London has taught me anything, it's that I am becoming increasingly disenchanted with the London scene and keen to explore new business possibilities in Mallorca. Flitting back and forth to the States with Greedy George in the future is not in my game plan. Dresden wafts a menu in the air. 'Shall we order?'
George pulls his menu towards him with gusto. 'Imagine. Havana Leather New York. It's got a nice ring to it.'
'It has,' says Dresden. 'It has indeed.'
Thursday 10 a.m., the office, Mayfair
The office is buzzing as I creep in. Throwing my old mac quickly over a chair in the reception area, I dart into Rachel's office before any of my employees has the chance to pounce on me. Rachel has the phone plugged to her ear as always and is chatting away to some journalist contact. She beckons me to sit down in front of her. I look out of her window and into the cold grey sky, wondering how she puts up with this depressing scene every day.
'So, what's new?' She slams down the phone and gives me one of her radiant smiles. Always a tonic.
'Do you know, just now my taxi driver didn't charge me.'
'You're joking?'
'No, honestly. We had a long chat about the London Marathon and when he heard I was taking part, he wouldn't take a penny. Told me to use it as sponsorship money.'
'Wow. What a nice guy.'
'Well, you know my penchant for London taxi drivers?'
It's a strange thing but ever since I've been living in Mallorca, one of my most favourite indulgences back in London has been taking a taxi. What I once took for granted, I now cherish, sharing many an animated conversation with the drivers on subjects ranging from politics, house prices to marathon training and how to move abroad. I've recently discovered that many drivers have run marathons themselves and a large percentage already own property in Spain. In the past, like most Londoners, I used to sit sullenly in the back seat of the cab, monosyllabic and stressed, cursing the traffic and irritable if a driver attempted to make conversation. I've discovered that some of the most charming people can transform into monsters on entering a taxi. It's almost as if the internal glass divider serves more as class divider, permitting them to act in a surly, rude and thoroughly obnoxious manner.
Rachel throws me an invitation card.
'It's the Harpers & Queen event tonight. You haven't forgotten?'
'No', I say self-righteously. 'I haven't.'
I pull open my voluminous bag to reach for my diary and a large knobbly object wrapped in toilet paper rolls out on to the floor.
'Urgh!' shrieks Rachel. 'What on earth's that?'
I haven't the faintest clue. Pulling back the paper, I examine it carefully and then as nonchalantly as possible, throw it into her wastepaper basket.
'It's just an old ham bone,' I say casually. 'One I meant to give to Franco. You remember the call I got at the Ritz from my neighbour Rafael? Franco's his dog. Heaven only knows how long it's been lurking in there.'
Rachel observes me for a second and laughs aloud, her shoulders shaking with the effort.
'You're a nightmare!' she says and then pulling a jacket from her chair, clips over to the door in her shiny black stilettos. 'Come on, let's get a coffee while I'm still sane.'
TEN
FOWL PLAY
In Mallorca life is a series of fiestas punctuated by short periods of work. However at Christmas this all changes and the fiesta enjoys an uninterrupted period in the limelight. From Christmas Eve until a full week after New Year, Mallorcans party and eat. In fact, Mallorca probably deserves an entry in the record books under 'Gluttony' for largest amount consumed per capita during a two week period. This is the time when relatives of every generation get together harmoniously under one roof for an extended period without dramas, recriminations, rivalries and the settling of old family scores over the carved turkey. Why is it that this can be achieved in Mallorca but not in England? The secret naturally lies in the stomach. For Christmas in Mallorca is about food, good wines, family and conversation. The word regimen, diet, is scorned and anyone vain enough to worry about their bona figura is given a cool reception.
It is the day before Christmas Eve, and the sun, a smudge of hot butter in a pale blue sky, spreads its warmth across the valley, tickling the ears of the burros, warming the backs of the lazy feral cats and dousing the spire of the town church in primrose light. Snow, like sieved sugar, dusts the mountain tops and the plump and glossy green pines are peppered with dew. I rumble along, the back of the car laden with expectant and empty panniers, ready to gorge on Christmas wares. It's still early and I am keen to make the market before half the townsfolk descend on it in a frenzy. At the corner of the track Margalida Sampol appears. She is in her winter coat and her soft white hair has been cut and set.
'I'm on my way to church,' she informs me. 'Have you time to pop by later?'
'How about tomorrow morning?' I ask, my head jutting out of the car window.
She mumbles to herself in Mallorcan and then nods. 'Tomorrow it is.'
At that moment a car swerves round the corner and with his bumper almost kissing mine, Lorenç the wood man screeches to a halt.
'Uep!' he yells from his window. This catchy little Mallorcan word usually denotes surprise of a happy kind. It might have been different if he'd bumped my car.
'Are you trying to kill me?'
His smile is as broad as a melon slice. 'Not today! I've got your wood in the back.'
I soften. We are down to our last dozen logs so his arrival is as welcome as a good fairy at a christening.
'Is Alan at home?'
'You bet. He'll be thrilled to help you unload the truck.'
Alan was still in his pyjamas when I left the house so Lorenç's arrival should buck up his ideas.
'Will you be up in the plaça for New Year?'
Lorenç opens his hands wide. 'Segur. Where else would I be?'
'We'll see you there. Until then Bon Nadal!'
He comes over to the car and kisses me on the cheek. 'Molt bé! You know how to say Happy Christmas in Mallorcan. Every day you learn a new word.'
Margalida listens with her hands on her hips. 'She has a good teacher in me.'
'I'm sure she does,' he grins.
I start the engine and reverse to let Lorenç drive by. Time for my assignation with Teresa.
The market is already humming as I dart through the side entrance, past the fish hall and head for Teresa's stall. She sees me coming and beams.
'Don't tell me you got up early today? Déu meu! She's here before nine o'clock!'
'Very funny, Teresa. I'll have you know I've been up a while. Now then, what have you got for me?'
She bustles around her stand, plucking small plastic bags off a row of metal hooks and hurling them at me. 'Fill them up!' she commands. 'Everything's fantastic today. I've even managed to get those naps you asked for.' She bends down behind the counter and emerges with a huge bag of parsnips.
'You mean xirivia? I'll have you know that nap translates as turnip in English.'
'Don't get smart with me!' she barks. 'They're all from beneath the soil aren't they?'
'If you say so,' I shrug, enjoying our banter.
I plunge into the fruit and veg, smelling, kneading, prodding, casting aside the mediocre, and generally behaving in a way that would have me thrown out of any British supermarket. Teresa rolls her head back and laughs. 'Well look how you're becoming a Mallorquína! Good girl. I've trained you well.'
Satisfied with my buys I pass the bags over to Teresa who weighs them all and rounds up the total. She stretches under the counter and pulls out two large bottles. 'My home-made cherry licor and herbes,' she winks. 'and here's a jar of sun-dried tomatoes. Bon Nadal.'
I give her a big hug and to her surprise, place a wrapped package in her hands.
'Un regal for Christmas,' I say. It's a little gift from London, a box of truffles and a candle holder.
She flaps her arms about and protests vociferously. 'What do I want with regals? What do you think you're doing?'
I gather my bags and head off for the square. Before I exit the building I take one look back at her stall. Seemingly unobserved, she is standing marvelling over the present. I feel my eyes water and tell myself to stop being a sentimental fool.
Some minutes later I lurch in to Colmado La Luna. The shop has shelves that rise to the ceiling, each one tantalisingly filled with speciality jams, biscuits, wines, olives and pickles. At the very top, nearly brushing the ceiling, a collection of food tins and metal cartons sporting old fashioned labels from the fifties run the length of the wall, a nostalgic reminder of the shop's longevity. The glass cabinet which serves as a counter oozes the most heavenly cold meats and sausages, Mallorcan cheeses and freshly baked rolls. Carmen greets me with a frown.
'What are you doing carrying all those bags? Where's the burro?'
This is Carmen's and my long standing joke. We refer to men as donkeys whose primary purpose in life is to carry our bags.
'He's at home.'
She huffs. 'Typical man!'
Xavier, who finishes serving a customer, gives a heavy sigh. 'Senyor Alano deserves a break. We men are always working. Here, give me those bags and I'll pop them by the finca later.'
I remonstrate but it's no good. Carmen whisks them behind the counter with a stern countenance. I begin to order my Christmas treats, special jamon Serrano, chorizo and lloms, cured pork sausage, an assortment of cheeses, local wines, figs and dates, walnuts and cashews. Customers come and go but I'm on a roll.
'Xavier, you'd better deliver her groceries by truck,' mocks Carmen, shaking her head in mirth.
'Well, I have guests coming and I don't want to run out of anything,' I bluster.
'You could feed the whole town!' she bellows.
'Yes but Carmen my new kitchen has been fitted and I want to celebrate this momentous occasion!'
She cackles and shakes her head. It's true. While I was away in London, Alan and Stefan worked like crazy with the builders to have the kitchen completed before my return. Alan knew how much it would mean to me to have a sparkling new kitchen in which to prepare my Christmas lunch. I was in a state of total amazement when I first saw it. Everything was how we'd sketched and designed it. We had a beautiful terracotta tiled floor, gleaming granite work surfaces and buttermilk wooden cupboards. The pièce de résistance, though, had to be the big oak table and accompanying eight chairs which I had been eyeing up at Castañer, the local furniture shop in town, for some time. Apparently they had taken pity on Alan when he visited and agreed that we could pay it off poc a poc.
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When I've settled my bill and left a stack of bags for delivery, I wish her merry Christmas and head off for HiBit to deliver a small gift to Antonia and Albert. Antonia is sitting smoking at the till as I enter. The small shop is heaving with Christmas shoppers.
'You're so kind! I haven't even had time to buy the turkey yet,' she howls. 'Work, work, work. It never stops!'
Albert gives a cough from the back of the shop and swivels round in a chair to see me. 'Hey! How you doing?'
A Lizard In My Luggage Page 21