The phone rings. Catalina slams the iron down and answers.
'Hello, can I help you?' She listens and then giggles. 'No, she isn't sun bathing. Not yet anyway. I get her now. One moment.'
She hands me the phone. I hear Greedy George's naughty chuckle on the line.
'Hi guv! Did I catch you with your feet up on the terrace?'
'Oh very funny.'
'I had a meeting with Rachel the other day and she said you wouldn't be back this month. You OK?'
I wonder if he's beginning to rumble me. The truth is that I'm enjoying life here and each trip back to London is becoming harder and harder.
'I'm fine, Just had a lot on with builders. I'm back in a couple of weeks.'
He drops his voice. 'Thing is, I've held talks with this American furniture company and they seem really keen to finance a Havana Leather in New York. I need to talk it through with you soon.'
I hope my voice doesn't have a hollow tone. 'That's great. Fantastic! Can you send me through anything to look at?'
He hesitates. 'No, it's at a sensitive stage. I'd rather wait till you're over. We can talk about the marketing aspect.'
'Sure. Let's do that.'
He prattles on about a new lap dancing club he's discovered and then rings off.
'What was that all about?' asks Alan.
'Oh, just the usual. George wants to catch up with me soon,' I lie.
I'm feeling uneasy about Havana Leather's possible expansion plans because I'm not sure I want to be sucked into a major project in the States and yet the financial rewards would be tempting. I've come to a crossroads sooner than I had thought and am seriously toying with the idea of changing direction, possibly starting a new venture in Mallorca. But what? I haven't discussed any of this with Alan yet. It's all a question of timing and first, I need to have a few concrete ideas.
'Dreamy woman!' exclaims Catalina. 'What are you thinking about?'
'The complexities of life.'
'Ah,' she says. 'What you need is pastis de xocolata and tea.' And together we sit and demolish half a cake and put the world to rights while an exasperated Alan regards us in disgust and strides off into the garden to continue his planting.
In a pizzeria in the local port, Catalina and I sit wedged between two ample bosomed, laughing avis, grandmothers, who in this group of Mallorcan women ranging from 25 to 80 odd years of age, are probably the most senior. It is the village school's annual mothers' night out and I have been invited because Ollie attended its playgroup during the Christmas holidays. I feel privileged since I am the only foreigner at the event and the ladies are keen to include me as one of the chicas, the girls. As a courtesy they switch from Mallorcan to Castilian Spanish when they attempt to share jokes with me and I am relieved that Catalina is at my side to steer me through the subtle nuances of the language. The waiters approach the table nervously, panicked by this scene of Bacchic revelry which has transformed demure village housewives into Beryl Cook blueprints. Drawing deeply on cigarettes and sipping at strong red wine, these women follow the tremulous movements of the young male waiters with eyes dancing with mock lust and amusement.
'He's got a good pair!' yells one.
'Ah, but can he use them?' shrieks another.
Much raucous laughter follows and then someone recounts a tale about her husband which has the entire table wobbling with mirth. I sit mesmerised by these women. They are fearless, gutsy and know their own minds. They are out to have a good night without husbands, children, chores or outstanding commitments and nothing is going to dampen their evening, not even the sharp chill that penetrates the restaurant.
'Order some more wine!' someone calls, when one of the avis complains about the draughts. Shrieks of laughter ensue when a doe-eyed youth in a white apron arrives at the table and can't work the bottle opener.
'Give it to me, little boy!' says a kindly hour-glass shaped senyora, a fag dangling from her crimson lip. Then with a stealthy thespian wink in our direction, she rasps at him, 'I'll name my price later.'
More hoots of laughter. He leaps back and allows her to work loose the cork. As it pops into life, everyone applauds. I watch with some sympathy as the young harassed man scampers back to the kitchens, one hand mopping at his forehead with a linen napkin.
At one o'clock in the morning, everyone pulls back their chairs, the bill has been split evenly between the ladies and it is time for the cackling Cinderellas to wend their way home. Tipsily we hug each other good night and spill out into the semi-lit street. The sky is embedded with tiny stars that quiver and blaze above us like miniature lighthouses and in the hazy moonlight, the restless sea glistens rich and viscous like black molasses, smothering the rocks with a briny glaze. Catalina and I stroll along the sea front, our shawls wrapped tightly around us, in search of a taxi. The cold sea spray stings our lips and the wind nags at our hair and clothes so that we are forced to huddle by a shop front until a sharp-eyed taxi driver dives towards us, with the car's front lights flashing. Once ensconced in the warm interior of the vehicle, we sweep the hair from our faces, rub our eyes and with fits of giggles recall anecdotes and jokes shared at dinner. We agree that it was indeed a great night out.
'You're lucky to have such good friends,' I say. 'They really are such a fun bunch.'
'Yes', says Catalina proudly, 'The best.'
FOURTEEN
LONDON: APRIL
Friday, en route to London
We are sitting three abreast in the plane, Ollie closest to the window, Alan in the aisle seat and me sweating it out like piggy in the middle. However, this trip has so far been less fractious than some I've experienced, thanks to the presence of Ollie. Should a couple ever be in any doubt about whether to have a child, they should contemplate what future budget airline trips might be like without one. On a budget airline, as any shrewd parent knows, having a child in tow automatically entitles you to embark the plane ahead of fellow passengers. This means that you can arrive at the airport at a leisurely pace, and carry ticket number 210 or more and still get on the plane before the smart alec with ticket number one. This, of course, is hugely satisfying for us parents who are nervous fliers and is also a cunning way of punishing those childfree individuals who, all their lives, have probably enjoyed blissfully peaceful evenings undisturbed by peevish small creatures that go bump and burp in the night.
Before boarding the plane, I decide, for Ollie's sake, not to make a fuss. I have dutifully downed a double vodka and tonic at Palma airport and have selected a Bill Bryson book to turn my habitual terror into laughter. As we make ourselves comfortable in our seats, I feel someone touch my arm.
'Excuse me? Do you write for the Majorca Daily Bulletin?'
I'm a little nonplussed. An attractive woman in head-to-toe linen scrutinises me closely. 'I thought it was you! I read your column every week but I didn't agree with you last Saturday…'
'Oh dear, that's a pity,' I murmur, feeling under siege.
'Oh don't worry. I won't stop reading the column.'
'Excellent, thanks.' How gormless I sound as butterflies swoop and dive around my solar plexus. I really must conquer this flying phobia once and for all. She smiles and passes my seat whereupon I find myself facing none other than Victoria Duvall. 'Still haven't been up for supper yet,' she snaps as she dips her head towards me.
'But you haven't invited us…'
She frowns then roars with laughter. 'Ah, that must be the reason then! Ha ha!'
She shakes hands with Alan and manages to block the aisle for several minutes until she is moved on by a long suffering member of the cabin crew.
'Let's get together when we're all back…' she yells robustly down the plane.
'She's a character,' says Alan admiringly. 'Can't help but like her.'
As the plane rumbles along the tarmac, I sneak a look at Ollie and grasp his small hand.
'Oh no you don't,' he says brutally. 'I'm not scared so you shouldn't be. You've just got to grow up.'
> He snatches his hand back and avidly peers out of the window as we speed along. Once the plane lifts into the air, he lets out a 'Cool!' and begins pointing out everything he can see from the air. I screw my eyes shut waiting until the plane is on an even keel.
'Open your eyes, Mummy. You're just being pathetic.'
I give him a sulky look. 'I'm just sleepy, that's all.'
He rolls his eyes. 'No you're not. Come on, let's play soldiers.'
Actually, engaging in battles of an Action Man kind with six-year-olds can be a good distraction for fretful fliers, although I find stickers and colouring books more therapeutic.
A vodka and tonic later, I'm feeling fairly relaxed and skimming through a copy of easyJet Inflight magazine when a man taps me gently on the shoulder. It's James Grant, a member of the ECC. He proffers a hand to Alan over the seat and introduces himself.
'Back for work?' asks Alan.
'I'm writing a script for a new television cop drama. We've got a meeting to discuss the series. I'll be back tomorrow.'
'Interesting stuff. So how often do you commute?'
'About every two days.'
'What?' I hear myself shriek. 'I'd be a nervous wreck.'
He gives a laid-back shrug. 'It's just like catching a bus. Besides, it pays the bills.'
He wanders up the plane, his happy hunting ground, to catch up with another contact.
As we make our descent into Gatwick, I suddenly focus on the main reason for our return: the London Marathon, and, with a touch of uneasiness, wonder whether, despite the months of training, I will be able to complete the course and raise a packet for my chosen cause, a remote Amerindian tribe in Guyana. Then I think of the party I have arranged at our flat afterwards and the many friends and contacts I will see once again and suddenly running 26 miles doesn't seem quite such an ordeal after all.
Wednesday 7 p.m., One Aldwych
George and I have agreed to meet for a drink at a discreet hotel called One Aldwych which is conveniently close to one of his favourite hamburger joints. The sky is already dark and an icy wind blows as I walk quickly from Covent Garden tube, down Long Acre and turn right into Drury Lane in the direction of the Aldwych. The street is full of stressed individuals hurriedly heading for home, theatre land or the many bars and restaurants that suffocate this part of the West End. Traffic has snarled up and taxis are wedged nose to bumper on one side of the street, their red tail lights a blur in the sudden downpour of rain. I grapple around in my handbag and realise that, once again, I've forgotten to bring an umbrella with me. Fool, you're not in Mallorca now. I sprint across the road and a car brakes sharply and toots as it misses me by an inch. The driver gesticulates wildly from inside; an angry, distorted face through the pane which seems to sweat rain from every pore. I hurry on and finally see an oasis, the familiar floodlit exterior of the hotel. A doorman has already seen me crashing towards him, face obscured by the upturned collar of my coat, and gallantly rushes forward with an umbrella. I walk through the towering glass front doors and into the enormous lobby with its huge vaulted ceiling, arched windows and sleek white interior. Straight ahead but some way off, lies the bar and sitting at a small round table with a pile of papers in front of him is George.
I cross the vast expanse of white marble, stopping at a pillar to push back my wet hair. I am momentarily thrown by a gigantic sculpture of a naked man squeezed into a boat with enormous oars jutting out at right angles. The place is littered with cool, contemporary sculptures so that it has more of the feel of a gallery than a hotel. As I approach the table, George rises cumbersomely from his seat to greet me. He's not in stand-up comic routine today because he doesn't have an audience, and wears a serious expression.
'Let me get you a drink.'
A waiter appears on cue and George orders two glasses of champagne.
'So, still enjoying life in the sun?'
'Immensely.'
'No regrets?'
'Only that I'm not there enough.'
He fiddles with a small vase in the centre of the table.
'Old Campbell Gray's got good taste.'
'Yes, he has.' I look round the lobby momentarily reflecting on the owner's inimitable style which penetrates deep into the very pores of the building.
'Cards on the table, guv,' George bashes on. 'I've had three meetings with this American company and agreed to carve a deal. We'll be launching Havana Leather in the States in the next year.'
'Wow, this has all happened very quickly.'
'You know me, don't like to hang about. Point is, I need to know that you're on board to sort out the marketing and PR with me. I don't want you wobbling off.'
'I never wobble off.'
'Sorry, I didn't mean that. I just want to be sure that you're around to help. You know the brand inside out.'
'I'll be honest with you. I'm not sure how long I want to carry on working in London.'
His eyes pop wide open, just as the waiter places two fizzing glasses gently in front of us.
'Are you mad? What, you're just going to vegetate in the sun?'
'Of course not. I might want to think about some new venture.'
'That's all pie in the sky. See this as your new venture. Our expansion plan is going to be the best thing you've ever worked on.'
Hm. I'm not sure about that, but I'll humour him for now.
'Listen, I'll give it serious thought. I'm flattered you want me around.'
'Give me a break,' he puffs impatiently. 'OK think about it but don't mess me around.'
I raise my glass and he breaks into a grin.
'Oh, got something in my bag for you. A little good luck charm for the bloody marathon.'
He pulls out a small and chic turquoise box with a white ribbon. 'A gift from Tiffany?'
'Don't get carried away,' he moans.
I pull open the ribbon and lift the lid. White tissue paper flutters as I peer between the folds. A bejewelled designer silver lizard stares back at me, with tiny green eyes. It hangs from a chain.
'What can I say? It's beautiful.'
'I was worried you might get homesick while you were over,' he clinks my glass. 'Here's to the marathon.'
'And here's to Havana.'
He takes a long sip. 'Yep, so just make sure you're on board.'
Sunday 2 p.m., London Marathon day
The sky is streaked with sunlight as I arrive at my Pimlico flat, a marathon royal bedecked with a medal and draped in a warming silver foil sheet, the runner's equivalent of an ermine stole, courtesy of the marathon sponsors. I can hardly believe that I have just run for nearly four hours solidly around London, clocking up
26.2 miles, and have still managed to walk a further two miles back to my flat afterwards. It has been a spectacular day and my fellow participants and the crowds of well wishers who lined the route created such a cocktail of energy and goodwill that it was nigh impossible to fail. Now it's party time and Rachel is at the flat, playing host to family and friends who've popped by to share a celebratory glass. Alan is fumbling with the door key.
'It's funny but this all seems so alien now. It's just not home anymore.'
I nod. 'You're right, so why don't we sell up?'
He looks astonished. 'You mean it? What, pack up everything in the UK?'
'I'd have to do something else but why not? New challenges and all that.'
'Let's talk about this later,' he whispers.
At the bottom of the stairs, the door flies open and warm light from the flat pours into the corridor. Rachel welcomes us in and Prudence Braithwaite stalks out of the kitchen and places a cool glass of bubbly in my hand. There's the sound of loud laughter and champagne corks popping. The party appears to be in full flow without us.
'Come on,' she says robustly, grabbing my left arm and pulling me towards the living room. 'Everyone's waiting to welcome the champ.'
Michael Roselock comes over to greet me and is keen to inspect the medal. 'Not very good quality', he says, inspecting
it carefully. Prudence laughs. 'Really, it's just a memento, you silly sausage.'
I'm amused at this term of endearment. She catches my expression and when I've done my round of greetings with friends and family, she beckons me over.
'I wanted to let you know,' she says shyly, 'that Michael and I are going to get married. Nothing extravagant you understand. A small affair in Sevenoaks next month.'
'That's fantastic!'
'Well, we're pleased,' she says, trying to hide her pleasure.
Ed comes over. 'By the way Scatters, I've decided to visit you in Mallorca. I really mean it. This June.'
A Lizard In My Luggage Page 27