A Lizard In My Luggage (43 page)

  'So, Ed, we finally meet. Please, let me get you a coffee.'

  One of the waiters takes our order. 'And how are you enjoying your stay?'

  'Well aside from the heat and snakes, I'm enjoying it.'

  Pep shows great interest. 'Wonderful! You have seen a snake already. What about a scorpion?'

  'What?' splutters Ed. 'You're joking surely?'

  'No, quite to the contrary. We have many small scorpions around here so examine your bed carefully at night. Oh and the bats…'

  'Bats?' exclaims Ed, his eyes as wide as a couple of CDs. 'I won't sleep a wink!'

  I give Pep a kick under the table. 'Stop it, you meanie.'

  He slaps Ed on the leg good-naturedly. 'Just a little Mallorcan humour.'

  'Right,' says Ed uncertainly.

  'You're lucky,' Pep touches Ed's arm. 'There's a folk dancing display in the square in a few minutes. You can have a go.'

  Ed gives a nervous whinny. 'I think not, Pep. I'm not a great mover.'

  'Nonsense! I'll show you.'

  Poor Ed sips on his
café amb llet,
his milky coffee, seemingly lost for words.

  Later, we arrive home to find Alan in the kitchen, bottling orange juice. 'So you've had a good morning,' says Alan.

  'Well, the folk dancing nearly gave me palpitations. That Pep is a forceful fellow, wouldn't let me off the hook and of course your sadistic wife,' he trails off and stabs a finger in my direction. 'just stood on the sidelines doubled up, taking photos while I was twirled around by endless big Madonnas.'

  I guffaw. 'Every man's dream, Ed!'

  'I'm not sure about that, Scatters. Besides I have Julia now.'

  Alan gives Ed a sympathetic look. 'I think you were a damned good sport. I heard you made a few fans in the town.'

  Ed toys with his glass of juice. 'I did like Colmado La Luna and the guys at HiBit. That Albert knows his onions and I can say that as a computer buff.'

  While they're talking, I slope off upstairs. In less than six hours we shall be celebrating Alan's surprise birthday party and there's much to do before then.

There is a narrow, cobbled side street in the town used as a cut through by motorbikes and boy racers on a Sunday afternoon. Tall, stone-built terraced houses run the length of it, and appear rather sombre and gloomy by night, but when the sun is shining, they take on quite a different hue. As soon as bright light floods the sky, the inhabitants spill out of their homes in a cacophonous scramble to face the working day. Doors are opened, shutters pulled back and rugs are hung from windows to air. Whining
motos
and rumbling trucks advance slowly along the road and on the cobbled pavements, laughing children clatter about on bikes, dogs bark, and elderly senyoras drag wicker chairs on to their doorsteps where they sit and crochet or gossip loudly with passing neighbours until night fall. There is nothing remarkable about any of this, since this scene mirrors that of many a street in the rural towns of Mallorca. Still, only this one can lay claim to Cas Marroig, arguably one of the best restaurants in the North West of the island. Situated on a corner of the street, this modest building, with its graceful windows and nut-brown shutters, could easily be mistaken for a private home. Only a small, subtle brass sign on its exterior indicates that it is, in fact, a restaurant. It is here that I have chosen to hold Alan's birthday dinner tonight, a quiet and idyllic oasis in the middle of the busy town.

  Beyond the heavy wooden front doors, there is a wide, cobbled
entrada
that gives on to a large and stunning stone terrace with distant views to the hills. Draped in white linen, dining tables are placed at discreet intervals, shrouded by vast stone urns overflowing with flowers, while high above, small lights twinkle from hanging terracotta pots. Tonight, friends of various nationalities have secretly gathered on the terrace for drinks awaiting the arrival of Alan, who innocently believes he is coming to Cas Marroig for a quiet supper with me. Catalina and I have planned everything meticulously. Unbeknown to him, she and Ramon are not at their home making dinner for their daughters, but have instead gone ahead to the restaurant and met up with all our other friends there. Neither is Ed babysitting Ollie at our home because they too have joined the others directly there.

  By the time we roll up, everyone is assembled out on the terrace. Suspecting nothing, Alan bounds into the restaurant's hallway and chats cheerfully with Pau, the maître d', who lures us out to the terrace. A second later, Alan rears back in shock at the vision before him. Standing and laughing, with glasses of cava raised in their hands, are all the people who have made our transition to the mountains possible and also so special. There is Catalina and her family, Pep, Juana and Angel, Tolo from the bank and his wife Rosa, Albert and Antonia, Rafael, Fransisca and Hans, and Jason Moore and his wife, Jack and Sarah and many others. Flushed and overcome with emotion, Alan grips Ollie by the hand and together they greet the guests. I slip off with Ed to talk to Pep and Juana, who, being such good friends, have been party to every detail of the birthday plot from the beginning.

  'How are you enjoying your stay?' asks Juana.

  'It's been an eye opener,' says Ed. 'Magical. Up here it's like a lost horizon.'

  Juana sips at her cava and turns to me. 'I can't believe you've been here a year already. Think you're going to stay forever?'

  'I can't think of anywhere else I'd rather be,' I answer.

  'What's there to go back for?' snorts Pep. 'You have all of us and you live in Eden.'

  Juana rolls her eyes at me. 'At least we don't have to worry about the whisky business.'

  'Let's not discuss that,' says Pep. 'Alan and I have bigger plans.'

  I squeeze his arm. 'Heaven help us!'

  After aperitifs on the terrace we adjourn upstairs to a private room for a four course dinner. The room is wood

panelled and imbued with soft light from the candles lining the walls and twinkling on the table. An antique wrought-iron candelabrum sits in the middle of the dark oak table, and oranges and lemons, their leaves intertwined, spill down its centre. The evening passes raucously and at midnight everyone sings Happy Birthday in English and Mallorcan. Alan rises to make his speech and is interrupted constantly by banter, jokes and loud clapping. Catalina takes control, instructing him to open his gifts. She stands protectively behind his chair, placing the gifts in front of him, one at a time, so that they can be seen and appreciated properly by the assembled guests. He unwraps each one carefully, embarrassed to have so much attention thrust upon him but delighting in it all the same. His presents include a bottle of one of Mallorca's finest wines from Tiffany, an American friend in Palma, a rare Mallorcan bonsai from Catalina and Ramon, a sack of almonds from Rafael, goblets from Pep and Juana and from Catalina's parents, a strong, hand made wicker basket with rope handle and hook for collecting oranges from the trees. I think of the elaborate sort of presents we give in London, and how simple, unaffected and practical the ones are here. Many have been made by hand and must have involved hours of work for their creator.

  Alan, Ed, Ollie and I wend our way home on foot, full of laughter and good cheer. We have left all the gifts at the restaurant and will pick them up in the morning. Pau waves to us as he shuts up the restaurant and ambles along the road towards his home, singing as he goes. The night is balmy and the sky is crammed to bursting with bright stars. Several guests hoot as they pass us in their cars and a group of laddish fan-tailed dogs saunter past and then all is still. Gloriously still.

  The next day I walk out, barefooted, on to the hot terrace to inspect progress on the pool. It is already half tiled and, with any luck, will be finished before Ed returns to London. At the far end of the garden I see the last of the builders packing up his tool bag for the afternoon. He gives me a cheery wave and disappears down into the field. Alan, Ed and Ollie sit on the terrace at the back of the house, playing Scrabble and hardly notice when I pass by them en route to the kitchen where I pour myself a glass of wine from the fridge. I take a sip and quietly make my way to the courtyard and the pond. The frogs are quacking and squawking as usual and my portly toad has returned and sits passively in the centre of the pond on a large craggy rock. As I approach, the frogs dive into the water but he remains still, studying me intently. I slide on to the pond's broad ledge and observe him closely. Silence. After a few seconds he opens his mouth as if to speak, then slams it shut. His throat is moving imperceptibly and for an insane moment, I imagine he's actually chewing gum. The heat of the sun warms my back and I close my eyes, listening to the sound of the gurgling water of the pond's small fountain. I imagine my companionable toad clearing his throat and launching into conversation.

  'So, you're still here?'

  My eyes click open. 'Oh, I thought you were ignoring me.'

  He puffs up his chest. 'No, just collecting my thoughts. You know, it's getting on for a year since you came here.'

  I nod thoughtfully and give him his next line.

  'I have to tell you straight up, I never thought you'd hack it.'

  I look at him in surprise. 'Why ever not?'

  'I dunno, put you down as a bit of a townie, but now I'm not so sure. I think you're maybe a country girl at heart.'

  I laugh. 'Well, I'm a bit of both.'

  'You know,' he says provocatively, 'everyone comes here either to lose or to find something. I can't work out which camp you're in.'

  'Well,' I say warily, 'Maybe I'm not in either.'

  He gives me a sardonic smile. 'Oh yes you are.'

  Would he really say that? Maybe. I pause to contemplate the tiny spasms his throat makes, the delicate veining under the translucent, mottled skin and his all seeing, inky-black eyes and decide that he really is quite handsome. The shrill sound of the telephone ringing makes me jump. Irritably, I turn towards the house. My corpulent friend blinks. I could almost swear he says in a gravely voice, 'Saved by the bell. Go on Miss Busy, don't you want to get that?'

  'No.'

  A door bangs and Alan strides into the courtyard. He calls over to me. 'It's George. He says he needs to speak with you urgently.'

  'Tell him I'll ring him back.'

  I feel the toad's penetrating gaze. Just follow your heart, he seems to be mouthing.

  Alan eyes me steadily. 'You should speak with him today.'

  'I know.'

  'When will you call?'

  'Later. Just say later.'

  He nods slowly and plods back into the house. An apple, vermilion in hue and perfectly formed, floats in front of me. Its fragrance is alluring, irresistible. Eve, it calls, just one bite. That's all. I snatch at the air. It evades me. Ever higher, safely out of reach. Gone forever.

  I steal a glance at my silent companion, and trail a finger in the cool pond water, watching the small fish dart beneath the glassy surface. Slowly, I get to my feet and stretch. Beyond the courtyard, the front garden, with its rich, silvery green lawn and myriad of brightly coloured Mediterranean flowers, beckons. Huge crimson roses, their parched hearts laid bare, sag on the far stone wall by the gardening shed. Their season is nearly passed. The smell of rosemary clings to the air and the rhythmic clicking of the cicadas merges bizarrely with the loud buzzing of a passing hornet. With a spring in my step, I leap up the small stone stairway by the pond that leads to the front garden.

  'Hey, wait up!' My amphibian friend croaks in bewilderment. 'Where you going?'

  I throw him an inscrutable smile. 'Where do you think? I'm off to smell the roses.'

Have you enjoyed this book? If so, why not write a review on your favourite website?

Thanks very much for buying this Summersdale book.