Antidote to Infidelity (21 page)

“Muy Bien!” I giggle. “Muchas
Gracias. ¿Cómo te llamas, se
ñ
or?”

He grins, sweaty hand
enthusiastically pumping mine.

“De nada. I am Juan. Eees a
pleasure to be making your acquaintance, preety se
ñ
orita. And your name ees . . . ?”

Out of the corner of my eye I
can see Will impatiently ramming a trolley with a mind of its own in our
general direction. Feeling my fat lip burn, I instinctively lower my ice pack.

“Er, Sally. Me llamo Sally.
Good to meet you, Juan.”

He nods politely then tips my
chin, examining my puffy mouth with a frown.

“What-a-happen to your
leep
,
miss Sally?”

One eye on Juan, one eye on
Will, who’s just taken a doddering old granny viciously out at the ankles, I’m
only half listening.

“My leep? My leep? Oooh, sorry,
you mean my
lip
. Oh don’t worry, it was an accident!”

He looks confused, so I gesture
to Will, who’s rapidly gaining on us, face like thunder.

“My husband,
him
,” I
say, pointing. “He hit me on the plane when he woke up.”

Muttering under his breath,
Juan’s face changes. He scowls blackly at Will, who, having finally showed the
trolley
just
who’s boss, is standing six feet away, dumbfounded. Leaning
in close, tanned cheek to mine, Juan hisses, “When a grown men heet, is
never
accident. You want I feex also, for you? Is no problem.”

Oh, gim’me a break!
What is it with me? How, just
bloody how, can I get into trouble innocently buying a soft drink? I’ve only
been in the country five minutes!

Plagued by a horrible vision of
Will and Juan rolling round the airport in a brawling ball before disappearing
through the flaps on the luggage conveyor, never to be seen again, I shake my
head rapidly.

“Oh, no no no! Juan, nooo. It
really
was
an accident,” I stammer, flustered. “Honest. It’s fine
,
I’m
fine. Thank you sooo much for getting my water. Please -
leave it
.”

Suspicious, Will slips between
us, staring at his flapping wife and the steaming Banderas look-alike who
barely comes up to his chin. All at once he twigs, rolls his eyes and flips.

“Oh, I see Sally. I get it,” he
snaps. “Just because some hot stewardess
smiles
at me, you tell the
first flamin’ busboy you meet I’ve belted you? That’s just champion, that.”

Juan-the-Man is on his tiptoes
in a flash. Sticking out his chest, he presses his face into Will’s breastbone,
nostrils flared like a raging bull.

“No busboy, amigo -
troll-eey
guy. You want we take thees outside?”

“
NO
! No. Now stop it,
both of you!” I demand, seeing Will nod readily as nosy tourists bring trolleys
to a standstill all around us.

Certain one of us will end up
in handcuffs, I swiftly wedge myself between the sparring pair, grab the suitcase
and shove it at Will, keen to occupy his arms.

“Here, you take these. And
Juan,” I roll Will’s empty trolley into his collection, “you take this. Thank
you. Very much. Buenas noches!”

Seizing Will’s gesticulating
arm, I drag him out of ‘arrivals’ to the taxi rank, where I bundle him into a
waiting cab before either of them can object.

Phew, that was close. Too
close. A body cavity search followed by three nights in a poky Spanish police
cell isn’t my idea of fun in the sun.

Settling into my seat, I lock
the door - just in case - patting Will’s arm as he glares out of the back
window, seeking Juan and a re-match. Our driver, a cigar-puffing,
sombrero-wearing Speedy Gonzales, clicks on his meter, catching my eye in the
mirror.

“
¿Adónde vamos señorita?
”

Strike two. Still a se
ñ
orita!

I’m about to answer politely
when I realise I can’t possibly direct him as I haven’t a
clue
where
we’re going. Will shoots forward, elbowing me out of the way.

Clapping Speedy on the
shoulder, he unsettles a cloud of dandruff as he blurts out, “
Puerto Delfina, el
puerto deportivo. Pise el acelerador, estamos agotados
–
4 Vistas del Mar
–
la nueva urbanización en el
centro.
”

With a screech of tyres, the
driver rockets off, presumably bound for ‘
The Marina, Four Ocean Court.
The new development in the middle’ . . . oh, and step on it!

Where the hell did that come
from? A string of perfect, accented Spanish from Will, the dense GCSE language
flunkie
who
thinks
‘
hola
’
is something you get
in the knee of your trousers.

Gripped by G-force,
I poke his upper arm accusingly with my index finger.

“Hey! When did . . . I mean,
when did . . .
you
don’t speak
Spanish
!”

Yes, yes, I know. Stupid
comment as quite clearly, he does! As I regard him huffily, arms crossed, he
shoots me a victorious ‘up-yours’ look.

“Well now I do, Sally-Ann. So
before you go thinking you can fraternise freely, think again. ¿Entiendes?”

“Oh, I understand . . . but
since
when
?” I demand hotly. “You don’t just flick a fluency switch!”

Fastening his seatbelt, my
bi-lingual snake of a husband glares at me, unblinking.

“Since I bucked up my ideas and
took an intensive night course,” he says matter-of-factly, pulling his sourest
Monster face. “Let your mother put
that
in her poisonous pipe and smoke
it.”

Ahh, typical, I might have
guessed. Anything untoward and you can bet your last Euro my mother has a hand
in it. Even so, it still beggars belief. The last time Will ordered in Spain,
he asked for cat and chips, medium rare, before flapping his arms to inform the
confused waiter we’d ‘just flown in’.

Blanking me, he turns to watch
a plane take off as we whiz round a sun-scorched island on the wrong side of
the road. It’s my husband’s impolite way of saying ‘conversation over, talk to
the back’.

Against my better judgement, I
shut up, turning my attention to Speedy, who’s driving with his knees whilst
attempting to tune in the radio. Roaming eyes everywhere but the road, he
notices my split lip in the mirror and enquires, “
¿Está bien su mujer, señor?
”

I nod.

Oh, I’m hunky dory mate, thanks
for asking. Fat faced and fearing for my life, but hey, right as a cart!

Agitated, Will leans through
the gap between the seats.

“
Está bien,
”
he snaps,
“
no le meta en lo que no le
toca, conduzca.
”

Gasping, I slap his leg hard.

“Will, pack it in! That’s pig
ignorant, he’ll wrap us round a lamp post!”

Scowling, Will shuffles away,
winds down the window and assumes his unsociable ‘flying’ stance, eyes closed
tight. Speedy meanwhile - obediently ‘minding his own business’ - roars down
the dual bypass, honking every now and again at his fellow yellow-cabbed
maniacs.

Flying past spinning wind
turbines, a darkened McDonald’s and a shopping mall, he pauses for a second at
the crossroads before putting pedal back to metal and screeching off towards
‘Puerto
Delfina - 7 kilometres’
.

Hmmm. Puerto Delfina.
Definitely
an interesting choice by Will. We’ve never been to this particular part of the
Costa Del Sol and I must admit, as we hurtle along at 170 kilometres an hour,
I’m quite excited. Assuming, that is, we make it there alive.

Mmm. Let’s have a little
look-see, shall we?

***

Pulling a battered Winter Sun
brochure out of my bag, I scan the index. Puerto Delfina, Puerto Delfina – ahh,
here we are, page 147.

‘Tipped to replace Marbella as
the new jet-set capital of the Costas, the glitzy, up-and-coming resort of
Puerto Delfina is growing in size, reputation and popularity by the day.
Holiday hot-spot of the rich and famous, picturesque Puerto is a thriving
commercial chrysalis boasting luxury accommodation, irresistible restaurants,
stylish boutiques and shops-a-plenty.
Mmm, I like the sound of that!
With
its stunning central marina and rolling mountain backdrop, the enchanting
resort is a mere stone’s throw from the historic cities of Seville, Ronda and
Granada, offering the perfect mix of couture and culture.’

Smiling, I soak up the text
like a sponge. Yes, yes, I’m a victim of advertising, but  it does sound
fab
and a trip to Puerto Delfina has been top of my wish list for
ages
.
I’m chuffed to bits Will’s chosen it, but I’m under no illusions. Forget the
rolling greenery and mile after mile of dreamy golden sands, the white-knuckle
water sports would have sealed the deal, he’s a total jet-ski junkie.

I turn to compliment his choice
but find him drooling at the chops, catching flies, much to the amusement of
Speedy, who’s busy chewing tobacco and picking his nose. Grinning blackly
beneath his moustache, he spits a tarry mouthful out of the window and proceeds
with a cheeky impression of Will, only to mount the curb, narrowly missing a
flower cart.

“Se
ñ
or - please. Más despacio, por favor!” I beg,
clinging on for dear life.

Hands aloft, Speedy shrugs like
I’m some kind of uptight killjoy. Mercifully, though, he heeds my plea and
eases up on the accelerator as he nips through a narrow gap signposted M
arina.

As we snail down silent,
cobbled streets so thin I feel I should breath in, I realise the racetrack is
behind us and my nervousness subsides, making way for genuine, childlike
excitement.
Anticipation growing by the
second, I nudge Will happily, inhaling the sickly-sweet air as we roll past a
glowing panadería.

Lined with charming stone
abodes, tiny seafood restaurants and traditional Spanish tavernas, the
colourful streets resemble a scene from a storybook - alive with character,
asleep until dawn. Opening my window to catch the spray as we pass a procession
of dancing silver fountains, my patience runs out and I jab Will in the ribs,
desperate for him to wake up and coo alongside me.

Too late. He grunts back to the
land of the living just as we roll onto the marina, halting amongst a cluster
of lavish apartments and extravagant yachts. Clicking off the meter, Speedy
drops our luggage on the grey marble walkway at the water’s edge, accepting
Will’s generous guilty-tip with grinning disbelief. Hopping back into his cab,
he screeches off, leaving me gawping at the palatial complex before us, which -
ingeniously set into the port’s rural headland - seems to hover on the sea like
a lush, private paradise.

I feel like a tramp at the
Queen’s tea party. Privileged, yet underdressed and grossly out of place. As I
stare, unblinking, Will silently lifts our cargo and taps a code into the
keypad guarding the entrance, signalling a pair of wrought iron gates to swing
invitingly. Impressed, I follow him across the lawn, dodging sprinklers as we
approach an illuminated glass lift which looks out across the Mediterranean.

Bad mood evaporated, Will
whispers, “Hit the top floor, babe. Up we go.”

Nah. He’s got to be pulling my
leg. Don’t wobble.

I hesitate, waiting for the
real
instructions but he just jiggles his eyebrows and smiles.

Holy shit - he’s serious!

Bouncing on the spot, I press
the glowing ‘penthouse’ button, feeling like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman.
Have
you been to the penthouse before? Are you kidding me, I come here all the time
.
. .

As the elevator begins its
assent, giving a panoramic view of the ocean and the harbour’s majestic fleet,
all I can think is: the
penthouse
. Get
out
! I’m going to see
real, actual penthouse
.

Wow. I hope he’s not rented it
by the hour. Then again . . . who cares?

Palms to the glass, I marvel at
the Arabian-style buildings shining white and gold in the shadow of the moon
like a fairytale kingdom waiting to be explored. Oh, the kids would absolutely
love
it
here. I’m definitely going to bring them at half term.

When I’ve re-mortgaged, sold
all my worldly possessions and won the lottery.

As we reach our top floor
destination with a ‘ping’, Will leads me along an open-air corridor to a stained
oak door marked
numero quatro.
Easing it wide, he invites me to enter
with a sweeping arm before flicking on the teardrop chandelier and dropping our
bags at his feet.

“Aquí tienes, se
ñ
orita. Your stunning home for
the next three days! I’m sure you’ll find it
most
satisfactory.”