A Lizard In My Luggage (40 page)

  Moments later, a pile of roughly hewn brown bread is placed in front of us on the red gingham tablecloth, together with a bowl of black olives, thick golden olive oil and a plate of
ramellets
, the local Mallorcan tomatoes, which are often used to make
pa amb oli
. Jason chews on a piece of bread and gives me a round up of the day's news. Local Mallorcan elections are looming and the political mud-slinging season has officially begun, promising to provide endless column inches for a newspaper like his. I lean back in my chair and yawn.

  'It doesn't matter where you are, you can't escape politics.'

  Jason sniggers. 'Oh well, it'll be the celeb season soon. That'll liven things up a bit out here.'

  Mallorca has its celebrity season from June to August when shoals of European household names (most unknown to me) arrive at the airport or by luxury yacht and turn a blissfully peaceful island into a living copy of
Hello!
magazine.

  'I don't recognise half the supposed celebs that come out here,' I say sniffily.

  'Yes, well if you bothered to watch some British soaps, you might,' he scoffs. Fair criticism. Since living here I rarely glimpse television and return to London each month like Rip Van Winkle, rising from a blissful slumber, disorientated and bemused by the volume of tittle-tattle in the media and the public's desperate desire to exist vicariously through celebrities' lives. Surely there has to be more to life than that?

  A waiter bounds over and takes our order – fresh calamari, chargrilled artichokes and rosemary-infused lamb.

  Jason suddenly raises his glass. 'Heavens, I nearly forgot! Well done on the marathon. That was a result. Under four hours, right?'

  'Three hours and forty eight minutes of hell but it was worth it for the party afterwards and hopefully I'll have raised several thousand pounds for charity.'

  'Great stuff. You're so lucky,' he muses, 'Living here and flitting back to London. You really have got the best of both worlds, haven't you?'

  'Perhaps.' I drain my glass and put it down gently in front of me. I rarely stop to think about it but Jason's absolutely right of course. Ostensibly, island hopping each month holds many attractions but is that what I really want? Aye, there's the rub.

  I'm rushing along the Borne in Palma to the estate agency, Engel and Volkers. My contact there, Terence, has offered to give me some off the record property advice about Pep and Alan's whisky venture. He beams as I walk in to his white pristine offices. 'Come, let's have a quick catch up.'

  He seems amused at the thought of Alan opening a shop. 'It's not cheap on Jaume III,' he says. 'And can you imagine these two semi-retired guys driving from the mountains each day to open up shop?'

  No, in a simple word.

  'I think he'd be better following the garden consultancy idea you mentioned.'

  Join the club. 'Could you maybe have a word with them?'

  'Sure. Why don't I invite them in and we can chew the bit.'

  My mobile chirrups. It's Alan. He's just taken Ollie for his weekly treat to an English bookshop near his school. Having recently discovered that there are two British bookshops on the island, it has become a ritual to visit the Universal Bookshop on a Tuesday and the Bookworm when we're ever in town on a Saturday. Now the boys are en route to pick me up from Cortès Inglès, the large department store, a stone's throw from the Borne.

  I get up to leave, having only a few minutes to jog up the road to our appointed meeting place. Terence scratches his chin thoughtfully. 'Joking apart, have you ever thought about the holiday rentals business? Very profitable if you buy the right properties. I could help you.' Ever the good salesman.

  I laugh. 'A really interesting idea but first we need to knock the whisky shop on the head and decide what we're doing about our London flat.'

  'Don't worry,' he says tranquilly. 'It'll all come together. You'll see.'

  You never know, he could be right.

Alan orders me an espresso while I finish a conversation with Ed. I ring off and plop the mobile back in my handbag and glance round at the other tables. As usual Café Paris is full of the usual suspects. Gaspar, the paper delivery man, is grinning at me from the other side of the bar and Tolo is finishing a
cortado,
a small strong coffee laced with milk, while he catches up with the news. He flicks his newspaper down and gives us a smile from across the room.

  I glance at Alan. 'Good news! Ed's booked his easyJet flight and he's arriving mid June.'

  'He might be in time to christen the pool with us,' laughs Alan. 'By the way, I've given the go ahead to Stefan to get on with it. Should take them about two months to remove the soil and get building.'

  I'm ecstatic. 'But what about the cost?'

  He waves his hand in the air. 'We'll just have to tighten our belts for a while.' He lights up a cigar but I'm too pleased about the pool to chastise him. 'So, is Ed alright about flying?'

  'No, but we'll deal with that nearer the time.'

  'Still with Julia, the nurse?'

  'Apparently so. I can hardly believe it.'

  He yawns and looks at his watch. 'It's eleven o'clock. Do you want me to drop you back at the house?' His eyes rest on my two bulging baskets beneath the table.

  'No, the walk will do me good. Besides, I don't want you to be late for your lesson with Paula.'

  Alan is quiet for a second then he sighs. 'Well, I might as well tell you. I've finally decided against the whisky shop idea. Actually Pep and I have both been getting cold feet about the cost and time involved.'

  I nearly choke on my coffee. 'What?'

  'It's just that I had a surprise call from Terence the other day and he gave me a lot of food for thought about the property market. I still think it's a great idea but there are other things we could do.'

  Good old Terence. I owe him one. 'Such as?'

  'Well, I've talked to Pep about working on a landscape design business with me and we could think about the holiday rental business. It's very profitable apparently.'

  I try to feign surprise. 'We should do a bit of investigation then.'

  He takes a bite of his croissant. 'You and Juana always hated our whisky shop scheme anyway.'

  'Well we worried that you and Pep would down most of the product before it actually hit the shelves.'

  'As if!' he cries. 'So have you thought any more about London? I mean maybe we really should sell the flat and move on.'

  I decide now is the time to discuss George's expansion plans for Havana Leather. Alan listens intently and then draws a
puro
out from his pocket.

  'Why on earth didn't you tell me about this before?'

  'I don't know, I thought you'd tell me I'd be mad not to accept.'

  'You're wrong. It might well be lucrative but is that what you want to do?'

  'I don't think so. But what about the money?'

  He sits back in his chair. 'How much money do we really need? We hardly live in the fast lane. Don't let that cloud your vision.'

  His mobile rings. 'Va
le, vale. Me voy!
'

  He says he's on his way so it has to be Paula calling.

  'I've got to run. Paula's waiting for me at her house. After that, Pep and I are off to view some nurseries and garden centres.'

  So, they're on to the next venture. Plan B.

  'Listen, we don't need London anymore. Don't make money the excuse for not letting go.' He ruffles my hair, drops some coins on a plate and strides off to meet his accomplice in crime.

As I turn wearily into the stony track leading up to our
finca
, I pause for a moment outside old Margalida's house to readjust the two heavy baskets of vegetables I am carrying. Like a merciless sniper stalking his victim, the sun has kept pace with me from the town, its burning rays trained unflinchingly on my middle back with the precision of a laser beam. Ahead of me, crickets are leaping about the path and a mass of butterflies flitter past, their golden wings iridescent as they catch the light of the sun. It seems that summer has at last arrived in Mallorca.

  Placing the bags down against Margalida's rocky wall that is ablaze with scarlet bougainvillea, I examine my red and swollen hands and wonder why I stubbornly chose to walk rather than drive to the market. The reason, of course, is that I love the leisurely walk to and from my small market town when I have the opportunity to meet friends and neighbours along the way to catch up on gossip of a rural kind. Everyone, from the local garage attendant and his family to the buxom matron who polishes the local church brass, greet me like a long lost friend even though in reality they may have exchanged news with me as recently as the night before. Neither am I fobbed off with a brisk
Hola!
No. People here like to talk and there are never any constraints on time.

  When foreigners first arrive in Mallorca, they are often appalled at the atrocious time keeping of the islanders and cannot understand how they can be an hour or more adrift for meetings or social events. The simple reason for this is that everything is done in a spontaneous manner and it is very easy to be distracted on the way to an engagement. It might be that a neighbour suddenly invites you to view his new orange tree irrigation system, another to partake of a glass of
herbes
liqueur with him in the local square, or a friend pops by with a newborn baby over which you coo dutifully for some considerable time. In a similar vein to the aberration suffered by Little Red Riding Hood en route to her grandmother's house, there are more than a hundred respectable excuses for being side-tracked and why you may indeed turn up shockingly late for a preordained appointment. However, when you do eventually arrive, the best approach is to act cheerfully and in a relaxed manner so that your host is made to feel that it is he or she who has confused the time and that you are innocent of any social blunder. In those circumstances where you play host yourself, it is best to avoid unnecessary angst and heart palpitations by setting the time of your appointment or function at least one hour ahead of the time you would like to greet your guests. That way, everyone can relax.

  I pick up my bags and am about to continue along the path when there's a faint twitch of a lace curtain and suddenly Margalida is opening her front door and hobbling out on to the steps. She holds one hand over her eyes and squints at me while the other hand searches out her wrought-iron grab rail. Today her short white hair is uncombed with small clumps rising up from her head in soft meringue peaks. I give her a cheerful '
Hola
' but she eyes me with suspicion and grasping her wooden stick perched against the bottom rail, approaches me haughtily, one firm step at a time, like an aged Queen Victoria, swathed in black, and disdainful. I almost feel I should bow. When she is a gnat's breath from my face, she breaks into a smile.

  'Ah, it's you, senyora! How young you look! I didn't recognise you.'

  I put an arm gently round her shoulders. 'Margalida! Where are your glasses?'

  She waves her stick impatiently in the air. 'Pah! What's the point of glasses when you're half blind?'