Cat on a Hot Tiled Roof (38 page)

  '
No problema!
I'm sure we'll manage somehow. I'll just get Alan.'

  I lead them into the garden and fix drinks. Ollie takes the four children up to his room while the adults walk around the gardens marvelling at Alan's horticultural prowess. I scurry upstairs.

  'Alan, we've got a problem. They've brought four more people.'

  'What? That's all we need.'

  'I know. I can rustle up a big pasta for the kids, but I've not got enough chicken pieces for the adults.'

  'What about the starter?'

  'I'll just have to give them lots of garnish with the prawns. Listen, I'll call Pep and see if he can lend me some chicken breasts.'

  He looks horrified. 'Poor Pep! You can't do that. He's probably in the middle of lunch.'

  'I can drive round. You keep the troops plied with drink.'

  Alan dashes downstairs to play host while I call Pep. He listens in some bemusement.

  'You never learn. Why do you think we Mallorcans always cook everything in a big pot?'

  'To save on washing up?'

  'No. So that we can feed endless guests. You never know how many people will ever turn up so make sure you over cater.'

  'It's not quite like that in England,' I grumble.

  'Of course, you British are so civilised,' he says, mimicking a snooty English accent.

  'So can you lend me some chicken breasts?'

  'You could always kill your cockerel. Live entertainment.'

  'Don't be horrid.'

  'All right, as it happens we do have some frozen chicken breasts. I'll come round.'

  'No, don't worry, I'll pick them up.'

  'It's easier for me. Juana's at her brother's house so I've got nothing to do.'

  'Have you had lunch?' I ask warily.

  'As it happens, no.'

  I give a groan. 'Would you like to join us?'

  'Well, with such a gracious invitation, how could I refuse?'

Alan and Pep are smoking
puros
and drinking
herbes
on the patio while I huddle opposite them warming my hands on a mug of freshly picked mint tea. We are wearing jackets because the sun is waning and a light chill descends on the valley as early evening approaches. The Tramuntana range still holds the glow of the departing sun, its craggy features displaying a rosy sheen while the verdant forests pepper its rocky surface like dark stubble on a chin. Alan's gaze rests on the landscape before him and then returns to Pep.

  'We can't thank you enough. It was like feeding the five thousand.'

  Pep sniggers. 'My pleasure. Don't forget I got a free lunch out of it.'

  'The chocolate mousse didn't go very far though.'

  He gives me a smile. 'No one noticed. Besides, it was better for our waist lines.'

  Despite my initial misgivings, the day turned out to be a great success. Everyone mucked in, serving out the food and clearing up while the children, rosy cheeked, careered around the garden and field, climbing trees and yabbering to one another in a mix of English, Spanish and Catalan. Jaume's mother insisted on my giving her the chocolate mousse recipe, which I took as a great compliment, and then patiently described how to make the perfect tortilla, the potato omelette that is part of the staple diet here. Jaume spent time discussing the parcel of land we want to buy, and on his departure offered to oversee the final contract. All in all, it was a wonderfully relaxing and spontaneous day.

  'So, how are the German walkers staying at my flat?' Pep exhales a long plume of smoke into the cold air.

  'Nice, quiet people. I wish all your clients were as easy.'

  'Luckily, we've got a lull for a few months. You can concentrate on your acting career.'

  Alan puffs at his
puro
. 'After the shampoo debacle it's amazing they've offered me this latest insurance ad.'

  'Don't blame me. You shouldn't have made that joke.'

  The Scotsman's film career was nearly cut short some months ago when he tried to be jocular with a member of the Focus Films team. When asked if he'd mind kissing his co-star in the shampoo advert he retorted that it depended what age she was, what she looked like and where he had to kiss her. The young executive was rather po-faced about it and Alan found himself dropped from the ad, much to Pep's relief.

  'They thought you were a sexist pig, Alan.'

  'I think you're more deserving of that title, Pep,' I say.

  He kicks my foot under the table. 'How can you say that when I gave up my Sunday to help you cook?'

  'Remind me which bit of the meal you prepared?'

  'Offering moral support is as good as performing the actual deed.'

  The Scotsman throws the stub of his expired
puro
into the bushes and stretches.

  'Time to water and feed the chickens. Salvador's making a racket.'

  Ollie runs out of the kitchen, depositing his book on the table.

  'I'm coming too.'

  Pep rises and with alarm looks at his watch. 'I'd better get back before Juana calls. If she gets home and finds the chickens aren't fed, she'll be mad. Then I'll have to walk the damned dog.'

  The two men exchange martyred looks.

  'It's a hard life being a male,' says Alan.

  'It certainly is,
mon amic
. We never stop working.'

  I don't bother to stifle a guffaw. 'Send Juana my best.'

  'I will.' Pep just about reaches the porch when his mobile begins bleating.

  He hands it to me wearily. 'Better still, why don't you tell her yourself?'

It's early morning and I have just returned from dropping Ollie off at school. It's a bright cold day and the wind rattles the doors and sends gusts of icy wind down the chimney. Catalina sits opposite me at the kitchen table munching a monster muffin. Her hair has been cut very short and streaks of henna run through it like flashes of amber.

  'You sure you like my hair like this?'

  'I do. It's very hip.'

  She momentarily surveys her own hips.

  'Not that kind. What I mean is trendy, fun.'

  'Ah, OK. That is good, but Ramon says it's too short.'

  'Well, that's men for you. He'll get used to it.'

  She sighs and rises to her feet, stretching across the table to pick up a bundle of brightly coloured plastic strings.

  'What are these things? Ollie has them all over his room.'

  'They're called Scoubidou, the latest fad at his school. You weave them together to make bracelets and key rings.'

  She nods slowly. 'But he's got so many.'

  'Yes, he's decided to make a load of key rings to raise money for the Sri Lankan orphanage. The tricky part is that he's suggesting we hold a fete in our field and invite local kids to buy his wares.'

  She digests this information thoughtfully. 'Why tricky? I went to a fete in England when I au-paired for your sister. They had sack races and stalls with English cakes and tea. I loved it.'

  'I don't think I've got the energy to organise one here.'

  She begins filling a bucket with soapy water.

  'Don't be lazy! We can do it. Just think of all the money we could raise – I can help bake and we can have lots of stalls.'

  She has a point. It would be a great way of raising money and besides, it would be fun to stage an English fete in the Mallorcan mountains.

  'We'd need time to plan.'

  She nods. 'Let's do it in a few months before you go off to the orphanage in Sri Lanka. When do you leave?'

  With all that's been going on I haven't given too much thought to our impending trip. It's about time I did.

  'My friend, Noel, is organising our flights. I told him to get us the cheapest tickets in April.'

  'So we do the fete in March. A Sunday would be good.'

  I'm not too sure how I'm going to juggle this event on top of everything else. In the next month I have the Crown jewels launch, a pile of work to do for Rachel and my American-based clients and have just agreed to write a five-page feature on Mallorca for an in-flight magazine, aside from my weekly Ma
jorca Daily Bulletin
column, oh, and revising for my next Catalan exam. I must be mad. Catalina begins cleaning the kitchen windows. She turns to me, soapy sponge in hand.

  'You know, I banged into Rafael today. It's sad about the dog, but better he goes.'

  She is referring to the imminent departure of Llamp, Rafael's dog. Following the chicken killing episode my neighbour decided to find his Labrador pup another home and today the new owner will take him away.

  'I'll miss him.'

  She tuts at me. 'He'll get another dog, don't worry. Forget Llamp.'

  I take a gulp of tea, realising, not for the first time, how sentimental I have become about animals since living here.

  Catalina gets out a diary and pen from her capacious handbag.

  'Right, let's discuss our trip to Dorset.'

  Ah. The trip to Dorset, yet another thing on my agenda.

  'There's not much to sort out. I've booked our flights and we'll be staying with Jessie and Willie, the couple who own The Cat's Whiskers.'

  'Why they call it this? It means something?'

  'It's a double entendre. The cat's whiskers is just a way of saying something's the best. You know, like the bee's knees.'

  'I never hear this. Do bees have knees?'

  'I haven't the foggiest. Look, it's just a silly expression.'

  She regards me with some scepticism. 'So where will Stefan and I meet you when we arrive?'

  'Paddington Station, but don't worry. I'll find out the train times to Shaftsbury and we'll agree a time and place to meet.'

  She nods. 'And you'll spend some days in London beforehand?'

  'Don't forget that I have the Crown jewels event that week.'

  Her eyes fill with excitement. 'Will you meet Prince Charles?'

  'I doubt it. I'm just the event organiser.'

  'You never know. I'll keep my fingers crossed.'

  Alan strolls into the kitchen in a smart blue suit. Catalina and I exchange winks.

  'Oh, look at him! Are you off to meet the Prince too?'

  'Not today, Catalina. I'm going to Focus Films in Palma for this insurance ad.'

  'Well, it still sounds glamorous.'

  He straightens his tie and takes a seat next to her.

  'To be honest, all I have to do is pretend to be working at a desk in an insurance office. I don't get to utter a monosyllable.'

  'Your time will come,' I say chirpily.

  'Anyway, they pay me well and it gives me a break from gardening.'

  I get up and deposit a bag of chocolate muffins in front of him.

  'Drop these off at Margalida's on the way.'

  'How is she now?' asks Catalina.

  'In pretty good form, but I've noticed she's much more frail since the fall.'

  Catalina shakes her head. 'Old age can be hard to bear. And what about Nancy?'

  'I popped round yesterday to see her. God knows how she's going to sort out and pack all her stuff. She's such a magpie,' I reply.

  Alan rises and picks up the bag of cakes. His eyes stray to a forlorn, miniature, empty tank sitting by the sink.

  'What's happened to Ollie's sea monkeys?'

  I run a finger across my throat. 'All dead.'

  He picks up the plastic container and studies it. 'Is he disappointed?'

  'Not really, he seems to be happier catching minnows in his net.'

  He rests it back on the draining board and shrugs.

  'I'd better be off to Palma. Remember, I'm taking Ollie straight from school to tennis. Don't forget to feed the hens.'