Soul Fire (19 page)

But there’s nothing on the Beach to remind Meggie of her old suburban life, or her star performance on
Sing for Your Supper
.

‘We’ve ordered a pitcher of
sangria
and some
tapas
,’ Cara pronounces the two Spanish words with the moody flourish of a flamenco dancer. A couple of young guys at
the next table turn round and wave at her. She winks back and then whispers, ‘I’m loving Barcelona so far, aren’t you?’

I’m not really listening. Like Sam’s bar, this one is open to the elements, but while this beach seems to go on forever, Soul Beach is a bay that goes nowhere: prison disguised as
paradise.

The water
here
is dark blue, and choppier than it looked from the hostel window, with dozens of surfers scudding across the horizon. Right in front of us, a large shaggy dog races into
the sea, and straight back out again, joyously shaking seawater off his coat. It splashes onto my leg and makes me smile for the first time since I got to Barcelona.

‘
Sangria, aceitunas, pan con tomate.
’ A male voice, with an all too familiar accent. I turn slowly. If this waiter looks like Javier, then I am officially losing my grip on
reality.

But this guy is short, with a bushy beard and beady eyes that are already sizing us up for tips as he puts down a glass jug.

‘It’s not red,’ Cara cries out, not bothering to hide her disappointment. ‘We didn’t want orange juice, we wanted sangria.’

‘Maybe the man thought
some
of us should lay off the alcohol,’ Sahara mumbles.

‘This is
sangria de cava
,’ the man says. ‘Orange juice and local champagne.’

As he pours the drink, it fizzes and bubbles, and splashes when the ice cubes and orange segments and sliced strawberries fall into the glasses.

When the waiter’s gone, we hold up our drinks.

‘Cheers,’ says Ade.

‘
Salud!
’ Cara corrects him. ‘It’s the Spanish toast. Means good health. And I know a great weekend in the sun with my friends is going to do my health the
world
of good.’

Apart from a single glass on my birthday, I’ve never really drunk fizzy wine. But I could get used to it. There’s a picture of Meggie the press always use, where
she’s holding up a glass of champagne at some premiere. No wonder she was smiling.

We’ve been here a couple of hours, and the sun is relentless, far crueller than on Soul Beach. I feel my skin burning already. Ade suggests a walk round the old city, and Cara agrees,
which makes Sahara scowl as she was obviously hoping for some quality time alone with her boyfriend.

Without Zoe as our guide, we get lost in minutes.

‘How can we not know where we are when I can
hear
the sea?’ Cara says.

Lewis holds up his iPhone. ‘We don’t have to be lost.’

I don’t know why he’s still hanging round with us – his conference must have started by now.

‘Don’t cheat!’ Sahara snaps. ‘They say you only know a city once you’ve got lost in it.’

So we keep walking. The streets are long and straight, with canopies of washing hanging out from every balcony, and old women sitting in the road in plastic chairs, chatting to each other and to
their dogs and their budgies, as though they’re in their own front rooms.

And then we’re in this big square, where kids are playing ping-pong on concrete tables. Sahara wants to go into the covered market, to ‘soak up the local culture’. I’m
thinking that apart from the sunshine and the budgies, the culture doesn’t seem that different from home, but we follow her inside. There’s a cheese seller at the entrance: it makes the
market smell like sweaty feet.

Sahara goes from stall to stall, pulling impressed faces and giving the vegetables an occasional squeeze. I can’t look at Cara or Lewis or I might burst out laughing, and even Ade seems to
have a slightly fixed expression, as though he’s trying to keep a straight face while his girlfriend gets her culture fix.

‘It’s all so
authentic
,’ Sahara says.

‘I’d rather get my hands on some authentic local wine,’ Ade mumbles.

Sahara giggles. It sounds like a moth caught in a lampshade. ‘Sorry. Ade warned me not to be a bore. Let’s go somewhere else.’

Cara gives me a look that says
what a loser
. The afternoon sunlight has turned the yachts in the harbour pale orange, and Cara keeps up a running commentary as we pass the swishest boats.
‘I’d like the white one. Oh, no, the pink one. Lewis, you can probably afford a yacht already. Fancy sailing off into the sunset with me?’

But she’s reserving her biggest smiles for Ade. Sahara is either not noticing Cara’s flirtiness, or pretending it’s not happening.

‘If we keep heading this way, we’ll hit the
Ramblas
, which is a freak show,’ Lewis says. ‘But we might as well take a look. Hang onto your bags, like Zoe
said.’

I catch him up as we cross the main road. ‘You’re an expert on Barcelona. Sure you’ve never been here before?’

‘Why would I bother when it’s all on here?’ he says, tapping his phone. I’m about to tell him that it’s sad to travel virtually, then I think of how addicted I am
to the Beach and realise I’m no different.

Weirdly, though, I’m not missing Soul Beach right now. Reality seems . . . excitingly real and, as we’re all together, I feel safer. I can almost pretend I’m simply on holiday.
Except for having to observe
everyone’s
behaviour, and look out for Javier’s café, of course.

We’re on a pedestrian promenade that stretches endlessly uphill. It’s packed with ambling tourists and hurrying locals and what must be the world’s entire collection of living
statues.

‘Welcome to the mad house,’ says Lewis.

We have to use elbows to push through, tucking our bags under our arms. Cara and Ade are grinning as they launch themselves into the crowd. Maybe she’s right about them being a good match.
Sahara looks like she’d rather be anywhere else, as she clutches her rucksack to her chest like it’s a bulletproof jacket.

‘Come on. It’s not
that
bad.’ Lewis links arms with her.

I’m on my own again, being pushed past the stalls so fast I only catch glimpses of what they’re selling. There are souvenirs celebrating landmarks I haven’t seen yet: the spiky
cathedral, a mosaic lizard, a statue of Columbus. Then pet supplies, plants, old clocks. Every few metres there’s a café offering radioactively yellow paella.

I’ve lost sight of the others. I’m being jostled and pushed but that’s not what’s making my heart beat so fast. It’s that feeling again – the feeling of being
watched.

I turn round, but all I see are tourists. Sunburned ones, loved-up ones, nervy ones.

Maybe I’m only sensing the curious eyes of pickpockets checking me out. Except it feels more threatening than that.

The jam of people clears, and I see Lewis and Sahara ahead of me, looking at the living statues. There’s a silver robot, a cowboy and a man sitting on a toilet.

Lewis reads from his phone, ‘Toilet humour is an abiding theme in local culture. At Christmas one of the key figures at the nativity is a
caganer
, the so-called “shitting
shepherd”, who crouches behind the crib. He symbolises the cycle of returning goodness to the earth.’

Sahara pulls a face. Even though
she
was the one who was desperate to hear about local customs.

The statues get cleverer. A guy in the blue-and-red Barcelona football strip keeps a ball permanently in the air: heading, kicking, bouncing. Wrinkles divide his face into neat eighths. Maybe
he’s been standing in that same spot, heading that same ball for decades.

‘We should catch up with the others,’ Sahara says.

Lewis is the only one tall enough to see over people’s heads. ‘They’re over there,’ he says, pointing to the left-hand side. Then he links arms with me too, and we move
slowly but purposefully past the last of the statues, towards a large stone building. As we get closer, I see Ade and Cara, deep in conversation.

‘Hey, you two. Are you trying to lose us or what?’ Lewis calls out to them.

Ade and Cara spin round: he looks guilty, she looks pleased with herself. Sahara snarls at them both. Maybe I ought to tell Sahara that I’ve never known Cara fail to get a man she wanted.
Keeping one, that’s the bit she finds trickier.

‘Thank goodness we’ve found you all again,’ Cara says flatly. ‘We must have been separated for at least, ooh, four minutes.’

‘We thought we could get a coffee here,’ Ade points at one of the busiest places, ‘and watch the world go by for a bit. Then maybe do a bit of souvenir shopping.’

Sahara nods so enthusiastically that I worry she’ll get whiplash.

‘I ought to head off to the conference. Put in an appearance at least,’ Lewis says.

I look at the other three. Perhaps I should stay with them. Keep an eye on them. But even Sahara wouldn’t take Cara on in broad daylight, would she?

‘I’ll walk back with Lewis,’ I say. ‘That cava’s gone to my head so I could do with a lie down before dinner.’

Though I might take a detour via the café serving the best chocolate brownies in Barcelona . . .

Lewis doesn’t talk on the way back to his hotel. We reach the corner where my hostel is, and there’s an awkward moment when we say goodbye and don’t know
whether to hug. The Spanish people around us seem so physical and
kissy.

We settle on a clumsy half-embrace, then I go inside. There are maps at reception, so I take one and look up the address of the café Javier suggested. On paper, it’s easier to see
that the streets round here are designed along grid lines, like New York.

After a couple of minutes, I go back outside and check Lewis is out of sight. It’s strange to be alone, in a completely foreign place, and to be able to go anywhere I like. But it’s
not scary. The Beach has made me less afraid. I imagine Meggie watching me approvingly.
You’re growing up, Florrie . . .

The route takes me back past the market, then along a narrow road lined with high buildings painted in terracotta and mustard colours. I turn a corner into Carrer de Balboa but realise I’m
at the wrong end. It’s quieter here. I pass a group of kids kicking a football around and I stare at their faces, looking for Javier’s sisters, but they’re all boys. One stares
back at me, then pokes out his tongue. It makes me jump, then makes me laugh.

The blocks are so tall that even though it’s still bright sunshine on the beach, only the narrowest sliver of light hits the road ahead of me. The plants on the balconies stretch out their
leaves for a meagre ration of sun.

I’m hungry again. Obviously I want to help Javier, but the thought of a chocolate brownie is a little bit tempting too. As I approach the end of the street, there’s a
burgundy-painted sandwich board outside a café.

Brownies, pasteles, cocteles, bocadillos.

The rest of the words are mysterious, but ‘brownies’ doesn’t need translation. My mouth’s watering.

I gaze through the window. There are rough brick walls and cosy sofas and a chiller cabinet full of cakes. It’s almost empty and there’s a red leather chair facing the street
that’s got
my
name on it.

Yet I’m hesitating.

There’s only one waiter. He has his back to me, a black apron tied tight around his waist, and blond curls brushing against his shoulders. Is that the cute one Javier was talking about?
And if it is, what the hell will I say to him?

BANG!

What the hell? The explosion behind me makes my eardrums sting. Yet the waiter hasn’t flinched at all.

I turn round, but there’s no car in flames and no assassin running away. I hear giggling. There’s a smell like autumn, and then I realise: fireworks. I should have thought of it
sooner, but it feels all wrong to be letting them off on a midsummer’s afternoon in a Spanish street.

Two of the small boys who were playing football appear from the shadows. As they run away, they throw something. This time I hear the whine but before I can move, another firecracker explodes
less than ten metres from me. Loud and so bright it seems to burn a hole in my vision.

In the café, the waiter turns round this time. Dirty blond hair frames a tanned face, and his eyes are denim blue.
Cute?
Yep. Despite the temporary damage to my sight, I’d
say I’ve found Javier’s waiter.

He beckons me inside. Everything seems to be moving too quickly. I want to turn round, buy myself time to work out what I should and should’t say. But I can’t back away now. I push
the door open.

‘Hi,’ he says. ‘What can I get you – late lunch, coffee?’ His accent is Australian.

‘Hi. How did you know . . .’

‘. . . that you speak English? You haven’t been in town long, have you, sweetheart?’

‘No.’

‘Don’t get stressed about it. I could only tell because you’re too pale to be a local. Get some sun while you’re here, right? Sun makes you happy. As does cake. I believe
that this seat is all yours.’ And he points at the chair in the window and hands me a menu.

I shake my head. ‘Already know what I’m having. Your famous chocolate brownie, with ice cream on the side, please.’

‘Famous, eh? The chef
will
be pleased to hear that. Anything to drink?’

‘Some tap water.’

He shakes his head. ‘I wouldn’t. Seriously. I promise it’s not me trying to rip you off. The tap’s unspeakable. Only bad thing about Barcelona. Well, that and the
tourists.’ He winks at me. ‘I can do you a good deal on a bottle of still.’

‘Fine.’

He takes my order to the kitchen. He’s broad and big, a surfer dude, I guess. Unless that’s just me thinking
all
Australians are surfer dudes. But was he also Javier’s
first love? His
only
love?

‘So, what are you doing in beautiful Barca?’ He pronounces the c as a soft hiss. ‘Don’t mind chatting, do you? It’s quiet today. They’re all out buying bloody
firecrackers and balaclavas for tomorrow night.’

‘Seriously? Is it really dangerous, the fire run?’

He sits down opposite me, on the arm of the other leather chair. ‘Depends on your definition. They
are
crazy about fire. Kids are given firecrackers almost before they can walk. A
nation of pyromaniacs. Still, Australia and England are nations of alcoholics, right, and that is nowhere near as pretty as fireworks.’