Prologue #5
‘YOU’RE ALL STILL HERE!’ Norah says as she hurls herself at me. ‘Thank God. Stay… We need to talk.’ She’s not drunk or angry but there’s a manic look in her eyes. ‘You look tired, babe. You’re working too hard,’ she tells me.
Phoebe pops her head out of the kitchen with more bread.
‘Raid the fridges,’ Norah commands. ‘Does he have those nice olives? Phoebe, is there wine?’
Norah is a mother in all senses of the word. If she had wings, they would cover us all. She heads to the bar to help herself to the strongest alcohol she can find and downs a shot, one hand on her hip, as she calms herself down.
‘Is she OK?’ I ask Flo.
‘Who knows? Norah…’ she shouts across the restaurant floor. ‘Will this take long? I want to get home.’
‘Girl, sit your arse down. You’ll want to stay for this.’
We narrow our eyes at her, trying to work her out. She’s sort of smiling but contemplative, flitting between emotions.
‘Pour me one of those then,’ Flo orders.
The big sisters drinking on a school night.
OK then. Phoebe is still slightly drunk, still dancing, but she comes over to embrace her older sisters with the sort of full-beam smile that comes from having all the siblings under one roof not in work mode.
This only really happens on the occasional Sunday now or at Christmas or a christening.
Phoebe looks at me as we try and unravel this cryptic visit.
Why has Norah covered her mouth, laughing?
But also crying… Those are tears. I go over and embrace her instinctively.
‘Shit. Has something happened? Your kids? Are you fucking pregnant again?’ Phoebe asks.
Norah shakes her head, pulling a chair away from a table and taking a seat. She takes a deep breath. ‘Uncle Lorenzo has passed away.’
I lean against the bar to hear the news, feeling Flo grab my upper arm.
‘Seriously?’ I mumble, the emotion hitting my chest. Uncle Lorenzo was my mum’s brother, an uncle of immense charm and character who this very restaurant is named after.
He’s the uncle we would see every summer or so during our childhood.
Recent years and adulthood had meant we had seen him less, but the news of someone we all loved, gone, still hits hard.
He was legendary, the sort of man who didn’t really live by rules or order, the true definition of ‘funcle’.
‘Was he even ill?’ Flo asks.
‘I don’t have much in the way of details but apparently he got sick months ago. I just don’t think he wanted people to know,’ Norah explains, beckoning us all to sit around thetable.
‘So, he died on his own?’ Phoebe asks solemnly, looking at me.
I stare at the table thinking of that very raw fact.
Norah nods. ‘I only know as I got a visit today from a solicitor. With Mum gone, I’m the next of kin and well…
’ Norah dives into her handbag and pulls out four identical brown envelopes.
‘The solicitor gave me these for all of us. Here, I’ve opened mine already.
’ Norah is grinning widely. I’m not sure why, as someone has died, but I run my finger along the underside of the envelope tab and rip open the top.
I think of Uncle Lorenzo, who I had lost touch with in recent years, and my sadness is tinged with guilt.
I find myself pausing to catch my breath, watching as Phoebe tears her envelope open with gusto.
Flo’s bottom lip trembles. ‘Uncle Lorenzo, eh?’
Norah embraces Phoebe as tears roll down her cheeks, and I take out a handwritten letter with my name at the top.
Benjamin
It is I, your favourite uncle. Don’t deny this truth, I know I am your favourite.
How are you, lovely boy? I’ve been thinking about the time I saw you last. So effortlessly handsome, I hope you know that.
That’s all from my side of the family, obviously.
But you still had that wonderful spirit from when you were a little boy.
Remember that holiday, I think you were eight?
I told you to run into the sea with no clothes and a crab attacked your pene.
Lord, how your mum screamed. You went white as a sheet, but after that crab let go, you laughed so very hard.
That’s the little boy I remember. You were such a happy and fun kid.
You had big blue eyes, you were always full of questions and hung on to my every word, even when I was talking absolute nonsense.
Kindness. I saw that shine out of you. I saw you grow into this beautiful young man surrounded by all these women and it never fazed you.
You made space for each one. You understood that women are like the sun, they are what keeps the world turning.
I’ve been keeping abreast of your restaurant news.
I can’t believe you named that place after me, you silly boy.
I am so very proud of you. I am sorry I never got the chance to visit or to tell you that in person, to hug you and spout more nonsense at you.
I am sorry I’ve spent these last few years hiding.
I want people to have happy memories of me, not ones where I’m a withered old bastard, seeing the life leave my bones.
So yes, please remember all our time together; that crazy old uncle who cooked fish on the beach in giant fires and who let you sip from my bottle of beer, the parties, the fun times, the joy.
Let’s remember all that sunshine, dear boy.
I bequeath you this. I think you’ll be excellent at seeing its full potential and I think it might be good for you, that you might enjoy it. Please enjoy your young life. Live it, loudly.
All my love to you, Ben,
Uncle Lorenzo x
I tear up at Lorenzo’s words, but I also can’t help feeling strangely unworthy.
It’s nice that he saw those qualities in me, that potential, but it makes me feel a bit ashamed too.
I’m not sure I’ve been living up to the high esteem he held me in since then.
I’m not sure I’ve been a very good nephew.
I’ve not exactly made space for love, fun or for an interesting life since the restaurant took over my every waking moment.
‘HOLY FUCKING SHITBALLS!’ Phoebe’s voice suddenly squeals as a letter falls to the table.
‘NORAH! What the actual…’ She jumps and does a strange lap of the restaurant, her arms flapping as Flo throws her head back in laughter.
I lean across to see a cheque resting below her letter; it’s addressed to Florence Allbright and my jaw drops when I see that it’s for ￡50,000.
Norah looks at me, noticing the confusion in my eyes. ‘Ben?’
‘You all got cheques?’ I ask, looking at the pages in my hand. No cheque.
‘Us girls… we all got the same amount. Are you telling me he left you nothing?’ Norah asks.
My eyes fall upon the words in front of me on the second piece of paper. Transfer of Deeds. Ownership. Ibiza. Oh. ‘He left me his house. His house in Ibiza.’
Phoebe shrieks. ‘The Casa de Clap?!’
‘PHOEBE!’ shouts Norah.
I nod slowly. ‘The very one.’