Chapter 2
JUNE
BEN
Naturally, no one else called Uncle Lorenzo’s house in Ibiza the ‘Casa de Clap’ except my dear lovely mother, Valeria, now passed.
She never swore, except when talking about her brother, Lorenzo.
Lorenzo was the eternal bachelor, the party animal who bought a massive castle-like house in Ibiza and didn’t do things traditionally.
Every day was a surprise. He’s bought a horse!
He’s marrying a woman twenty years younger than him!
He’s been arrested for public nudity! He’s getting a divorce!
He has a mullet now! And a tattoo of Jesus on his back!
My mama used to light candles for him in church.
‘One day his huevos will wrinkle up and die,’ she used to say, if not from sex then from the tightness of his swimming trunks.
She used him as some sort of cautionary tale of how a man shouldn’t live his life.
I can imagine what she would say now that I own his house: Bleach the place, Benjamin. Get a priest in. Better, burn it down.
But I didn’t. Pyromania and house exorcisms aren’t really my style.
Instead, curiosity led me out to Ibiza to see the OG Lorenzo’s house.
I was drawn to this place of lore and magic from our youth, this mountain-based villa that was home to many a hedonistic party, where the women changed with the seasons.
Yet, it was also the place we used to escape to every summer, where Uncle Lorenzo would host the most outrageously fun family holidays.
Holidays my sisters also remembered so they encouraged me to come out to Ibiza to investigate, hoping that there would be a villa waiting for us to fill with generations of our families for summers ahead.
‘We’re HERRRREEE!’ Phoebe shouts as she runs towards me outside the airport in her denim cutoffs and woven waistcoat, metres ahead of our other sisters. She wraps her arms around me excitedly. ‘God, you look great. Two months away and look at that tan.’
I stop for a moment to register that it has been two months since I packed a lone bag and came out here to recce the joint, leaving the restaurant in the safe hands of my sisters.
Now they’ve shut up shop for the weekend and come out to join me, claiming it’s a sisterly mini-break, but I know they’ve come to be nosy and check up on me.
‘I hope you’re using SPF?’ Norah says, not far behind.
I reach out for a hug, realising how much I have missed them, even though I might not say that out loud.
‘It’s hot, isn’t it hot?’ Norah asks. She’s using one of those small USB-powered fans which is basically blowing warm air back at her face. She wears linen trousers, a black vest top and a straw trilby.
‘It is but the fan ages you. You’re a bum bag away from looking ten years older than you are,’ I say, giving her a kiss on the cheek.
‘I’ll try and be as polite as I can here, baby brother. Fuck off,’ she says, sniggering. ‘Take my bags. You look like you’re about to sell me weed out the back of your van. A tie-dye vest, really?’
‘Tie-dye is timeless,’ I inform her as she scans down to my cutoffs.
‘It’s giving stoned Scooby Doo,’ she says, smiling broadly.
‘Flo!’ I say trying to ignore my eldest sister, and admiring Flo’s floral dress and trainers. ‘How have your survived travelling with these two?’
‘With noise-cancelling headphones,’ she replies, giving me a warm hug and looking up to the sky. ‘Look at you. Look at this place. God, it even still smells the same. I love this. I love being here.’
They all simultaneously tip their heads towards the bright blue sky, appreciating the lack of clouds.
I see their shoulders relax. That’s the power of Ibiza – it’s brightly peaceful but also jubilant.
People come here to relax but they also come to party, to explore its clubs and beaches and let their everyday lives melt away.
I see its different dimensions in the flights arriving now, groups of partygoing stags in matching T-shirts emerge from the airport alongside kaftan-wearing ladies with big sunglasses who are heading to mountain yoga retreats where they will find themselves under a tree, drink cacao and take part in sound baths.
‘So, tell us what’s happening…’ Norah says curiously. ‘Is this car a rental? How’s the villa? Is it the same? Did you find money stuffed in mattresses?’
‘Stuff, stuff has been happening,’ I say coyly. ‘The SEAT Ibiza is mine.’
‘It’s pretty,’ Phoebe says, taking in its yellow tones. ‘So citrus. Define “stuff”.’
‘You’ve seen the photos,’ I say, urging them to line their bags up by the car. ‘The place was run-down when I got here, the pool was empty and to be fair, the house was a living reminder of Uncle Lorenzo’s party antics. So, I’ve gone all DIY-makeover man…’ I flex an arm. This impresses no one.
‘Hence the chunky boots,’ Flo says, scanning down and judging my overall outfit.
‘You look…’ Norah says, studying my face, ‘…well.’
‘I am,’ I say, trying to organise their bags in the boot.
‘Sort of healthy,’ Phoebe continues. ‘Not like some restaurant troll who lives off stress and mashed potatoes.’ She pats my cheeks.
I don’t deny that the change of routine and location has been good for me. I’ve had time to take a breath, to swim, to eat a meal sitting down instead of standing next to a kitchen counter. I’m glad it’s been noticed.
‘Is there a girl involved too?’ Flo says as they all side-eye each other. ‘We’ve got bets going that you’ve met someone and she’s ensnared you. We think that’s why you’ve taken so long to come back.’
I look at all of them spying me suspiciously.
Bets. This means gossip and interference in their only brother’s love life.
I am familiar with this. I’ve been familiar with this since forever.
They make it their life’s preoccupation to set me up and know everything about who I may be dating.
No one wants you to be the lonely old uncle at parties who lives on their own and wanks into a sock every night, Phoebe once drunkenly said.
‘There might be someone,’ I say.
Norah screams and playfully slaps me across the back. ‘I TOLD YOU TWO!’ she shouts at Flo and Phoebe.
‘Her name is Gloria,’ I say.
‘Ooooh, like Estefan!’ Flo chips in, showing her age.
‘Yes, I’m dating Gloria Estefan,’ I say, nodding.
‘DATING?’ they all say in chorus.
‘Urgh, get in the car. Let me introduce you.’
The last time we were all at Uncle Lorenzo’s was my twenty-first birthday, nearly six years ago.
When we arrived, Uncle Lorenzo was stood by the gates in head-to-toe white linen like Ibiza Jesus.
The pool was filled with giant flamingo inflatables, champagne was waiting on ice, house music boomed out of the windows, and a small crowd of near-naked people was waiting for us.
One of the women had boobs like a shelf.
I wish I could tell you more about those four days but all I remember is that Phoebe shaved her head, Flo and Norah got matching tattoos, and after the party I woke up poolside, wrapped in towels, completely naked and wearing one shoe.
It wasn’t even my shoe. I was so hungover, I thought I’d thrown up a lung.
Phoebe had just turned eighteen and I’m not sure she slept for most of those four days, pushing through her exhaustion on a mixture of party drugs and alcohol.
When she returned home bald, with an eye twitch and a UTI, Mum banned us from coming here again.
But even though we were adults with free will, life also got in the way.
Bills, babies, university, work and families suddenly put a stop to all our magical visits.
‘You’re all very quiet,’ I say as we now stand together looking up at the villa’s white stone walls, set against the bluest of skies.
I thought they might be more excited. I made sangria and canapés.
I thought they might jump straight in the pool like we did when we were kids. ‘Is it good quiet or bad quiet?’
Norah sits down on a sun lounger, looking out at the sea and up at the bedroom balconies that look over the pool patio. ‘Ben. You sent us pictures. This place looked haunted and run-down. The gates looked like tetanus waiting to happen. There were creatures living in the pool.’
‘Frogs,’ I explain. ‘I rehomed them. I cleaned it. I got a pool guy. Lots of help.’
Norah was right. I inherited a money pit, somewhere that was run-down and housed a good few months’ worth of dust and weeds, but it’s amazing what you can get done in two months with no interruptions and beautiful weather.
The manual labour was cathartic; I also explored the island and spent quiet afternoons indoors going through boxes of Uncle Lorenzo’s belongings, photo albums and paintings.
I painted, I scrubbed, I grouted. I landscaped the gardens and realised that I also liked the power of a strimmer.
Flo wipes a tear from below her sunglasses, cradling her glass in her hands. ‘It’s perfect, Benny. Just like I remember it. You’ve done so well.’
‘Really?’ I ask. ‘I just had a tidy up. This place has old if solid bones.’
‘Do you remember my wedding here?’ Flo says, laughing.
We all grin. Lorenzo was so happy to host it; he filled the place with candles and flowers.
But he also Cossack-danced at the reception and ripped his trousers, and later I caught him out the back of the villa getting a blow job from the flautist who had played as Flo cut the cake.
I was nineteen and all I remember is him telling me that I should always engage in sexual congress with anyone from the wind section.
‘Excellent breath control,’ he had said.
‘Never with the cellists, dear boy. Mad as hell and their grip is far too strong.’
Phoebe goes and sits by the edge of the pool, putting her feet in; she’s uncharacteristically quiet for a moment. ‘God, this pool. I remember him flinging us in here. Mum screaming blue murder at him. Feeling like I could fly,’ she says.