Chapter 4
JULY
BEN
‘Phoebe, repeat all of that back to me now, slowly. You put whose face on the flyers?’ I ask her over the phone.
‘I thought we needed a good USP for the villa and Pedro Pascal is the man of the moment and Miguel said you looked like him. You know, from certain angles – in his early Games of Thrones days maybe – there is a passing resemblance… if you’ve had a drink and are far away?’
‘And don’t have eyes! Phoebe! That’s false advertising. You can’t use his image to promote the villa and the retreat. People are going to show up here and demand refunds.’
‘That’s the other thing. People. How many people were you expecting?
’ Phoebe asks, her tone and cadence changing.
This is what happens when you put her and Flo in charge of these things.
Because last month, I inherited a pretty run-down villa in Ibiza.
I got carried away with the rhetoric of reviving the place, helping it glow again.
I was convinced to separate myself from my restaurant, my base in London, to instead stay and prepare the villa for a retreat.
I was told I could be the next Uncle Lorenzo.
That’s the problem with my sisters: they can be far too persuasive because I have people arriving tomorrow and I’ve never run a retreat in my life.
‘I’ve got room for at least five people, maybe eight if they’re couples,’ I say, hoping Phoebe hasn’t signed up a busload of people. They’d have to sleep on the sun loungers.
‘There are three.’
‘Three,’ I repeat. ‘Didn’t you tell me that you could market this, it’d be a cinch?’
‘I did but this is our first time doing this, it was all very quick. This is just a trial to see if it works; it gives us time to build our brand,’ she says with surprising conviction given her total lack of marketing experience.
Phoebe studies psychology at university, so she knows nothing about retreats, villas or branding.
I sit here in my Ibizan villa staring at the paintings on the whitewashed walls, the fresh sunflowers I picked up at the market yesterday. All for three people. I take a deep breath.
‘Do I have names? Who are they?’ I ask her.
‘First person is called Zara. She saw one of my flyers at the library. I’d guess she’s in her forties.
She seems nice enough, paid in full,’ she tells me.
‘Then we have Jess Starrs, early twenties. I met her in the restaurant one weekend. She’s a mum with twins.
And then someone got in touch called… Chloe Raymond. ’
‘No age on that one, no background check?’ I ask.
‘She asked if there was yoga and I said yes.’
‘Excellent. Truly,’ I reply, my sarcasm shining through as I don’t do yoga. Not at all. I don’t think I can even touch my toes. I bend down and try.
‘It’s yoga. You wing it. Bit of namaste and lotus position. Do you own a light trouser?’
I have no idea what any of that is. ‘It’s like you want me to fail. And they’re all women?’ I ask.
‘Yes. That was unintentional though. You’ll be fine.
You have three sisters, it’ll just be like spending time with us,’ she says plainly.
‘Hon, they’ll come, you let them have a good night’s sleep, you stun them with your food and if it all goes to fuck then you take them down to the beaches and the clubs,’ she explains plainly.
‘You’re also reasonably good-looking. You can charm them. ’
‘Which isn’t creepy at all,’ I say. I look around the living room of the villa.
It was the one room that was relatively intact when I arrived.
I mean, we changed the sofas. We weren’t sure what Uncle Lorenzo might have got up to on the old ones, but the art, the sculptures and the mirrors all stayed.
He had a good eye and it felt like everything had a story that connected to the history and fabric of this place.
There’s also a photo on the wall that you see as soon as you walk into this room: a picture of my sisters, Lorenzo and I when we came here to celebrate my twenty-first birthday.
It’s a brilliant photo, the sort that caught everyone mid-laugh so you can’t be sad that all your teeth, laughter lines and chins are on show because there’s so much joy in it.
I stare at the photo for a moment. Light floods in through the metal frames of the windows, baking patches of the stone floor.
If I was retreating, I’d sit in this room a lot but I suspect the women will want more.
Bells, whistles, yoga. I squint again at the picture of the flyer on my phone.
LOVE YOURSELF. ‘Seriously?’ I say, my nostrils flared. ‘That sounds vaguely sexual.’
‘Well, that’s because your mind is dirty and you went there. It’s encouraging these women to invest time in looking after themselves, to give them peace, it’s all about self-love. I don’t know why you’re thinking this is all my brainchild. This was Flo and Norah too.’
‘I am grateful. I am but… three. Three guests.’
‘Benny, it will grow. I need to hit social media. Word of mouth. We’ve literally just got this off the ground. Trust.’ Phoebe says that word like the younger person that she is.
How much do I trust my little sister? She’s in her early twenties and still doesn’t believe in socks.
‘Because all of us sisters agreed that we trust you,’ she continues.
‘We believe you can make that place truly amazing. Like the restaurant. Whoever turns up, you’ll make them feel special and welcome.
Make them that pasta with the courgettes, it will make them feel a thousand times wonderful. You can do it.’
True, I don’t always trust Phoebe, but she does have a way with words. It’s what persuaded me to stay here, to do this.
‘And what’s the deal?’ I ask. ‘I meet them at the airport and pick them up? What if they turn up with three suitcases each? I only have the SEAT. Do I have to make one of those stupid signs?’
‘Yeah, I think so. I’ll send through flight details. They’re all on the same plane flying out of Stansted, arrives at around eight in the morning. You could take them for breakfast!’ she suggests excitedly.
‘I’ll have to buy a permanent marker and paper. Do you have pictures?’
‘Of the guests? Well, no… that would be weird.’
‘Phoebe—’
‘Ben! It’ll be grand.’
‘What if they try and rob me and steal my organs?’
‘Then I have their credit card details. I will hunt them down and avenge your death. Like Liam Neeson in Taken. Any other asinine questions?’ she asks, starting to sound a little ticked off.
I don’t have any but I do wish my sisters were here.
They drive me mad but they would help build their vision of what this should look like.
I can’t believe how fast this is moving; we literally wrote our plans for this on the back of a pizza box only eight weeks ago.
Now it’s a half-arsed business coming to life.
People are paying to come and stay here.
I’m not even sure how much they’ve paid.
There are expectations on my shoulders; I’m the one in the thick of it, managing it all while they’re in London, making dubious flyers.
‘Do they know I’m here? Who I am? Who to expect?’ I ask.
‘Kind of,’ Phoebe says unconvincingly.
‘I don’t know what that means.’
‘I mean, we’re also going to lean into the idea that your name is Lorenzo.’
‘Lean?’
‘Trust.’