Chapter 30
BEN
‘Hold up. It was a what beach? You were all naked?’ I ask Miguel and Zara, wondering why I’m even surprised at what his little beach expedition entailed.
‘Yes, the whole beach was naked. It is naturista like you suggest,’ he says. ‘We need to teach you Spanish proper, we really do.’ I stand beside the padrón peppers stall as he chats to the vendor and takes a sample. ‘These peppers are very good, try try. Zara, you too baby,’ he tells her.
‘Ben, it was hilarious. I feel completely energised, nourished,’ Zara says. ‘Miguel is a genius.’
‘We play in the mud, we swim, we had snacks,’ Miguel says.
‘All naked?’ I repeat.
‘You are too uptight. I bring you next week so you can get some seawater on your cojones,’ he says, buying two containers of the peppers and putting them in my shopping bag. ‘Come, we go find cheese, much cheese! Come!’
After their beach excursion, I got a call from Miguel telling me he was coming to find me in the markets of San Juan.
The women wanted to do some shopping and see the sights of Ibiza, and this is the perfect place.
It’s full of artisan market stalls and dusty streets lined with folding tables and parasols, the sky dotted with crisping palms and white buildings.
‘Isn’t this gorgeous?’ Zara says, her basket bag brimming with goodies.
‘I got this super-cute embroidered handbag for my daughter, bandanas for the boys, handmade soap, and this,’ she says, doffing a straw hat on her head.
‘It’s not a proper holiday until you’ve bought a hat you can’t transport back in your suitcase. ’
I laugh and she has a nose in my bags.
‘I’ll see you back at the car in fifteen,’ Zara says, ‘I’m going to look for the others.’
I nod and she skips away, the happiest I’ve ever seen her.
‘I like that one. She is so fun,’ Miguel says as he walks on with me. ‘You know I was thinking we should make nice bags of local things for them to take to their home. Olive oil, we ask Renata for some almonds, honey—’
‘Just add a small bottle of Hierbas and their dildos and we’re all set,’ I joke and Miguel slaps my arm playfully.
‘I think it’s a great idea,’ I say more seriously.
His reference to the women going home hits me unexpectedly though.
Two more nights. I don’t want to think about Chloe leaving, but there was also the mention of home, the fact that the UK isn’t just their home, it’s mine too.
I’ve been here for nearly three months, coming to this marketplace weekly, sometimes daily, finding peace and joy in this new routine.
It was a much-needed break at first, but sometimes I worry that I don’t miss the restaurant as much as I should.
I’ll always be immensely proud of it but I don’t miss that routine – anchored in chaos, pressure and fatigue.
Life here is completely the opposite: most mornings I rush to the market to taste jamón and chat to vendors about how they would cook the catch of the day, I explore local cuisine, let grandmothers adopt me and give me oranges.
‘You keep looking over your shoulder, you scan the crowd,’ Miguel says.
‘Like you are a criminal… or maybe you are looking for someone? Maybe some girl with nice legs who is an arquitecta?’ he says, wiggling his eyebrows up and down cheekily above his sunglasses.
I love that he can do that at the same time as stealing a sample of cheese from a stall.
‘I have no idea what you’re hinting at Miguel,’ I say. ‘But you know, don’t you?’
‘Maybe. I am old. This morning she had sex face.’ He laughs. ‘But I can see the look on my Ben’s face too when I say her name. She is nice. I approve,’ he tells me, holding his hand to my head like an Ibizan pope.
‘But in a few days, she will leave,’ I say.
‘Or she might stay? You are a good boy, good bones. When you came here as a young boy, always joy, big smile. Now? So handsome.’ Miguel pats my cheeks. ‘She has no job now. Maybe you ask: stay with me, we live in the house, we have sex on the beach every day.’
‘Yes, I will pose the question exactly like that, Miguel,’ I say, laughing.
‘Or you go, you follow. Back home. To your restaurant, to your sisters, to reality,’ he says.
The thought gives me a bizarre sinking feeling. ‘But the villa?’
‘Benji, we are on Ibiza. We can rent out. But you know…’ he says, looking me pensively in the eye for a moment. ‘I saw you being the next Lorenzo, you know. You even look like him.’
‘You thought I looked like Pedro Pascal,’ I joke. ‘Perhaps you need glasses.’
He tuts at me for trying to joke. ‘You and Lorenzo are made of the same fabric.’
‘You think I’m destined to be some lothario, to make that place an eternal party palace?’ I reply, wondering if maybe that’s what I’m doing already though. What if Chloe is just a fling and I’m kidding myself there’s more to it, that I’m not the same as some sleazy holiday rep shagging the punters?
Miguel shakes his head. ‘What I mean is you have the same fabric, same heart, same way you look after people – you care, you give, you cook. Lorenzo was all that too.’
I pause as he remembers his friend; it makes me emotional thinking that he sees me mirrored in Lorenzo’s image.
That he holds me in the same esteem. Not wanting to upset me though, he elbows me and slaps me on the bum to break the tension, grinning.
‘See? You cannot leave. You would miss that too much also, I know.’
I would. We continue walking along the thoroughfare when suddenly Chloe appears at one of the stalls, looking at some ceramic olive bowls.
Miguel clocks her first and nudges me in the chest. ‘Do you know that I remember I need new plates and I see them back there,’ he says.
‘Really?’ I ask, laughing at him as he scampers away cheekily.
I turn back to look at Chloe for a minute, seeing the brightness in how she talks to people, her interest in their wares.
She’s wearing some light shorts and a halterneck top.
I can see a bit of mud at the base of her neck. I walk towards her slowly.
‘You should get the yellow one,’ I say over her shoulder.
She jumps a little before turning around and putting an arm on mine. ‘Hey!’
There’s something about her complexion, the way the rounds of her cheeks have caught the sun, the way her freckles shine, that makes me smile.
‘This place is kind of amazing,’ she says. There’s a brightness in her eyes that tells me the simple act of mooching around a market and having space to roam is everything.
‘I’m glad you think so. What have you bought?’ I ask.
She pulls out a babygro with DJ headphones on it. ‘It’s for my nephew, he’s tiny but isn’t this super cute?’
I nod, noticing her bag full of prints and postcards.
‘I mean, look at these local products, they’re amazing,’ she says, approaching another stall. Cups of lightly coloured liquid line the stall bench. ‘?Salud!’ she says reaching for one and downing it. That is until she realises it’s olive oil.
I try not to laugh but look down at the pieces of bread that she was supposed to dip in the oil and at the stallholder who flares his nostrils in disbelief at this overexcited tourist.
Chloe licks at her very slick lips. ‘Muy excelente,’ she tells him, putting her thumbs up in the air. ‘I just did that, didn’t I?’ she says, giggling.
‘?Dos latas, por favor!’ I say to the stallholder to spare her blushes. I hand over the money and take the tins. ‘You did,’ I confirm to Chloe. ‘You OK? How do you feel?’
‘Very well lubricated,’ she says as she pulls my arm to drag me away from the stall.
I laugh, her hand still on me as she walks beside me, sneaking looks in my jute shopping bags. Yes, I have bought you two melons. ‘Lubricated?’ I say, lingering on the word.
Chloe smiles cheekily as I repeat it, almost shocked that I would dare to take the conversation in this direction. ‘Well, it’s a better word than flange,’ she says.
I laugh, strolling next to her, enjoying having her by my side. She looks at me, there’s this gorgeous crease in her face when she cracks a joke, shocked that anyone would find her funny. ‘You are so adorable, do you know that?’ I ask.
She stops on the crowded street and nudges me as if she can’t take the compliment. ‘Adorable, eh?’
I shrug and face her. ‘It’s a mixture, isn’t it? You’re incredibly smart but sweet, hilarious, curious, and there are times when I look at you and…’
Her face softens. I want to tell her everything.
Stay. With me. I’d like to walk around these streets with you every day, watch you down olive oil, run from snakes, get into fights on beaches.
But I’m distracted by someone calling my name.
I turn to see Miguel sprinting towards me, his face panicked.
Has something happened? Why is he running?
‘Benny. Benny… we need to go,’ he says, out of breath.
‘How come? What’s up?’ Ben replies.
‘The security cameras we set up, something is triggered.’
‘Is it a goat? Is it Renata?’ I ask.
‘There is an alarm on my phone, maybe a trespasser. They break the lock on the gate. Come. We go.’
It doesn’t take long to locate the others and Miguel offers to drive us back in his jeep. The happy, carefree nature of the day is suddenly depleted as we all wonder about what’s happened at the villa.
‘My passport is there,’ Jess whispers to Chloe in the back seat. ‘You don’t think…’
Miguel showed me the alarm and there is definitely someone inside the villa.
Renata wouldn’t do that; she wouldn’t break anything.
I am filled with panic as I wonder who is inside.
The valuable art, the history of the house, it all could be smashed to smithereens.
It’s not even worth thinking about. Plus, I’m not sure if I have the manpower here to confront a gang of masked thugs.
Do I call the police? I cling on to my seat, mainly because there’s a fast and furious side to Miguel’s driving.
‘It might not be robbers, it could be a wild animal,’ Zara says, trying to remain optimistic.
‘Possibly, but they’re in the house so unless goats have started opening doors it’s more likely to be a person,’ I say, trying to limit the panic in my tone. The villa has history: it’s almost sacred to me, my family.
‘Cleaners?’ Zara asks.
‘I’m the cleaner,’ I reply.
‘He’s been cleaning too?’ Jess whispers to Chloe. ‘When does he sleep?’
Miguel’s jeep finally reaches the long, dusty path leading to the house and I take a deep breath to contemplate what we’re driving up to. Should we have called the police? My eyes crease as the car rolls to a stop and we all exit together, seeing that a light in the kitchen is on. Not a goat then.
I walk up to the gate and see that someone has indeed wrecked the lock, but then a figure exits the house. They’re tiny. Are they alone? I think we could take them on.
‘Hi? Who are you? This is a private property,’ I say, striding up to her, my fist clenched even though I know I’d never use it to hit her.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ the person replies.
She’s a girl. A teenager.
And just like that Zara runs around from her side of the car and storms over. ‘BELLA! What the ACTUAL HELL are you doing here?’ she screams.
She looks over to me. ‘I could say the same to you, Mother.’