Epilogue #4
‘But look at her now,’ he explains. ‘She’s thriving and happy and she had to discover that herself and do it on her own.’
‘Who said she was happy?’ I say.
‘You did.’
‘No, I didn’t. I sat at that lunch and heard that she’s got a great job, she’s got security and she’s learnt to balance her time better.
She sees her nephews every other weekend and knows not to wear her burnout like some badge of honour.
But there’s no twinkle. When she was here, she glowed out of every pore, she was luminescent. I think there was a reason why.’
Ben’s face looks serious and panicked for a moment. ‘I told her to go back to London. I broke it off because I thought it was important. It was the best thing for her.’
‘To be alone?’
‘You know what I mean. To focus on the right things,’ he tells me.
I frown, a little disappointed with him.
‘Ben, you have sisters, right? Sisters with kids and careers and marriages? You never choose just the one, there is no plan. You simply embrace the lot when it comes your way and you juggle like fuck.’ I look up, distracted by the sound coming from the rooms: possibly teens fighting over bedrooms and Mike playing referee.
‘Usually until you burn out and need to come on a retreat.’
Ben laughs and pulls out a platter of fruit from the fridge, silently listening.
‘You could have made it work even with her new job. Chloe really liked you and she’s back in London now thinking you never felt the same. You never told her how you really felt about her, did you? I heard about the airport,’ I tell him.
‘The airport felt like a sign,’ he mumbles.
‘You could have written her a letter. Sent her some flowers,’ I tell him. ‘Instead, you’ve stayed away.’
He doesn’t look me in the eye. ‘It’s better this way. This makes sense, for her—’
‘BEN?’ I say loudly, conscious I’ve gone into Mum voice. ‘Christ, you’re one of the most intuitive people I know. I spent a week with you fixing me, giving me everything I needed, and it pains me that you can’t show yourself the same kindness. Never mind Chloe, what do you want?’
‘Zara? Why are you being so… mean and shouty?’ he says, pouting.
‘Because I know you love it here and love what you do. But I also know that you cared for that girl deeply, and as far as I can see, you’ve cut that off at the roots.
You haven’t even given it a chance. Like you were almost too scared to be loved back.
Like you don’t think you’re worthy.’ I take a breath from having to almost tell Ben off.
He can hardly look at me. It’s because I speak the truth.
I wish my teens knew that much. ‘You deserve good things, Benny boy, and love is the very best of those things. Big and messy and wonderful love that never feels real because it’s such a force of nature.
It burns and evolves and grows wildly. It doesn’t always make sense. ’
He stares at some drawings on the wall, his gaze misty, as if remembering what he felt for Chloe.
Boy, I heard what you felt on a number of occasions. This place is made of stone but it’s not soundproof. ‘Personally, I think the both of you together in whatever way it happens would be a wonderful thing,’ I say.
‘You do, do you?’ he asks, grinning.
‘Ben, I’ve planned my outfit for your wedding, and I’m not even your mother.’
He laughs. I don’t know if my words have made a difference but if they have, I want good seating at this wedding, at least second row from the front. I go over and give him the biggest of hugs. He hugs me back.
‘You deserve love,’ I say.
We stand there for a moment as he takes that in, soaking up the quiet of this wonderful villa, that infamous pool, the glorious Ibiza sky.
‘Thank you,’ he whispers into my ear.
‘You’re welcome. Now please tell me you’ve got me jamón. I dream about your jamón.’
‘Jesus, can you just stop hitting on him, Mum. It’s embarrassing,’ Bella suddenly screams from the stairs.
‘BELLA!’ I scream in response.
‘She’s got bras older than you, Ben,’ she retorts.
‘BELLA!’
BEN
It was Phoebe’s idea. An artists’ retreat. Get in some easels, paints, brushes, and people can paint the views. Get in some fruit. Grapes! Bro, you could do life modelling! Work on your poses. Curl that arm in and look like you’re thinking. Manscape the pubes! Charcoals! Canvases! Paper!
I always imagined living in Phoebe’s brain might be like living in a comic book where words just appear out of nowhere like comets.
She made me art-retreat flyers, she showed me the flyers, I told her to change Van Gogh to Picasso and we argued about cubism which we both agreed was the most grown-up conversation we’d ever had in our lives.
I’m on the patio now, sitting on a low stone wall and admiring the building silhouetted against the fading sky, seeing it reflected perfectly in the pool.
There has been something about being here for the last four months that has healed me; it has connected me back into the world; it has calmed down every part of my nervous system.
I’m most aware of it at night when I can hear myself breathe again.
And I’m cooking but loving the cooking, remembering why I do it.
I also meet people, have conversations with them, get glimpses into their lives.
There was a writer called Ola on the last trip who would tell me long stories into the night about her life in Nigeria, her family, and cook egusi with me.
I’m realising that this is also a chance to learn, listen and host in so many other ways.
And I explore this island. I sit on beaches – not always naked – and put my feet in the sand, I watch sunsets, I sometimes swim underwater just like a dolphin and someone I once knew was right. It’s the best way to swim.
The eagle is in the nest. Five mins away.
Miguel is playing taxi today, his new role because he has the cooler car.
He often texts me like this in code because he thinks it’s funny when really all it will take is a guest seeing his messages to think they’re being taken to a safe house.
I text back a thumbs-up and walk into the kitchen to get out the welcome drinks.
As I walk in, I see the framed prints by the wall leading up to the stairs.
It felt wrong to not share Chloe’s drawings and sketches with others so I tore them out of the journal and framed them.
I like having a reminder of her to look at every day, to feel the glow of knowing that she was inspired and creative when she was here.
Knowing that the retreat tapped into all those parts of her that had been hanging by a thread.
People ask about the sketches and I tell them who did them.
Obviously, I don’t go into much detail about the nature of our relationship.
She was one of my first guests and I completely fell for her, but like all good love stories, I panicked, it ended, I let it be.
But I like talking about her. I think I always will.
Artists. I hope they like olives. I’ve got five guests on this retreat and I’ve ordered in a lot of wine because in my mind, I imagine them sat beside their easels with goblets of a decent red, their brushes sticking out at different angles.
I’ve got some good coffee-table books in, and I watched two artist biopics to prepare; it probably wasn’t the best idea given that both films featured artists battling with demons, drugs and infidelity.
But they went on to become legends in the art world. Maybe it starts here.
At first the splash scares the fuck out of me because I’ve always had my suspicions that this place might be mildly haunted.
Is it a swimming ghost? I don’t know how I’d exorcise that, I’d have to go down into the local town and speak to a padre.
But then I hear some panicked bleating and realise it’s a goat.
Gary the goat. In my pool. For crap’s sake, I thought I had fixed that hole in the fence and I’ve just had the thing cleaned.
Please don’t poo or wee or moult in there.
Can goats swim? He doesn’t look like he can.
His mates watch him from the other side of the fence, completely useless, one of them bleating back.
Do I lasso him? I don’t know how to do that.
Yeah, I’m going to have to go in. Shit, the guests are five minutes away.
I don’t want to be sopping wet when they arrive so I kick off my shoes and whip off my shirt and shorts, edging myself carefully into the pool.
Do goats bite? I really should try and know more about these fellas since we share land.
I approach him, noticing the blank look in his eyes.
Dude, you have weird eyes. He punches his hooves at me trying to stay afloat and I try and dodge them.
‘I’m trying to help you, kid,’ I shout in the spray.
He doesn’t look very happy. Maybe it’s because I called you a kid.
You look like a fully grown goat. If you’re an adult goat then maybe you shouldn’t have been so stupid as to have fallen in my pool.
He’s going to punch me in the eye and then I’ll be concussed and pass out in my pool and die.
That’ll be how Miguel and the artists will find me.
I tread water around him. I’m going to have to go in from the back which is something I never thought I’d have to say about a goat.
I swim towards him and grab him, trying to contain his flailing limbs, dragging him to the side as best I can.
It’s not a perfect fluid motion. In fact, it’s more like we’re fighting.
Underwater. As you do. There’s a point where I think I grab his bollocks in error and yes, they are bloody massive. Why aren’t they helping him float?