Chapter Fifty-Five
William Sutherland really hopes that the famous old hotel, the special one his young couple appear so set on for their final Sunday night treat, hasn’t been torn down for a motorway. Or had its historic roof terrace, overlooking the old city, converted into an infinity pool.
It would be just his luck.
Fortune, for once, is smiling. As they arrive in the plush lobby, an elegant blend of the timeless and the contemporary (with a lot of, in William’s opinion, unnecessary clocks), he can see that its older incarnation is already impressing the hell out of Will and Lu. Even as it intimidates them.
“Can I meet you guys up there?” he pleads. “I just need to…”
Before they can acknowledge an old man’s sudden incontinence, William has scurried off to somewhere behind the huge reception desk. He has no intention of stepping into a lift that hasn’t yet arrived and freaking them out before the evening has even begun.
He also needs to work on what the hell he is going to say.
Perhaps, he muses, rather than any further notions of manipulation or deceit, I should just come clean. Reveal to them the whole extraordinary scenario, from start to finish. From careering phantom buses to brand-new versions of wife.
Or perhaps not.
*
The celebrated rooftop bar is, thankfully, not too crowded when William walks in.
At least not on the evening of Easter Sunday 2025.
At least not yet.
To his relief, it doesn’t look like it has been excessively modernised in recent years.
Almost as if history and a studied neglect is part of the charm.
He is even more relieved to see that Will and Lu are already settled into their huge, shared cocktail.
And that they aren’t sitting on anyone else.
He knows he is still totally unprepared, and terrified beyond reason, but at least his bladder is now empty, an unarguably sensible precaution.
The views are indeed spectacular.
Gazing into the panoramic night, William is treated to a magnificently evocative tableau of his own descent into madness and despair.
Like the stations of the cross, he can pinpoint the exact locations of his torment, from the cathedral and La Giralda to Plaza de Espana and the old Triana Bridge.
He thinks he can even spot the irrepressible yellow and black awning.
A sudden sadness envelops him, as he contemplates the excruciatingly fine mess he has gotten himself into and how impenetrable the psychic foliage through which he must now hack in order to emerge into sanity.
He doubts that he ever will.
William stares at the lovely young Spanish woman.
She is deeply immersed in her drink and totally unaware of him.
Her long hair gently brushes her husband’s face as they suck the bright liquid through stripy straws, trying not to impale their noses on the little wooden umbrella they should have first removed.
William realises how dearly he misses Luisa.
This youthfully fragrant one, plus the lonely older version he just left, but most of all the person he has wished totally out of existence in an attempt to improve all their lots.
The Luisa Sutherland of whom in this life there is no longer a trace, save for the younger model slurping before him, whose natural journey will very soon be remapped.
Thanks to him.
Unless…
What in hell’s name was I doing? he asks himself, as he forces the smile back onto his face. Playing God in this city of all cities.
And what the hell am I playing at now?
“Hi, guys – oh, you started without me!” he berates them, with some relief. He would have had a great time paying for a thirty-year-old drink in a currency the country hadn’t actually adopted until four years after the event.
“Aye, sorry, Gordon. Apparently I promised Senora Sutherland I’d do the honours on our last evening,” Will announces, proudly, “and a Scotsman never reneges on his promises.”
Not quite William’s experience, but he is rather impressed with his younger self, truth be told.
“You can do the next round,” continues Will. “Meantime, what are you having?”
“Er, nothing for now,” says William swiftly. “Thank you, Will. It’s the – diabetes, you know. Need to be a bit careful.” The young couple nod sympathetically. “I’ll just enjoy watching you.”
Which he does, as he can’t think what else to do. At least he hasn’t sat down on somebody already there, he thinks, or on a chair no longer available. We have to be grateful for the smallest mercies.
Eventually, as the couple grow self-conscious about having an audience and the sound of mutual slurping begins to resonate, Lu feels a need to move the conversation on.
“Gordon? There is something that you wish to say?”
Ah.
“Well…” says the Panama-hatted imposter, because he feels he has to say something, yet absolutely nothing springs to mind that could lead to anything approximating an appropriate conclusion.
Or indeed any sort of conclusion. I’m normally so hot on strategy, he thinks, ask anyone in marketing consultancy, ask my clients (no, don’t; they’re not my clients any more).
But right at this minute, nada. He looks around the splendid old terrace for some sort of inspiration.
What he sees makes the situation at least ten times worse.
Make that a thousand.
Across the large room, at a well-placed oaken table, are the last people he needs right now.
The Barbadillos, with what William has to assume is their loving family.
Senor and Senora are waving at him excitedly, beyond thrilled to see him again after their earlier brush with fame.
The Senora has a stunning and incredibly large red rose in her hair, which looks as if it has been lovingly tended and watered and is now attempting to win prizes.
Senor Barbadillo, for reasons as yet unknown, still winks pointedly at William, like a man with an annoyingly persistent nervous tick.
William feels that he should at least be polite, so he waves back at the couple, whose clearly impressed children and their partners are also nodding holas.
He finally turns back to Will and Lu, to find their eyes peeping over their huge glass and staring at him.
He has absolutely no idea what or who they think he has been greeting so effusively.
By the looks on their faces, he has probably just been observed sending regards to a floral arrangement or an adventurous pigeon.
If he hadn’t felt a sense of urgency before, this latest development has given him a jolt no cocktail ever invented could match, even if the tiny umbrella had pierced an artery. Unfortunately, his misguided preamble is less than encouraging.
“O-kay. Before they come over – no, no one’s coming over.
Ignore them. Me. Okay.” He takes a deep breath, as he realises that the young couple are hanging precariously on his every utterance, the way eighteenth-century society would watch performances by the insane.
“Will, Lu – I think – well, to be honest, I know – that I’ve made a pretty big mistake. ”
“The tan?” suggests Lu.
“Not the tan! Well, maybe the tan,” says William, thankful that he hasn’t as yet removed his worn but effective Panama hat. “See, I had the – what would you call it – the effrontery to interfere in the lives – aye, the lives – of two total strangers.”
“Yeah?” says a suddenly interested Will, most probably sensing a juicy story. “Who were they, Gordy?”
William just sighs. He feels totally lost. There’s just no way…
And then he hears the rumble.
It appears to be coming from just outside the main door.
Almost as if a crowd out there have begun to stamp their feet.
William tells himself it’s most probably some type of cleaning machinery being wheeled past. Or inappropriate muzak played in error.
He actually prays for earthquake but in the meantime chooses to ignore it.
“What I’m trying to say is, Lu – Will – what the hell am I trying to say?”
He is left with little time to find out.
The door to the roof terrace bar suddenly smashes open.
To the frenzied strum of finely tuned Spanish guitars, a troupe of high-class flamenco dancers bursts in, the men in tight black trousers with crimson sashes, the women a swirl of brilliant red.
Their accompanying musicians sway noisily around them as the flamboyant newcomers make immediately for the table full of beaming Barbadillos and proceed to perform solely for them, proud heads held high, arms raised and swivelling, as if no one else in the bar exists.
Although, of course, everyone in the room watches and cheers and whoops in delight.
Senor Barbadillo is grinning like an Andalusian Cheshire Cat at the “unexpected” visitors and at William (see what I did!), but mostly at his overwhelmed but adoring wife.
Senora Barbadillo looks like she doesn’t know whether to smile, cry or pick up a stray castanet.
William has a pretty good idea that she will happily manage to do all three and more before the mad evening is out.
“Oh, thanks a sodding bunch!” he hears himself cry into the ether, as he senses his entire life being systematically crushed under a stampede of brilliantly polished, black patent leather shoes.
While Will and Lu, not privy to the surprise but fairly surprised anyway, move swiftly from bemusement through bewilderment into the fast lane on the autoroute to terror.
It’s all going really well.