Viva España!
Viva Espana!
The Spanish flamenco dancer wore a red frilly dress with gold spots and black netting, her shiny black hair piled high in an elaborate bun and fixed with a comb from which hung a lace mantilla, while in her tiny plastic hand, lifted high above her head, she held a fan.
As a little girl, Flick had loved that doll.
It might have only been seven inches high, but it was her most prized possession and took pride of place on the mantelpiece of their pebble-dashed two-up, two-down.
It had been a gift from Auntie Pam and Uncle Dave, who’d once swapped their traditional two weeks on the Isle of Wight for a package holiday to Spain and had returned home with sunburn, dodgy stomachs and a steely resolution to never leave for foreign shores again.
‘I mean, can you believe it, they eat octopus!’ had shuddered Uncle Dave, while digging into a plate of tripe and onions in the safety of his limed-oak kitchen.
‘And all that sunshine can’t be good for you,’ observed Auntie Pam, applying calamine to her red and peeling shoulders while she waited for the rain to stop so she could hang out their holiday clothes on the line to dry.
But seven-year-old Flick hadn’t listened.
Instead she’d looked with wide-eyed wonder at her souvenir from Spain.
She’d never been into dolls before, with their boring pinafores and blonde plaits, or worse still, the ones that looked like babies and which you were supposed to feed with a bottle and change its nappy. But this doll was different.
With her brightly coloured clothes she looked like an exotic bird and Flick was fascinated.
She was so beautiful and so bold; with her arms thrown defiantly over her head and leg kicked out high, she felt less of a doll and more of a superhero.
Whenever Flick had a bad day at school, she’d come home and take her down from the mantelpiece and together Flick and the Spanish flamenco dancer would run away from the bullies who picked on her in the playground for not having a dad, away from her mum who worked three jobs and was always tired and cranky, away from a two-up, two-down terrace in a northern industrial town and go on exciting adventures to Spain.
‘I wonder what happened to that doll . . .’
‘S’cuse me?’
Flick snapped back to the present to see Maggie staring at her from across the back seat of the cab. They’d just flown into Palma from Sicily and were travelling to their hotel.
‘Oh, I was just daydreaming.’
‘About a doll?’
‘About being in Spain,’ she corrected, embarrassed. ‘I can’t believe I’m here, finally.’
Buzzing down the window, she gestured to the palm trees and promenades and parasols whizzing by.
‘I know.’ Maggie nodded. ‘We’ve been travelling for hours. It was that three-hour layover in Barcelona that did it.’
But that’s not what Flick meant by finally.
Finally wasn’t about a few hours, finally was about all the years that had passed since she was that confused and upset seven-year-old who played with her Spanish flamenco dancer and dreamed of visiting Spain one day.
And now here she was and she couldn’t quite believe it.
But how can you explain stuff like that, in the back of a taxi on the way from the airport, to someone you only met a couple of weeks ago? Maggie was no longer a stranger; they’d grown close, yet when it came to sharing certain details of her past, she wouldn’t know where to start.
So instead she just nodded in agreement and glanced at her watch.
‘It’s six thirty.’
‘Perfect timing. We can dump our bags and go get a sundowner.’
‘I’m not sure we can afford one. Did you see the price of the car rental?’
Maggie blanched. After deciding their next destination was going to be Palma, in Mallorca, they’d soon realized they were going to have to fly to the Spanish island.
Which meant saying goodbye to their rental car.
As luck would have it, the company had an office at Catania Airport, so they could drive there, leave the Fiat, and get straight on a flight. Perfect!
Except, have you ever tried to do a one-way rental? Worse still, picking up in one country and dropping off in another? Last-minute? No, neither had Flick and Maggie and they nearly fell on the floor when the salesman gave them their bill.
‘It would have been cheaper to buy a Fiat 500,’ Maggie was saying now.
‘Good job we won at Monte Carlo.’
‘You won at Monte Carlo?’ The cab driver’s ears pricked up. It was the first time he’d spoken during the journey, other than to ask them the name of their hotel.
‘Yes, we did,’ replied Flick. Only now, saying it out loud, did she realize how crazy it sounded. He probably thought they were millionaires.
‘Wowee.’ He let out a low whistle. ‘What did you spend your winnings on?’
The two women looked at each other. How to answer that?
‘A trip of a lifetime,’ replied Maggie, catching his eye in the rear-view and giving a wry smile.
‘Man, I need a holiday.’ Shaking his head wistfully, his face split into a grin. ‘So, c’mon, tell me, where’ve you been?’
‘Well, we started in Monaco.’ Flick began playing along. Well, it felt rude not to. ‘Then drove to the French Riviera, Rome, the Amalfi Coast, Taormina.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘Sicily.’
‘You drove all the way to Sicily?’
Said like that it did sound a bit mad.
‘And what’s been the best bit so far?’
Flick and Maggie glanced at each other, their minds flicking back.
Walking through the backstreets of Rome.
Time standing still in the Sistine Chapel.
Watching the sunset on the Amalfi Coast. Dancing in the square at midnight.
The negronis. The pizza. The view from the crater of the volcano.
That first cold shower when they’d been driving for hours.
It was different for both of them, and yet it was the same.
Until now they’d been so focused on finding him, and on all their private fears and frustrations, that they hadn’t given it much thought. But suddenly there it all was, like a highlights reel thrown up by their iPhone.
‘The gaps in between,’ replied Flick.
The driver frowned. ‘Huh, I don’t get it?’
But the two women did. Because it wasn’t about any of the highlights. And as Maggie looked at Flick across the back of the taxi, they both made the same gesture with their forefingers. Almost, but not quite touching. Because that’s where life truly happens.
‘OK, we’re here.’
A few moments later, the taxi pulled up in front of a large, high-rise hotel. Surrounded by palm trees and with several flags flying above the entrance, it was a world away from their first Airbnb in Monte Carlo.
‘Wow, this looks swanky,’ said Maggie, as the taxi driver left with a large tip and an instruction to enjoy the rest of their trip. ‘It must have cost a fortune.’
‘No, it was on special. I booked it a few days ago on my app,’ said Flick, as they stood on the pavement outside with their wheelie suitcases. ‘I thought I’d try to be organized and not leave it to the last minute.’
‘You’ve got an app for booking hotels?’
‘Of course. There’s an app for everything.’
‘Everything?’ Maggie raised an eyebrow.
‘Pretty much.’
‘OK, so what about doing the laundry, or shaving your legs, or unloading the dishwasher?’
Flick threw her a withering look. ‘Of course not.’
‘Well, there isn’t an app for everything, then, is there?’ Grabbing her suitcase, Maggie headed towards the entrance.
‘Maggie, you sound like an old person.’
‘I am an old person. I turn fifty on Monday.’
‘What? It’s your birthday?’ Flick hurried to catch her up, but Maggie was already inside the revolving door. Waiting her turn, she quickly followed her into the lobby of the hotel. ‘Why didn’t you say?’
Maggie shrugged. ‘I’m trying not to think about it.’
‘We’ll have to celebrate.’
‘That’s why I didn’t mention it.’
‘Buenas noches.’
As they both headed towards the large front desk, they were greeted by Juan, who welcomed them to the hotel and took their passports.
‘Actually, there probably is one for doing the laundry,’ added Flick, as they were being checked in.
Maggie looked at her blankly.
‘An app.’ Digging out her phone, she started scrolling. ‘Not sure about shaving your legs, though.’
‘You have a message.’
Abruptly, Juan caught their attention.
‘A message?’ repeated Maggie, as they both turned to him in surprise. ‘From who?’
Flick resisted the urge to correct her.
‘He didn’t give his name. It was from an English gentleman.’
The two women looked at each other, their minds racing.
‘Who knows we’re here?’
‘No one.’
‘Have you told anyone?’
‘Like who? My missing cat?’
There was a heavy pause.
‘You don’t think . . .?’
‘What? That’s Him?’ Maggie’s mind was falling over itself as she thought about their secret text exchanges. That’s exactly what she was thinking. Had she said anything? Given anything away? ‘No, of course not,’ she quickly dismissed the idea.
They were interrupted by Juan clearing his throat for attention.
‘He asked me to tell you he is waiting for you in the lounge bar.’
Flick and Maggie froze.
‘Please. Allow me to send your luggage up to your room and one of our front desk will show you to the bar.’
Suddenly they were being escorted through the lobby and into the lounge.
‘Maybe he’s found out we’re following him,’ whispered Flick, her heart racing. Maybe they hadn’t found him, he’d found them.
‘And the hotel we’re staying in?’ Maggie didn’t look convinced. It didn’t make sense. How could that be? And yet, abruptly she felt sick with nerves. Was this it? Was this the moment?
Hearts thumping, minds racing, they were met by a waiter who led them past tables of hotel guests, over to a booth by the window where a man was sitting, his back turned away from them.
‘Senor?’
There was split second before the waiter got his attention.
Later, it would transpire he’d been wearing his AirPods and listening to a true-crime podcast; they were his favourite, and he was just at the part where the killer was about to get caught red-handed .
. . But then, abruptly, he saw them out of the corner of his eye and jumped up from his seat, flinging his arms out wide and yelling.
‘Surprise!’
And that’s when Flick got the shock of her life.
‘Rory?’