Chapter 6
BEN
‘What are you wearing?’ Phoebe asks me as I stand at the airport parking machine, having told the ladies to wait in my SEAT.
It’s a rhetorical question as she FaceTimed me and I made the mistake of answering.
‘You could have at least made an effort? Put on some long trousers at a minimum. A T-shirt you’ve not owned since the noughties? ’
‘It’s Ibiza in the summer. I’d have sweated to death,’ I reply, hating that she knows my wardrobe so well.
I’m waiting behind an old lady who’s examining her euro coins one by one.
I thought I was giving off a casual and approachable vibe.
I didn’t want to look like some tacky tour rep with a clipboard and a flag.
‘How’s it going? Are they OK? Are they normal?’ Phoebe asks, craning to see behind me as if she’ll be able to sneak a quick look at them. ‘Last night we were discussing how maybe we should have vetted these women more. We could have sent you absolute psychos.’
I raise my eyebrow that she’s mentioning this now, when these women are already sitting in my car.
‘Well, Jess came storming out the gate and vommed everywhere which was a good start. She seems nice though. Zara looks very excited, but the one called Chloe isn’t entirely convinced.
She wouldn’t even let me help with her bag. ’
‘In case you were just going to make a run for it with her bikinis and travel shampoo?’
My thoughts exactly. Whilst Zara and Jess seem pleasant, excited, Chloe doesn’t look hugely comfortable at the prospect of this retreat.
I understand her concerns, but her immediate sense of suspicion and the way her defences are raised is a bit deflating.
I’m trying. I really am. I even ran a brush through my hair.
That said, there is also something in her eyes I’m trying to read.
She looks tired. Not just physically but you can tell she’s sad, lost perhaps.
‘She also questioned the car,’ I tell Phoebe sadly.
‘But it’s a SEAT Ibiza, it’s totally on-brand,’ she says. ‘Was she expecting a limo?’
‘Who knows, but I’m going to have to do some work there,’ I explain, finally getting to the front of the line for the machine and paying for my ticket. ‘Jess also asked about the spa treatments… Seriously… what did you tell people about this retreat?’
‘You can massage people. You knead bread, don’t you?’
‘Phoebe!’
‘I’ve seen you baste joints of meat, ice cakes… it’s all the same skill set really…’
I start heading back to the car. ‘And you didn’t think to tell me this before these women arrived?’
‘Just make it all foodie and healthy. Remember when I was ill and you made me juice shots with ginger? Just get those down them. Cucumber for the eyes. Ashwagandha.’
‘Who the fuck is ashwagandha?’ I ask her.
‘Who bloody knows but I saw it on Instagram the other day. Babe, just Google it all.’
If only we were all as chilled as Phoebe.
I turn the corner of the car park to see the three women sitting there and chatting in the cool of the car air con.
I truly hope they’re engaging in mindless chit-chat about the island’s verdant palms and not dissecting this experience so far.
‘Is the pool ready? Did you roll the towels? Get nice dressing gowns?’
‘I did. I also embroidered their initials onto them,’ I tell her.
‘You did not. And if all else fails, just cook without a top on. You’ve got abs. Give them something to look at.’
‘Way to cheapen this all completely, Phoebe. Thanks.’
‘Have we just met? I’ve got to go. Love you! You can do this!’
She disappears from the screen. I tasked the wrong sister with this, didn’t I?
Phoebe who, we think, may graduate from university this summer because of Google, ChatGPT and sheer charm.
But I can do this. I’m a grown-up man who has lived with three sisters his whole life and survived the experience.
I get to the car and open the door. There’s an immediate silence.
‘Thank you for not stealing my car,’ I say as I sit in the driver’s seat and put on my seat belt. I notice Chloe to my right, in the passenger seat, quickly closing a Facebook page on her phone.
Zara and Jess laugh in the back while Chloe studies me as I put the ticket in the sun visor and take off my cap, running a hand through my unfortunately sweaty hair.
I think she’s still judging the car. Was she expecting more branding across the doors?
Or something more impressive? It’s the yellow, isn’t it? It’s not very subtle.
‘Ladies, there’s water in the doors if you’d like it. I also baked some pastries this morning,’ I say, reaching for a bag in the footwell. ‘No one is allergic to nuts, are they? They contain almonds.’ I retrieve a box inside the bag, open it and a cloud of icing sugar erupts into silence.
‘You made these?’ Chloe asks, her tone implying that she can’t believe I’m capable of it.
‘I did,’ I say.
Zara’s hand reaches in; she’s less suspicious of my claim to being a baker and she bites into the pastry immediately. ‘Oh fuck me, that is good.’
This convinces Jess who takes one and delicately nibbles it. ‘Man alive,’ she says licking the icing sugar from her lips.
I offer the box to Chloe.
‘I can hold that while you start driving,’ she says.
She places it on her lap and then reaches for the bottle in the door.
I see her checking the seal to see if it’s been tampered with, turning the bottle upside down and checking for leaks.
Crap, she really doesn’t think much of me, does she?
I want to find her reaction incredibly insulting but I have to supress a smile at the way she side-eyes me, trying to work me out like a bad cartoon detective.
‘So, did you manage to find me on Facebook while I was paying for the ticket?’ I ask Chloe as I start the car, looking for the exit sign.
‘Ben Allbright. Two ls,’ she replies. ‘You really should adjust your privacy settings,’ she tells me, sniffing her water before she takes a sip. ‘Well done on the London Marathon two years ago.’
‘Thank you.’
I hear giggles in the back of the car. ‘Chloe, if you’re not partaking in the pastries then I would gladly take another,’ Zara says.
Chloe stretches around to the back seat and I notice a slice of her stomach on show.
I avert my eyes, looking back at the road.
‘These are bloody delicious, Ben. Thank you.’
‘You are very welcome,’ I say.
‘So, tell us more about this villa,’ Jess says. ‘Is it a long drive?’
‘About half an hour. It’s named after my Uncle Lorenzo and it used to be his. He left it to me after he passed away recently, so my sisters and I decided to give it a makeover and turn it into a retreat. It’s in the north of the island, with views of the sea and mountains. It’s very peaceful.’
‘I’m sorry to hear about your uncle,’ Jess says. I try to focus on the driving as being on the wrong side of the road is still throwing me, but I’m immediately drawn to Jess’s empathy. I also notice Chloe taking in the story. I wonder if she thinks it’s all spiel.
‘Lorenzo moved to Ibiza in his thirties and never quite left,’ I explain. ‘I have very fond memories of this villa from the summers when I used to visit. It’s magical and I hope you’re all charmed by it too.’
Chloe turns to gaze out the window, taking in the blue sky, the golden sun and the changing landscape as we pull away from the airport and head towards sandier, more verdant roads.
Perhaps she’s memorising the route just in case.
Zara and Jess are tucking into the pastries, chatting about my lamination; it’s strangely satisfying to hear them enjoy the fruits of my labour.
‘So, tell me Chloe, what do you do?’ I ask, trying to get a conversation going.
‘For work?’ she replies, nursing her bottle of water between her thighs. ‘I’m an architect.’
‘Wow, that’s impressive. Do you have your own practice?’
‘No. I work for a practice in Shoreditch.’
‘Trendy.’
‘Sometimes. Trendy is overrated,’ she replies. ‘You have a restaurant in Notting Hill so you know what I mean.’
‘Do I?’ I ask her.
‘Sometimes it’s all style, no substance,’ Chloe says.
I can’t tell if she’s being rude about my restaurant. She’s hasn’t even tried a pastry to inform any judgements about my cooking.
‘What do you design? Would I be familiar with your work?’ I ask, frowning and trying to focus on the road. I know very little about architecture so I hope I don’t sound like a moron.
‘Do you know the new eco-housing projects in Wembley?’
‘I don’t, I’m afraid.’ I can’t tell if she’s bothered by this. ‘You built them?’
‘Well, not me but I was involved in conceptual work, drawing, design—’
‘Sounds sketchy,’ I say, trying to be funny.
She looks at me, a little confused before the joke finally lands. ‘Oh, sketchy as in sketch,’ she says, pretending to hold a pencil and draw. ‘Yeah. I’ve not done that for a while. A lot of our design work is digitised but yes, I like to sketch, draw—’
‘I bet you’re good,’ I say. It’s an authentic line of questioning but I can feel that she’s suspicious of my curiosity, that I’m crossing a personal line far too soon or just coming across as a complete idiot.
‘I’m OK. From the sounds coming from the back of this car, it seems that you’re quite a good baker,’ she replies.
We listen to Zara and Jess still tucking into my pastries.
They talk about the pastries but they’re also chatting about where they’re from and enthusing about the view, taking in the new sights and sunshine.
It’s a very different vibe from the front of the car. ‘They’re very impressed.’
‘I’m OK,’ I say trying to mimic her. And I risk a glance over and spy a smile.
Have I broken her? She opens the box and looks at the last pastry sitting there, waiting.
But she doesn’t touch it. I made the almond paste myself.
I ground the nuts by hand with a pestle and mortar and took time laminating that pastry.
I don’t tell her that; I don’t want to come across as some sort of Gordon Ramsay-style foodie knob.
Instead, she reaches into her handbag and pulls out a Starburst, unwrapping it slowly and putting it in her mouth.
And she turns to look outside again, her fingers picking at and unravelling the label on the bottle of water that’s still resting between her thighs.