Chapter 19
CHLOE
I sometimes wonder if this retreat is a fever dream.
I’ll wake up on the plane soon and I’ll meet a yogi-style person in arrivals and then go to a lodge in the mountains and sit on a yoga mat and eat chia seeds and listen to pan-pipe music, breathing deeply, detoxing intensely.
Instead, I’ve been to a rave, I’ve been in a fight, I’ve got incredibly drunk, taken on a herd of goats, and just downed some nut milk made by a wonderfully crazy Spanish lady.
I don’t know what can happen if you drink raw almond milk but I’ll Google it back at the villa.
I just didn’t want to be rude given the size of her very big gun.
‘Do you want to borrow my cap?’ Ben now asks me, carrying a basket of almonds and almond milk (squeezed by Renata’s fair hand) as we return to the villa along the dusty track. ‘It’ll keep the sun off.’
I nod and he takes it off, placing it on my head.
Images of last night keep flashing into view.
I think I may have thrown up in and around the vicinity of him.
He carried me. We spoke about bras. I flashed my vag at him (my cheeks burn with shame recalling this again).
We definitely didn’t sleep together but there was contact, more hugging of sorts, warm and comforting.
But it still didn’t fix the fact I was sandy and itchy so I rose early to fix that under a lukewarm shower.
That was when I glimpsed Renata’s intimidating figure from my balcony.
I say intimidating but up close the woman was no bigger than five foot.
‘Did you know Renata before you came out here?’ I ask Ben, curious about the banter they shared but also the care he showed her: the hand he put to her back, the double kiss he gave her as we left.
‘Oh no. I just came down here in my first week. I put Salsa in a box asking if she’d take her.’
‘You made Renata salsa?’ I ask, surprised.
‘No, Salsa the cat. I heard you that night when you were naming her.’
I did name that cat. I smile because I think it’s an excellent name.
‘Her almonds are excellent. And we’ve just become good neighbours. She calls me sometimes to move heavy things. I make her bread,’ he tells me.
He’s good with old people. I guess that’s his thing given his relationship with Miguel, but he’s so incredibly warm: every interaction, every smile.
‘It figures that you would go into hospitality then,’ I say. ‘You’re very good at it, being friendly and welcoming, looking after people.’ I hold my breath, hoping the compliment isn’t an overstep.
‘I am? I guess. I think it’s being raised by a Spanish mother, being surrounded by food and family. It must be in the blood,’ he tells me.
‘Is that why you started your restaurant?’ I ask him.
‘It was. Mum was big on home cooking. We used to come out here every summer and Uncle Lorenzo would put on these massive feasts for us, huge plates of local food bursting with freshness and flavour. I wanted to bring that vibe and style of cooking and eating to London.’
‘Well, I’m sold. I shall pay a visit on my return. Do you miss the restaurant?’ I ask.
He looks out over Renata’s fields to the view framed by the bright blue sky. ‘I am very proud of it. But recently it’s been less about the food, more about Instagram foodies, constant bills and people having sex in my toilets,’ he jokes.
‘Because your food is so good?’ I say.
He laughs. ‘Maybe. But I’m less sold on the stress of it, the way it ate into every part of my life,’ he says, nodding. ‘It’s hard work.’
I raise my hands. ‘Oh, we’ve had this conversation. Workaholics unite,’ I joke.
‘I’m not a workaholic, I work hard. There’s a difference,’ Ben mimics back at me.
I laugh, narrowing my eyes at him. These little flecks of his life intrigue me: they make him real. But it’s strange to think of this man in his shorts and cap, with his sun-kissed skin, existing in grey, busy London. I wonder if he questions that London life too.
‘There’s something for the architect,’ he says, pointing out into the field, past a few bushes. ‘That’s a stone shepherd’s hut. A caseta or refugi.’
I shift my gaze to where he’s pointing and see a circular hut built with large stones and with a roof coiled into a hive shape. I love the patterns, the simple construction, the way it blends into the environment. ‘Are there many shepherds around here?’ I ask.
‘They’re just remnants of what the area was once used for. It’s likely empty, more for passing hikers or so goats can take cover from the elements,’ he explains.
‘Can we have a look?’ I ask, crossing over to the fence before he has time to say yes.
Ben follows me as I approach it, peering inside to check it really is empty. I’m on the alert for snakes. Inside, I like how the gaps in the stone create webs of light in the dark interior.
Ben watches me as I look around and run my fingers along the stone. ‘I think I need to bring the architect to fancier buildings,’ he jokes.
‘Nah, I like this. I like buildings with a story, a purpose,’ I say.
‘Like your uncle’s house. The history is beautiful and I like how he kept the original features, that he’s added but not taken away.
The way this roof is constructed, it’s corbelled, you see the layers, how it rises into a cone shape? ’
He stops for a moment, listening and studying my face. ‘It doesn’t take a lot to make you happy, does it?’ he asks, smiling.
‘Yep. I’m easy like that,’ I say. That was the wrong turn of phrase but I’m happy that he laughs.
I turn and Ben looks at me with the same look he gave me when I fell into his arms when the goats came for me in the yard.
I don’t quite understand this feeling, this tension. It shouldn’t feel like this.
‘What does the corbelled roof do?’ he asks.
‘It helps water drain and it circulates the heat.’ As I say the words, I pray it can do that: circulate the heat please.
‘It’s not doing a very good job,’ he says.
‘Yeah.’
Why is my mouth dry? I catch Ben’s eye and smile, his hair is all tousled, a day’s worth of stubble lines his jaw. This is ill-advised, especially because I like Miguel. I don’t want to get caught in the middle of their relationship.
‘So, Miguel…’ I say. He looks from side-to-side, apparently surprised that his name has come up. ‘I want to be respectful. I like him.’
‘You have a crush on Miguel?’ he asks me.
‘No. But you… and him.’ I take a deep breath and decide to be brave. ‘Look, I don’t know what this is between us, but I don’t know where I’d figure in that arrangement.’
Ben flinches his head in a couple of different positions, seemingly trying to figure out what I’m saying.
‘Because I get it,’ I continue. ‘We’re in Ibiza, it’s a loved-up island with a big party culture. You obviously have an open sexuality. I can’t fit into that. I’ve only just remembered how to mas…’ I ramble, tripping on my words. ‘Master being in charge of my life again.’
‘Hold up, you think that I’m gay?’ Ben says, his face blank with confusion.
‘Or bi,’ I say, trying to be earnest and respectful.
A large smile creeps onto his face. ‘No,’ he says, starting to laugh but frowning at the same time. ‘Miguel is really old. Like I think he’s older than my dad.’
‘And there’s nothing wrong with that,’ I say, putting a hand to his forearm.
‘I’m not gay. I’m not with Miguel. He’s been with a German man called Marcus for nearly twenty years,’ he says, now standing right in front of me.
I try to process this. ‘But… he’s always hugging you, he slaps your bum, Jess said she heard you say you love penis.’
Ben widens his eyes, completely bemused by the confusion. ‘I love pinas! That means pineapple. Miguel is like an uncle to me, a flirty inappropriate uncle. No more…’
‘So you’re straight?’ I ask out loud.
‘Yeah. You? Just checking.’
‘I am,’ I whisper. ‘So I’m not imagining this.’
He shakes his head.
Oh.
And he comes over to grab me in an embrace, urgently leaning in to kiss me, his hands cupping my face.
His lips and the warmth of his breath send a shiver down my spine.
His hands move down to my lower back and I push my body against him to feel him harden under me.
Here. I want you here. I take his hand and guide it down the waistband of my shorts, into my knickers, trembling as he touches me.
‘There?’ he whispers.
‘Yes,’ I moan as I part my legs.
He pushes me against a wall in that hut, rays of light illuminate his face.
His eyes don’t move from mine, he smiles to see the effect as he rubs my clit lightly in small circles, occasionally sliding his fingers into me.
He lifts me so my toes graze the ground and takes one of my nipples in his teeth, kissing the underside of my neck.
I grab at his hair and then look him straight in the eye, lost for words, breath.
‘Please. I don’t know how to say this… I want… Could you… I want you to—’
‘Just tell me what you want,’ he whispers. He pulls his shorts down, hooking an arm under one of my knees. I nod. This. I want this. He reaches down to slide his cock inside me, slowly.
The sensation makes me lose time, control, sanity. The way it fits, the movement makes me moan loudly. I want you to make me come, to fuck me, to give me everything I’ve denied myself for months.
‘I want…’
‘Tell me… Tell me how you want me to fuck you.’
‘I want… you.’