The Countdown Begins
A bus ride away from the centre of Palma, at the Fundació Miró Mallorca art gallery and museum, Maggie shifted onto the other foot as she gazed at the paintings by Joan Miró, one of the most famous Spanish artists of the twentieth century.
She’d been standing here for who knows how long, so transfixed she’d lost track of time, and the small of her back ached. Still, she couldn’t tear herself away.
She’d arrived a couple of hours ago and immediately immersed herself.
Art galleries were her happy place. Not just because of how they made her feel, but because they were always where she felt closest to her brother, Charlie.
She’d been thinking about him a lot recently.
She wondered what he’d say if he could see her now.
His little sister, her life fallen apart.
As her big brother, he’d always looked out for her.
Would he have protected her, tried to warn her?
Or would she have been too stubborn and pig-headed to listen?
Remembering their teenage arguments, Maggie smiled.
She knew the answer to that already. One thing was for certain, he would have approved of her coming here.
She could see him now. Go get him, sis. Always encouraging her to stick up for herself.
Always giving her the confidence she lacked. He was her biggest cheerleader.
Leaving the gallery, she walked outside into the gardens.
It was midday and the sun was high in the sky, beating down.
Even with a sunhat she could feel the intensity and, finding a spot in the shade, she sat down.
It was lovely here, away from the buzz of the city and overlooking the bay.
There was something so magical about art.
It centred her. Lifted her. She drew a strength from it.
Just coming here today she felt more energized and finally ready to face up to things.
Digging her phone out of her bag, she replayed the voicemail messages from the council and Ainsley, her friend the farmer.
She’d been putting it off, but she couldn’t ignore them any longer.
The countdown was on. She was nearing the end of her journey.
Once she’d met with Theo this evening, and Flick had got her interview, she could go home.
Even in the heat of the midday sun, she felt a twist of anxiety.
Still, there was no point putting it off any longer, she had to face up to things.
First up, Ainsley the farmer. She called, but he didn’t answer, so she left him a message apologizing for not replying sooner and telling him she’d be home in a few days.
‘Sorry you’ve had to deal with all this, Ainsley. I know you were doing a favour for Charlie. I can’t thank you enough, but I’ll be gone by the weekend.’
Where she was going to go, she still had no idea yet, but somehow it didn’t feel as scary.
Coming here, being on this trip, she’d found inner strengths.
If she could do this, she could do anything.
She knew she’d be OK. That was the power of worst-case scenarios – if you could survive the worst thing happening, you could survive anything.
Next, she emailed the council back, promising to move the caravan by the due date on the enforcement notice.
She didn’t bother to explain she’d been made homeless, that she’d had nowhere to go, that you can fall in love with the wrong person or make a bad decision and your life can collapse like a house of cards.
She was sure the person in the planning department didn’t want to hear all that.
Or that by being on this trip she’d discovered that home wasn’t about four walls, or a structure, it was about a place within.
Finally, she WhatsApped George.
Hey, sorry I haven’t been in touch.
A lot’s been going on.
I’m still away. It’s a long story.
I’ll tell you all about it when I see you.
Immediately the ticks went blue and seconds later he was trying to video-call her. She pressed accept and his face appeared on the screen.
‘Don’t think you can fob me off with a text like that!’ he snorted. ‘What’s going on? When are you back?’
That’s how it was with her and George – no need for the usual pleasantries, they just dived straight in.
‘Not sure yet. Probably a couple of days.’
‘Stop avoiding it.’
‘Avoiding what?’ Maggie tried to play dumb. She didn’t want to tell George who she was meeting later, but neither did she want to lie to him. ‘There’s not much to tell. We haven’t caught up with Him yet.’ OK, not strictly a lie.
‘I’m not talking about The Wanker; I’m talking about your birthday.’
‘Oh. That.’ Maggie had been trying to forget about it.
‘Where are you going to be?
‘Um, I’m not sure. Everything’s a bit up in the air. We were supposed to be heading to Ibiza tomorrow and after that, taking the ferry to Valencia—’
‘OK, I’m coming to meet you.’ George didn’t let her finish.
‘What? No! That’s crazy!’
‘Do you think I’m going to let my best friend celebrate her big birthday without my fabulous self being there?’
‘George, no, I want to ignore it. Pretend like it’s not happening.’
‘Bollocks.’
‘I’m serious. What have I got to celebrate? I’m turning fifty and my business has gone bust, I’m living in a caravan from which I’m being evicted, and the man I thought I was going to marry turned out to be a con artist and stole all my money. I’m a mess.’
‘A hot mess,’ he corrected, grinning.
‘George, I’m being serious.’
‘So am I. Fuck all that shit. You’re still standing, aren’t you?’
‘Well, I’m sitting actually,’ smiled Maggie, from underneath the shade of a large tree.
‘But yes, you’re right. And you were right about telling me to come here, about having nothing to lose.
I’ve learned a lot about myself. Plus I’ve seen a lot of great art,’ she added, gazing across at a sculpture.
‘See. Always listen to your best friend George.’
‘It’s just . . . look, there’s a lot going on right now, I’m not sure your coming out is a good idea.’
‘I’m always a good idea.’
She laughed then, because if one person could always make her laugh, whatever the circumstances, it was George.
‘Send me details of where you’re staying and I’ll get a standby out on Monday and meet you in Valencia. And, no, I’m not taking no for an answer,’ he interrupted, before she could protest. ‘You can tell me about everything and we can celebrate. Just promise me one thing.’
‘What’s that?’
‘No swimwear selfies.’
‘George, I’m not on social media these days, and even if I was, I would never do a swimwear selfie,’ she protested.
‘That’s what everyone says and then they turn fifty and it’s get your bits out for the boys.’ He grinned, rolling his eyes. ‘I’ve witnessed it with all my friends. If I’m not careful, I’ll be next.’
As he pulled a look of mock horror, Maggie shook her head, grinning.
‘I’ve got to go. Bye, George.’
‘Bye, beautiful. See you Monday.’
2 p.m.
‘Thanks for lunch, Rory, it was delicious.’
‘Yeah, shame about the building work, though.’
In the hill village, Flick and Rory were leaving the little bar, after their perfect lunch spot had been somewhat spoiled.
There they’d been, having a lovely meal, when a truck had arrived, playing eighties power ballads loudly on the radio, and the several workmen next to them had finished their beers and started erecting scaffolding on the church opposite, with much clanking and banging, shattering the peace and quiet.
‘I barely noticed,’ lied Flick, trying to cheer Rory up, but Rory couldn’t be cheered up. Disappointment clung to him, like a cloud.
‘They ruined it,’ he grumbled, scowling at the workmen as he put on his helmet.
‘They didn’t ruin it, it was lovely, especially the gazpacho,’ she added, then wished she hadn’t. Rory had left his after discovering she wasn’t joking; it really was cold soup. Worse still, the waitress had greeted his request to heat it up with a puzzled frown.
‘Come on, let’s go,’ he said, turning the ignition.
‘Is that to another stop on the magical mystery tour?’ she quipped, climbing on the back of the scooter, but Rory’s sense of humour seemed to have deserted him and he didn’t laugh. Flick wrapped her hands around his waist. It was going to be a long day.
2.45 p.m.
Back at the hotel, Maggie stood underneath an invigorating cold shower, relishing the feeling of the strong jets tingling her skin.
There were lots of things she missed from her old flat but chief among them was her power shower.
Turning, she tipped back her head, washing out the shampoo and conditioner, then began soaping up her arms and legs.
She had tan lines. She hadn’t noticed until now but this past week she’d gone from pale and freckly to golden.
She stretched out a leg, pointing her toe and turning her foot back and forth, and decided she rather liked this new suntanned Maggie.
Turning off the water, she stepped out of the shower and wrapped herself in white fluffy towels.
She’d got back from the gallery hot and sweaty and jumped straight in the shower.
Gosh, it felt good. Clearing the steam from the mirror, she looked at herself in the mirror.
She still had a couple of hours before she had to leave to meet him.
Plenty of time to get ready. She wanted to look her best. Ridiculous really.
Why did she care what he thought of her?
But she did care. What woman doesn’t want to look their best when they see their ex? Especially one that stole her life.
Exiting the bathroom, she flopped down on the bed for a moment.
It felt so nice to be clean and cool. The overhead fan circled above her and watching the blades going around and around, she let herself lose focus.
She was tired. She’d been on the go all week and now it was almost over.
She was going to close her eyes for a moment.
Just a few minutes, then she’d start to get ready.
3.20 p.m.
‘Shall we get a coffee?’