Chapter 12
12
As I step out of the terminal building into the Mallorcan sunshine, it’s like a heavy weight has been lifted from my shoulders. Although Dad did manage to broker a truce between Mum and me, it wasn’t an easy one. I did get a little more freedom and actually managed to meet a couple of my school friends for a drink last night, but I’ve paid for it in expressive sighs and barbed comments. Losing my rag with her was an idiotic thing for me to do, I know. For as long as I can remember, our family has revolved around keeping Mum happy, because the consequences of doing otherwise were always so catastrophic. She doesn’t sulk, exactly, but she holds on to the hurt like a trophy for weeks. It wouldn’t surprise me if she’s still nursing a grudge when I get back from this trip.
It was lovely to catch up with Louise and Rachel, though. I haven’t seen them in ages but it was like we just picked up where we’d left off years ago. We were in the pub till closing time, and they seemed particularly interested in my week with Jock.
‘What I don’t get,’ Rachel had argued at one point, ‘is how you can spend a week with someone who is so patently right for you, and then just walk away at the end of it. What if he’s the one?’
‘I don’t think you can tell if someone is the one after a week,’ I’d countered. ‘He is lovely, and maybe we’d have made a go of it if things had been different, but he’s gone back to Scotland and I’m off to Mallorca. We both need jobs, and long-distance relationships don’t work.’
‘I guess you’re right. Anyway, if the universe wants you together, I’m sure it’ll find a way to make it happen.’
Louise and I had both laughed at this; Rachel is a great believer in the power of the universe and our ability to manifest things into being if we want them enough, so it was only going to be a matter of time before she brought it into the conversation.
The evening was such a success that even Mum’s scowl when I finally got home last night didn’t dent my good mood. Dad did offer to drive me to the airport but I opted to take the train, even though it takes nearly twice as long. He tried to sound disappointed, but the relief shone out of him like a beacon. I’m sure they’re just as delighted as I am that I’ve gone. I plan to use any downtime while I’m out here to try to line something up for when I get back; I’m prepared to do almost anything to avoid going back home.
The queue at the car-hire desk is relatively short, but it still takes nearly an hour before I’m finally handed the keys and told where to find my car. When I get there, my mouth drops open in horror. I had visions of a nippy little runabout, but this is a minibus. Thinking there must be some mistake, I rejoin the queue but, when I finally reach the desk again, the agent informs me in rapid Spanish that the TV company was adamant I should have the largest vehicle available. His attitude makes it very clear he’s not open to negotiation so, in frustration, I call Gus.
‘Please tell me you’re in Mallorca,’ are his opening words when the call connects.
‘Of course I am,’ I tell him.
‘Good. What’s up?’
‘Why have you hired me this enormous bus? I’ve never driven anything as big as this before.’
‘It’s just like any other car, isn’t it? I’m sure you’ll get used to the size quickly enough. I’ve hired the same for me, but Dom doesn’t drive and we can’t all get in one car, so we’ll need you to meet us when we land on Sunday. You’ll also be doing airport runs for some of the cast, so learn the route, OK? See you in a few days.’
Great. Not only have I been stitched up with a ridiculous car that was never mentioned at the interview, but I’m also expected to be an airport shuttle driver. With a growl of frustration, I press the button on the key fob to unlock it, shove my bag in the cavernous boot and climb into the driving seat. Things only go from bad to worse as I survey the controls. Not only is this thing massive, but the lack of clutch pedal indicates that it’s also automatic, and I’ve never driven an automatic before. This is not a conversation for Gus, so I bite the bullet and ring my dad.
‘Hello, darling, what’s up?’ he asks when he picks up.
‘I’m in Mallorca and the hire car they’ve arranged for me is automatic. How do I drive one of those?’
‘It’s easy. Can you see the gear selector? It’s normally on the floor where you’d find a normal gear lever.’
‘No.’
‘OK. Sometimes they’re on the steering column or sticking out of the dash.’
Fifteen minutes later, we’ve found the selector on the steering column and he’s talked me through everything he thinks I need to know. There was a brief panic when I couldn’t find the handbrake, but we discovered that’s automatic too, and I’ve shunted the bus in and out of the car parking space a couple of times just to make sure I understand what’s going on. I’ve discovered that it has a camera and sensors on the back, so hopefully I’ll manage not to run anybody over while reversing at least. I’ve put the address of the villa into the satnav, so the only thing left to do is pluck up the courage and go. I’m still deeply anxious about taking this thing out on the road though, and my hands are sweating as I fasten my seatbelt and ease out of the car parking space heading for the exit.
My next problem makes itself apparent immediately. I’m used to sitting on the right when I drive, and it’s difficult enough to judge the width of this thing without trying to do it from the wrong seat. I very nearly take out the gatepost at the exit, and my heart is thumping as I join the highway towards Palma. Thankfully, this road is a wide dual carriageway so I’ve got plenty of space around me. There are a couple of hairy moments when the traffic grinds to a halt and I accidentally hit the brake with both feet because I’m automatically reaching for the clutch, but I’m starting to feel a little less intimidated by the size of the car by the time I reach my turn-off. Unfortunately, the roads then start getting progressively smaller and narrower until, after a particularly fractious episode when I meet a tractor coming the other way and have to reverse for what feels like miles, I’m cursing Gus and Casterbridge Media with a vengeance. When I finally pull up at the gates of Villa Madrigal, I’m a sweaty mess and I reckon the stress has shortened my life by at least a year.
‘ Hola, ?cómo puedo ayudarte? ’ a disembodied female voice says after I press the buzzer by the gate.
‘ Hola, soy Beatrice de Casterbridge Media. Creo que estás esperándome ,’ I reply.
‘ Sí, sí, pasa ,’ the voice cries enthusiastically as the huge gates silently start to swing open.
Once inside the gates, I find myself on a gravelled track which seems to go on for ever. I must have been driving for at least five minutes past paddocks containing sleek-looking horses, stables and cottages before the main house finally comes into view. I remember Gus mentioning that it was sumptuous, but this is something else. The driveway widens into a sweeping circle in front of the house, with a fountain in the middle of it. When I pictured the villa in my mind, I envisaged something like you see when you search online, but this is enormous. The rough stone walls and red tiled roof help it to blend into its landscape, as if it’s been here forever. It must be hundreds of years old.
I’m barely out of the car before a diminutive woman comes hurrying out of the house to greet me. She must be under five feet tall and looks like she’s somewhere in her mid-fifties.
‘ ?Madre de Dios! ’ she exclaims when she catches sight of the minibus. ‘Why is it so big?’
‘The TV company insisted,’ I tell her in matching Spanish. ‘I’m Beatrice.’
‘Rosa. Your Spanish is excellent!’
‘Thank you.’ Although I told Sandra and Gus that I was fluent, it’s a while since I’ve actually spoken Spanish, so I’m relieved that it’s come back so easily. ‘My mother is Spanish, so she made sure I grew up able to speak the language. Is this your house, Rosa?’
She laughs. ‘Goodness, no. It belongs to an Italian businessman called Salvatore Mancini. He comes each year with his family for a month early in the summer, before it gets too hot, and lets it out the rest of the time. My husband, Pedro, and I look after the house for him, welcome guests and so on. Come inside, let me show you around.’
Although the sun is high in the sky and the temperature outside must be nearly thirty degrees, it’s deliciously cool in the house, courtesy of the thick stone walls, I’m sure. It’s also surprisingly dark.
‘We close the shutters during the day to keep the heat out,’ Rosa explains as she flicks on the lights. We’re standing in a double-height hallway, with a gorgeous open-beamed ceiling above us. There are doors on both sides and a magnificent curved staircase at the far end with another large doorway underneath it that I guess leads out into the gardens.
‘The place was pretty much a ruin when Mr Mancini bought it,’ Rosa tells me as she leads me through one of the doors into an enormous sitting room with sofas and chairs arranged around tables. There must be seating for nearly thirty people in here. ‘The roof had fallen in and everything was rotten. But he loved the location and saw the potential. It took five years to get the house restored. Everything had to be correct. Mr Mancini is a stickler for detail.’
‘It’s gorgeous,’ I observe.
‘It is. He has done a beautiful job. Come and see the dining room.’
She leads me through to another huge room with a long table down the middle.
‘We can seat twenty in here comfortably, or twenty-six at a push,’ she informs me. ‘However, most of our guests prefer to eat outside. I’ll show you in a minute.’
The next room is the kitchen, which is beautifully appointed but surprisingly compact compared to the grandeur of the other rooms I’ve seen. Rosa smiles as she sees my confusion. ‘You are thinking that this room is too small to be able to prepare food for so many guests, yes?’
‘I am,’ I agree.
‘This is what we call the family kitchen,’ she explains. ‘Guests can come in here to make themselves a snack if they wish. We keep the fridges fully stocked with fresh fruit, water, and whatever other alcoholic and non-alcoholic drinks they request, so they can help themselves whenever they want. The main kitchen is through here.’ She leads me through another door, where I’m confronted by the kind of kitchen that I imagine would get Jock salivating. It’s a sea of pristine stainless steel with a full-sized pass.
‘Wow,’ I breathe.
‘This is my kitchen,’ Rosa states proudly, stroking the pass. ‘Before we moved here, Pedro and I had our own restaurant in Palma. Mr Mancini used to visit every time he came to check up on the house and, how can I put it, he made us an offer we couldn’t refuse. I loved the restaurant, but it’s a hard business to be in. So when Mr Mancini told me I could design the kitchen just as I wanted it, plus we could have accommodation in one of the cottages and a generous salary guaranteed, it wasn’t an easy decision, but we both knew it was the right one.’
‘What does Pedro do?’ I ask.
‘He’s the main caretaker of the house and gardens. He’s very clever with his hands; there’s almost nothing he can’t fix, and I think he’s the only person in the world who truly understands the filtration system for the swimming pool. He’s gone into Palma to get some things, but you’ll meet him when he returns. There’s lots more to see; follow me.’
By the time the tour is complete, nearly an hour later, I can completely see why Casterbridge Media chose this house. The rest of the ground floor is made up of a games room with a full-sized snooker table, a home cinema room, a TV room, a study and a library, all beautifully appointed. Upstairs, the twelve large bedrooms all have king-sized beds and ensuite bathrooms. Rosa watches me with amusement as I flick automatically into professional mode, checking under the duvets and pillowcases to make sure everything is spotlessly clean and perfectly pressed, ensuring that the bottles of shampoo, shower gel and conditioner in the bathrooms are properly filled and that there is at least one spare toilet roll. Everything passes muster, including the beautifully fluffy towels and bath robes.
‘I can see you’ve done this before,’ Rosa remarks as we make our way back downstairs.
‘I come from the hotel business,’ I tell her. ‘Sorry, I hope you weren’t offended.’
‘Not at all. It shows that you’re a professional. I just wish I’d known this about you before you came.’
‘Why?’
‘I would have hidden something to see if you found it,’ she tells me with a mischievous glint in her eyes. ‘Before I show you where you will be sleeping, let me take you outside.’
She leads me out of the door underneath the staircase onto a wide terrace that spans the entire rear of the house. A long table sits underneath a canopy on the terrace, which has stairs at each end leading down to the gardens and the pool. The gardens are beautiful; verdant lawns fill the gaps between flowerbeds that are riots of colour. Healthy-looking trees provide welcome patches of shade. It’s a stark contrast to the arid landscape I drove through to get here.
‘Villa Madrigal has its own underground spring,’ Rosa tells me, once more reading my thoughts. ‘Water is not an issue for us, and Mr Mancini is very proud of the garden.’
‘Who looks after it?’
‘Pedro, but the watering system is all automated. You’ll see when it comes on this evening. Would you like to look at the pool?’
‘Yes.’
The pool area is laid out with luxurious-looking sunbeds, umbrellas for shade, and a bar.
‘We stock that like the family kitchen, so guests can help themselves,’ Rosa explains as I examine the bar. ‘Obviously, it’s up to you, but we don’t normally put alcoholic drinks down here. Alcohol and swimming pools are not generally a good mixture.’
‘I agree. Soft drinks only down here unless the production company has firm views to the contrary.’
The pool itself is large and looks very inviting. I slip off my shoe and dip my toe in the water. Unsurprisingly, the temperature is perfect. Cool enough to be refreshing without being shockingly cold.
‘I hope you will have time for a swim before the rest of the guests arrive,’ Rosa suggests. ‘You need to check everything, I think.’
‘I’ll make time,’ I assure her.
She leads me back into the house, through the main kitchen to a door I hadn’t noticed before, marked Privado .
‘This is your accommodation,’ she says, opening the door and handing me the key. ‘It’s far enough away from the guests that they won’t disturb you if they stay up late, but close enough that you can get to them quickly if they need you.’
Although it’s nowhere near as lavish as the rest of the house, I’m not disappointed. There’s a small sitting room with a sofa and a TV, a basic kitchen, a decent-sized bedroom with a large wardrobe, and a surprisingly well-appointed bathroom with separate bath and shower. I even have my own door, which leads out to a large car parking space.
‘What do you think?’ Rosa asks.
I smile at her. I think I’ve landed in paradise.