A Lizard In My Luggage (16 page)

  I tap her on the arm. 'Your little bird was correct, but what you don't know is that the two revellers carried on back at the
casa
until the wee hours.'

  Catalina shakes with mirth. 'And where are they now?'

  'The Scotsman is a fragile wreck in the kitchen and I hate to think what Juana said when Pep crawled home.'

  'I look after Alan,' she says compassionately. 'Maybe I cook him nice eggs and some ja
mon serrano
?'

  'Lovely,' I say, imagining Alan's green aspect at the very suggestion of fried eggs and smoked ham. 'Oh and do remind him that he has his Spanish lesson with the luscious Paula at ten o'clock.'

  She gives an enthusiastic and complicit nod of the head and disappears into the house.

Ed is gorging on a chocolate muffin and eyeing the door of the café warily. In order to maintain his vigil, he fretfully pushes back his dishevelled mop of hair, which falls in front of his owlish spectacles like a dense black veil. I give him a kick under the table. He shoots me a frightened chicken look.

  'What on earth is the matter with you today?'

  He touches the rim of his MEK for reassurance like Linus with his blanket, and scrapes some crumbs from his lip with his hand.

  'It's just that I've got a little nervous about terrorist extremists, Scatters. It's the idea of a bomb-laden nutter walking into the café and blowing us all up.' He gulps at his cappuccino.

  'You mean terrorists against the evils of caffeine?' I ask naughtily.

  'You may mock, but there are always shoot outs in fast food places in the States. All it needs is one stray lunatic to get the idea…'

  'You don't think they'd choose a more obvious target? I mean why here, today?'

  'Why when anywhere?' he sniffs deeply, taking a small yellow pill from the MEK and popping into his mouth. 'Look, you're a bit out of it where you are. I just think one should be vigilant.'

  'Fine, Ed, but you did choose the location.'

  He swallows some coffee. 'You're still annoyed because it's not Starbucks.'

  'Ed, these days I really don't care where we go. At least they have real cups here.'

  Now there's a thought: obsessional London coffee behaviour. In the mountains of Mallorca you simply order your coffee black, with milk, iced or as a
solo
– an espresso. But in London there are a hundred and one permutations and boy, how I used to care about mine. Sometimes it was a tall, triple-shot, cappuccino extra hot, or a short, double-shot caramel macchiato or a grande, decaf latte with extra froth or a hazelnut and vanilla iced mocha with cream. I mean, what was I on? Now I prefer to drink tea which has subsequently made me far less stressed and has saved me a fortune.

  Ed's sucking noisily at the froth in his cup. 'So, what's happening back in wild Waltons' country?'

  'Nothing much, really. We've just had the worst storms in the island's history. We had no electricity, heating or water for five days and no phone. The garden was completely flooded and is still in a total mess.'

  Ed has dropped the last piece of his muffin. 'You're joking?'

  'Sadly not.'

  'God! What a nightmare! Why didn't you all fly back to civilisation, immediately?'

  'And where would that be exactly?'

  'Oh very funny.'

  'Ed, remember we live there now. It's all one big adventure.'

  'And what about Alan, does he view it all as a grand adventure?'

  'Well, now he's met Pep, his new cigar smoking accomplice, he's very chipper.'

  Ed knits his eyebrows. 'What does this chap do?'

  'I don't know but he's trying to involve Alan in some insane business venture selling whisky and cigars. They have secret assignations.'

  'What?' he almost chokes. 'He's not mafioso or anything is he? I hope he's not fronting some dodgy contraband outfit.'

  'That would be rather exciting but I fear not. The contraband business dried up in our town some years back.'

  Ed looks unconvinced. 'Just tell him to be careful.'

  I try not to snigger.

  'And how is my godson doing?'

  'Oh he's very happy. He's taken up with an older woman, a glamorous German living next door who plays football. It's very racy where we are.'

  He shakes his head. 'We might as well be living on different planets.'

  I decide to switch subjects since he's getting maudlin.

  'Anyway, tell me more about your Internet babe, Cotton-Georgia. I've been waiting for news with bated breath.'

  He hangs his head sadly. 'Look, if you're just going to laugh…'

  I frown. 'Of course I'm not! I take your Internet fantasy girls terribly seriously. Remember Mary Lou from Wisconsin?'

  He runs his fingers through his unkempt hair. I remind myself to nag him about getting it cut.

  'Mary Lou was different. We had music in common. Emotionally she wasn't right for me. That's all.'

  'Nothing to do with her being 18 stone and a Moonie?'

  He shoots me a wounded glance. 'Anyway, Cotton-Georgia is my new soulmate which is why I'm distraught that she hasn't e-mailed since our row.'

  Despite his traumatised state, I notice he's still been able to tuck into his giant muffin. He flips me an evil look.

  'Before you say anything, I'm comfort eating.'

  'Of course,' I nod without conviction. 'Anyway, what row? I thought you'd only just met her through one of those American Internet dating agencies.'

  He sighs heavily. 'I've known her at least three weeks. Her father's some sort of lay preacher who can do snake handling and I made the mistake of saying he sounded a bit weird.'

  'Can't you find anyone normal?

  'She is normal!' he splutters. 'She has a degree in Social Psychology.'

  'Oh, that's a surprise.'

  Despite the barb, he carries on. 'She happens to be a talented cross-stitcher and even plays basketball against the odds.'

  He takes a sip of coffee and tries not to catch my eye. I'm like a pig detecting a truffle.

  'Against what odds, Ed?'

  He stares intently out of the window and shakes his head. 'I shouldn't have said anything.'

  'Ed???'

  'OK, she's got a club-foot.'

  I take a deep slurp of black tea. 'Ah! I see…'

Having spent a raucous evening over at the home of James and Sophie, some local friends, I wake up with a mild hangover, something I occasionally suffer from in London but never in Mallorca. Put it like this, in London we so often drink to forget, whereas in Mallorca we simply drink to enjoy. I enter Birdcage Walk and stroll into St James's Park. Streaks of sunlight are wriggling through the branches of the horse chestnut trees and ducks and haughty pelicans are calling from the bank of the lake. The sound reminds me of my raucous Mallorcan frogs. I'm sad to think that with the onset of cooler weather they'll soon leave our pond, hopefully to return in the spring. A young gardener, white breath coiling up like tobacco smoke and hands thrust into woolly green mitts, is planting bulbs, patting his trowel down on the earth as each one is bedded. He stands up briefly to examine his work and then squats to pluck out some weeds. I loll by a tree, coat collar turned up and watch him, absorbed and inspired by this scene of rural bliss happening right in the centre of London. Around us, the sound of heels clip-clopping furiously on the paths seems deafening as commuters, oblivious to their surroundings, march by in corporate combat gear. Unsmiling and on automatic pilot, they speed along, slicing up any straggler that crosses their path. I used to be one of them. I would take this route every day and did I ever stop for a second to observe the ducks and swans or witness the planting of bulbs? Are you kidding? I walk slowly up the path, yearning to stay in the park but for a while longer. I must play the game – so off I stride in fitted suit, kitten heels and grown up's camel coat in the direction of Mayfair and my office.

I'm scampering around the new titles section on the ground floor of Hatchards, my favourite London bookshop and haunt, which just so happens to be conveniently situated a stone's throw from Fortnum & Mason, the Queen's renowned grocer. Roger Katz, the store's famed sales manager and a good friend, pops out, lean and keen, from behind a bookcase and kisses me on the cheek.

  'Aha! So you're back in town?'

  'One of those flying visits, Roger. Any recommendations?'

  His head tilts slightly to the left as he ponders the question, then he's off, a gleam in his eye as he scuttles over to the shelves, a child in his own sweetshop, talking ten to the dozen and pulling down books at an alarming rate. Ten minutes later I leave the shop with a groaning carrier bag stuffed to the brim with several signed novels, a horticultural wonder for the Scotsman and three
Horrible Histories
for Ollie. It seems that when I return to London I spend all my earnings on books, a phenomenon that Alan finds thoroughly frustrating and yet he waits avidly for a show of my book booty when I return to Mallorca.

  I have to get to Roselock & Son. I examine my watch and decide that I can just squeeze in five minutes in the food department of Fortnum & Mason to satisfy my tea fixation and to buy gifts of truffles for my lovely stallholder Teresa and neighbour Margalida Sampol. I shall have to squirrel away all the receipts from Alan when I finally return home.

The polished mahogany doors of Roselock Fine Jewellery feel silky and cool as I push past them and into the shop. A buzzer sounds immediately above the door and a young man with a sombre face, more suited to a funeral parlour, approaches me ingratiatingly.

  'Can I help you, Madam?' His hands are clasped and his black short hair is smeared with gel which gleams like aspic. He must be a temporary recruit since most of the staff have left. I explain that I am meeting Michael Roselock and he looks apprehensively at his watch and then at a velvet curtain behind which I know to be Michael's office.

  'It's all right. You won't find Polonius lurking there,' I say cheerfully. 'Michael is expecting me.'

  His face is blank. The product of a Shakespeare-free education.

  'He didn't say he was expecting anybody,' he whines.

  I waltz by him and rap on the door behind the curtain. Michael peeps through, his watery blue eyes downcast, and ushers me in sadly. Sitting on a chair by his elegant desk in a voluminous mauve worsted suit is Prudence Braithwaite, her face carved with an expression of beatification.

  'How lovely to see you dear,' she says in motherly tones. 'You do look well. Mallorca's obviously suiting you.'

  'It's been quite a change.'

  'No regrets, then?' says Michael with an attempt at a smile.

  'None whatsoever.'

  'I suppose you'll be thinking of winding up your PR business in the not too distant future to make your living over there?' Prudence chips in.

  I'm not quite sure how to answer this. It has been on my mind for a while. 'We'll see, Prudence. Anyway, how have things been with you?'

  'It's been hell. You've no idea,' Michael says almost inaudibly.

  I have known Michael for six years and in that time have shared innumerable dramas with him and his company. He has resisted takeover bids by several industry giants and fought off the big international retail players who came like thugs with fists full of cash to squeeze out the little guys on the street and relieve them of their premises. For some time, Michael held out, like a lonely sheriff in a lawless town, holed up in his shop with his faithful deputy, Prudence. Then business took a turn for the worse, the nouveau customer moved into the area replacing the bluebloods and modest spenders, shunning Roselock's jewellery in favour of trendy brands with ugly baubles designed by quasi celebrities and spoilt It girls. Chic glossy magazines no longer featured talented names of the past but feted celebrity instead. The dawn of a new, fickle, personality-led era had begun and Michael Roselock and his ilk's days were numbered. Had he succumbed, invested in celebrity himself and embraced a new kind of customer perhaps he might have survived, but I doubt it. He was too set in his ways and too proud to admit defeat. When the rent reviews came, Roselock Fine Jewellery was, in effect, finished. The rents doubled and despite a pig-headed attempt to keep afloat, Michael spiralled into debt, laid off staff and saw the family business wither to nothing.

  So, I have awaited this dirge for some time and in my heart feel a huge swell of pity for this dejected man who has been making the most exquisite jewellery for the great and the good for more than 40 years.