Cat on a Hot Tiled Roof (18 page)

  'Alan's doing another TV advert and is becoming rather self-conscious about his expanding waist line.'

  'Ah, now I understand,' says Tolo wryly. 'He wants to look his best on TV.'

  'That, or it's a late middle-age crisis.'

  Tolo gives a smirk and heads off towards Banca March while I hurriedly make my way to the baker's. My film director chum, Victoria Duvall, and her husband, Robert, who also used to be in the entertainment business, are coming for lunch and I need to get busy in the kitchen. Like us, they enjoy long, relaxing lunches with good food and wine and plenty of banter. Today I shall make a special effort with my dessert because I know Robert has a penchant for home-made puddings. A return visit to their ancient
finca
, an idyllic eyrie high up on a hill on the outskirts of nearby Fornalutx village, is always a culinary treat and a particular favourite with Ollie because of Victoria's star turn, a talkative and entertaining parrot named Phoebe. Their forthcoming visit is particularly welcome because as seasoned sailors with a beautiful yacht in the Port of Sóller, we need to tap them for some sea-faring survival tips. Foolishly, Alan and I have been cajoled by our friends Pep and Juana into joining them for a week's sailing course in Palma the coming week. I vaguely recall agreeing to this absurd venture during a jolly dinner at their
finca
when far too many glasses of good Rioja had been consumed. Now, as the date draws nearer, both of us are scrabbling for excuses not to go but having paid our deposit feel we must bite the bullet. An entire week spent on the high seas sounds rather daunting so I hope Victoria and Robert will pass on some handy tips such as how to find our sea legs or when in peril, the nearest coast guard.

The dreaded day has arrived and here we are at the Palma school of sailing, otherwise known as L'Escola de Vela. With its breathtaking panoramic view of Palma Bay, the school is hugely popular with aspiring Popeyes and during the summer months attracts children of all ages whose eager parents enrol them on courses while they slope off to enjoy uninterrupted peace at home. We are not so lucky, having foolishly signed up for this sailing course along with Ollie and Angel, the son of Juana and Pep. The two boys are full of enthusiasm and impatiently kick a ball around the sailing club car park as we all begin unpacking bags and belongings from the boot. When we last met, Juana and Pep suggested we take it in turns to make lunch each day so, having been allotted first duty, we arrive laden with a cooler box, food hamper, towels, swimwear and other life saving paraphernalia. At least we get to go home every evening so we don't need to bring pyjamas and toothbrushes.

  Pep and Juana are full of good cheer. They're old hands at sailing and, although they don't own a yacht of their own, will do anything to hijack one belonging to somebody else. Much as I enjoy a little gentle sailing, I have never learned the ropes, preferring others to do all the leaping about, hoisting of flapping sails and kamikaze climbing of masts while I look out wistfully to sea, basking in the motion of the frisky waves.

  Some years ago a British newspaper editor and I were invited to Indonesia to report on the construction of the world's tallest tower of bread, and who could refuse? It was enormous fun, until by misfortune we found ourselves in the midst of a maelstrom on the Java Sea in a private yacht provided by our wealthy host. As colossal waves reared like savage stallions around us, we slithered helplessly along the deck gasping for breath and drenched in spume. Praying we wouldn't be thrown into the mouth of a passing shark, we clung to fixed ropes and poles while our barefooted crew of two stood at the helm squawking hysterically in local dialect and crying every time they passed another fresh shipwreck. It was miserable hours later that our boat lurched into the port of Jakarta on a moaning wind, its engine having spluttered its last some time before. I remember crawling biliously from the deck and kissing the parched earth, vowing never to sail again while my companion downed a triple brandy at a nearby bar. I try to blank out the memory.

  Pep nudges me. 'Hey, wake up, dreamer! We'd better all head to the main building or we'll be late.'

  I scan my watch. It's nine o'clock and a sadistic sun is already glaring down at us. The boys skip ahead, their pace quickening when they see a large group of youths gathered on the marina. Angel begins waving at a tall boy in the throng and is delighted to see him return the gesture.

  'That's Lucio! Come on, Ollie, let's get going.'

  'Wait a minute, you two,' says Alan. 'We'd better introduce ourselves to the tutor.'

  Pep fans the air. 'Leave them. It's OK. Angel has done this course many times. He'll look after Ollie.'

  Much to my son's embarrassment I call after him, 'Wear a life jacket! Don't do anything silly.'

  He turns round. 'I'm not a baby. Honestly, mother!'

  And he's gone. I feel a panic rising. Why in heaven's name did we agree to do this? Alan is putting on his best Boy Scout smile to accompany his ancient olive green shorts. 'Ah, a bit of bracing brine in the air. Nothing like it!'

  Juana slowly catches up with us. I notice she is carrying a trendy little rucksack while I lumber on with a wicker basket over my shoulder and a cooler bag in my arms.

  We reach the doorway of the club, a dull white building set on three levels from which endless smiling youths emerge, their skin bronzed and lean, their faces animated. I notice that the club's frontage, with its rows of neat square windows facing the soft blue sea, is festooned with jolly nautical and international flags that flap in the breeze.

  'There seem to be very few adults about,' I say.

  'Well, apparently they don't get many takers for the advanced courses,' Juana replies.

  'Advanced? I hope that's a joke.'

  I'm beginning to wonder if I should make a bolt for it back to the car.

  'Don't worry,' says Pep. 'Advanced just means we all have a reasonable knowledge of sailing.'

  'But Alan and I don't have a clue! We should be in the absolute beginners' class,' I puff.

  'Don't be ridiculous!' he says. 'If you've sailed once, you never forget the ropes. It's like learning to ride a bike...'

  'Have you ever seen me on a bike?' I say.

  'It's not a pretty sight,' interjects Alan. 'She's the exception to the rule.'

  Pep waves his hands in the air impatiently and then takes out a cigar from his pocket.

  'Listen, you'll take to it like, how you say in English, ducks to water.'

  He lights up and lets out a plume of smoke while the two of us regard him suspiciously.

  Juana slaps me on the arm. 'Pep's right. This is going to feel more like a holiday than a sailing course.'

  At which moment an athletic man in blue shorts and a Ralph Lauren baseball cap approaches us and asks whether we are the two couples embarking on the advanced course. Pep nods enthusiastically and makes polite introductions. The man narrows his eyes and, looking each of us up and down, announces that he, Javier, will be our instructor.

  'Only one other has enrolled for this week's course,' he says abruptly, studying a typed sheet of paper. 'She is flying in from Madrid and was instructed, like all of you, to meet me here.'

  '
Pues
, it's only ten past nine. We can wait a little while.'

  Javier shakes his head irritably. 'No. I believe in punctuality.'

  Without further ado he strides onto the marina and we follow hurriedly in his wake.

  'You have a basic knowledge already, right?' he barks, leaping onto a small yacht, his nimble fingers fiddling with some ropes.

  '
Si, si
,' says Pep casually. 'Our friends might need a little help, and of course they are English so… '

  He stops in his tracks. 'I don't speak English so what do you prefer, Catalan or Castilian Spanish?'

  'Castilian,' I almost yelp. It's bad enough having to endure five days at sea with a self-satisfied crew for company without having to endure instructions in Catalan as well. Besides, Alan doesn't comprehend a word, so it would be a miserable voyage for him. We embark rapidly, and are about to set off when there's a cry in the distance and a pouting creature with tanned legs that seem to unwind endlessly from her chin, pants up to the boat. She throws back her head, golden curls spilling onto her back.

  'Am I late?' she gasps in Spanish. 'I am Gloria. I just flew in from Madrid this morning.'

  'Come on board.' Pep smacks his lips together unable to prize his eyes from her hour glass frame and chocolate brown eyes. He offers her a hand and she leaps up onto the deck. Javier gives her a curt nod.

  'Put your belongings below deck please.'

  Gloria swings her shapely legs down the wooden steps, all smiles.

  '
Vale
, let's get going. Can you untie the fenders?'

  Javier indicates the plastic protectors hanging from the side of the boat. I look gormlessly at Pep.

  '
Per favor
, you must have untied fenders before?'

  'What?'

  'Let me do it,' he huffs.

  'Can I help?' asks Alan cheerfully.

  The noise of the small engine drowns him out and suddenly we are jet propelled out of the mooring and Javier is steering our vessel into the open sea. Juana is settled at the bow of the boat looking sublime as she dangles a leg over the side.

  'It's so beautiful,' she murmurs. 'Like a painting.'

  Alan and I totter up the side deck, sharing concerned glances.

  'Sit on a bench,' Javier calls above the wind. 'I will come and explain everything in a minute.'

  We thump down onto the wooden seat, bathed in sweat.

  'I'm boiling.'

  Alan gives me a sympathetic smile. 'Hopefully there'll be a nice breeze once we get out to sea.'

  I look over at Gloria, the nubile goddess and, to my irritation, see that she is adeptly untying the fender knots with Pep. She flashes me a perfect set of gleaming teeth and then throws off her T-shirt and shorts to reveal a pair of enormous, bronzed, bouncing orbs in a tiny bra top and a miniscule bikini bottom. Pep chokes frantically on his
puro
and has to sink down onto the deck with the shock. Grumpily, I get up and position myself at the bow near Juana.

  'There's some
Madrileña
rock chick on the boat with us.'

  'Oh? I thought it was just us.' She looks vaguely around her and shrugs.

  'It will give Alan and Pep something to ogle. Why worry?'

  The sea is choppy, but the motion is vaguely relaxing and soon I settle into it, ignoring the coquetterie going on at the other end of the boat. We head southwards across the waves, Pep now steering, until we finally arrive at a small bay which Javier tells us is Cala Vinyes.

  'As it's the first day, we can relax a little,' he says indulgently, anchoring the boat some way off from the shore. 'Fancy a swim?'

  We fidget a little and it is only when he affixes a small metal ladder to the stern of the boat, that we take him at his word.

  'I don't need that!' scoffs Gloria, gliding off the side of the boat like a mermaid.

  I clamber down the ladder followed by Juana and gasp at the coolness of the waves. Alan and Pep follow, their eyes trained on the voluptuous Gloria who appears to be doing cartwheels in the water.

  'How old do you think she is?' asks Pep.

  'Young enough to be your granddaughter, I'd have guessed,' I say sniffily.

  He pokes his tongue out at me and sets off in her direction.

  'Don't have a cardiac arrest,' I snipe at the Scotsman.

  He grimaces. 'Look, the girl's all alone so we must be friendly.'

  'He's all heart,' says Juana caustically as she slices through the water.

  Half an hour later, Javier asks us to return to the boat. With effort we crawl up the flimsy ladder onto the deck, wiping the salty brine from our faces. Alan and Pep remain in the water and together attempt to ascend the ladder. SPLASH! Pep goes flying backwards and lands on Alan's head. With irritation, the Scotsman regains his poise, crosses in front of him and brusquely grabs the rail. CRASH! A wave hits him and he wobbles back into the brine. From the deck, Gloria watches the spectacle with delight while Juana and I sit tartly by the side of the boat, relishing their humiliation.

  'Come on,' says Javier. 'Stop messing around!'

  Like a pair of slippery eels, they slither about on the steps but neither can get a firm enough grasp as the waves knock them off their feet. Despite our
froideur
, Juana and I can no longer contain ourselves and along with Gloria, begin laughing. It's better than a pair of performing clowns at Billy Smart's circus.