The Lemon Grove (16 page)

15

She scopes the plaza, eyeing each of the terrace cafés in turn. There is not an empty table in sight. A procession of hopeful diners patrols the square, affecting nonchalance but ready to swoop the moment
la cuenta!
is called out. Greg and Emma sit on the church steps; Nathan is reading a plaque. Somehow the task of finding a table has fallen upon Jenn, but it’s too hot and the plaza is impossibly crowded. She takes shelter for a moment under an orange tree, ties her hair back, drawing out the ritual so the feeble breeze can air her armpits. She catches a whiff of herself – the metallic bite of panic gone stale. She finds her deodorant, sprays herself, and brings her arms back down to her sides. Right in front of her, two families begin squabbling over a table that’s about to become available. She shuffles over to the throng of
bodies that has grudgingly morphed into a queue outside one of the bigger cafés, changes her mind, and ambles over to the water fountain. Greg can see perfectly well what it’s like, down here. If he wants a table with a view so badly, he can fight for it himself. How can he even think that way? How can he walk away from a near-death experience and the first thing on his mind is lunch? And what was wrong with her suggestion, anyway? A
bocadillo
in the café up by the tram station might not be nearly as quaint as the main square, but there’s something gutsy and flavoursome about that café. It’s real. Old men sit out back smoking all day, and even their tobacco smells real; like her dad’s Condor Ready Rubbed.

She settles on the broad stone wall that surrounds the fountain. There is not much she can do to avoid the sear of the sun, but the spray soaks her dress, and she can feel the cold of the stone seeping through her thighs; and it feels good. She twists her upper body round and ladles water over her wrists. She can hear Greg’s voice; authoritative, yet strangely needy. She looks up and scans the square. She spots them on the other side of the plaza, by one of the expensive cafés with bright red awning. Greg is making a beeline for a table, talking into his phone while pointing out Emma’s crutches to the
mâitre
d’, who gestures towards the patiently waiting queue. Greg holds his phone away for a moment and, seemingly,
takes the restaurateur to task. He’s shaking his head, pulling his embarrassed daughter close, as though to say:
Have a heart! Can’t you see my daughter is crippled!
Nathan stands a couple of yards back, grimacing in apology to the others in the line. The flustered
mâitre d
’ relents and shows them to a table that has barely been vacated by a couple of weathered old pensioners. Greg nods briefly, then pulls out a chair for Emma. She collapses into it, limp; dramatic. The old couple shuffle off, shaking their heads. Gregory goes back to his phone call, his hand alternating between his hair and the sweeping gesticulations with which he peppers the conversation. He ends the call, stares at his phone for a beat, then summons the waiter with a flourish of his big hand. He cranes and peruses the square. He looks directly at Jenn for a moment – but he does not see her. Only now does Nathan join them.

Jenn slides off the cool stone balustrade and moves behind an orange tree to watch them. He and Emma seem at ease in one another’s company, as though they’ve been together for longer than four months. In their terms, though, by the law of young love, four months is forever. She thinks back to her own first love; how reaching the
milestone of each month was celebrated as though it were a year. It felt like it would last forever. Water is being placed down on the table. Nathan pours. First he sees to Emma, then he pours a glass for Greg. Greg makes no acknowledgement. He doesn’t move. Then, as though snapping out of some reverie, he gets to his feet and pads away, holding up a finger to indicate he won’t be long.

Nathan’s eye line follows him a little furtively, Jenn thinks – and then she sees why. Nathan lowers his mouth to Emma’s shoulder and drags his top lip down over her arm. He slips the slim shoulder-strap of her dress down and licks along the clavicle. Emma slaps him, gamely, and looks over her shoulder for her dad. Nathan dips his hand in the glass of water and takes out an ice cube. He runs it along her arm, his eyes never leaving hers. He puts the ice cube in his mouth and sucks it a while, then turns to face her and kisses it into her mouth.

Jenn turns away from them. She slumps back and lets the dry, slender trunk of the orange tree take her weight for a moment. She closes her eyes and it hits her again; hits her hard.

The breeze is rustling the leaves of the orange tree, and further away, the old wooden tram is trundling up from the little port. Only last week she and Greg were down on the harbour front, haggling for fresh-caught
bass and squid. Jenn is not that woman. She is neither here, nor there.

For a moment she can see herself, standing in the doorway of a pub with the rain slamming down, and the sound of laughter bellowing out from the smoky saloon. She can hear the low, dirty rumble of buses on the other side of the estate. She is kneeling on the scratchy red carpet of her old living room by the three-bar fire; her dad is towel-drying her hair. He’s giving her a lecture on the kind of low-life wretches she can’t stay away from. Pretty boys with big lips and no soul. The boys in bands that hardly play; the poets who never write; the jobless dreamers. You’re done with those kinds of men now, Jennifer, her dad is telling her. She is twenty-nine. She lifts her eyes to meet his. She nods, and this time she means it. This time she listens.

She opens her eyes. Greg is back at the table; he’s spotted her – or he thinks he has – he’s slipping on his glasses and looking in her direction, pointing her out to Emma; and before Emma can confirm or beckon her over, Jenn dips back behind the orange tree. She stands and waits and breathes; there’s a guided tour, heading up to the church, and without so much as a flicker of hesitation, Jenn insinuates herself into the middle of the two dozen pensioners. She walks with them a little way and the very bored, perspiring tour guide directs their
attention to the Palma–Sóller steam train, coming down from the mountains. The pensioners stop and point their cameras, senselessly snapping into the glare of the midday sun. Jenn picks her way to the edge of the group then peels herself away. She is on the other side of the square now and she can no longer see Greg; or Emma; or him.

She walks with her head down and her arms folded at her chest. She wants to get as far as possible from the square, into the warren of back streets that sit behind the town. She cuts across the broad steps of the church. Its massive wooden doors are open. Sombre organ music hangs on the air. She could sit on a pew and let the stained-glass sunshine sieve her face. She could light a candle, say a prayer. Her footsteps echo across the church plateau. Shattered, she keeps on moving; moves on past.

The church is behind her now; she is lost in its shadow, out of sight. Free. She turns hard left up one of the narrow side-streets and the chatter of the square ricochets down to nothing. It’s cooler here in the alleyways, the pace is languid. Middle-aged couples stroll, arm in arm, lingering at the tiny boutiques. Jenn traces a slow, sleepy zigzag in their wake, browsing from window to window.
One of the shops seems only to sell chillies. They hang in bunches from the top of the window, every hue and texture, some waxy, shining and ripe, others wizened. Next to it, a shop specialising in rugs: goat and rabbit skin, and one so thick it must be bearskin. Are there bears in the Tramuntana? There’s an artisan cheese shop; next to it, a jewellery shop specialising in ornate bracelets and chains. She stops and bends to examine the sea-grass baskets filled with bright, salvage-chic artefacts. And Jenn realises, in a flash, that she is not free after all. Far from it. Even now, she can feel her little hand on her wrist, tugging her, the girl with the gap between her teeth.

She was going to buy her something special, something symbolic to mark the years they’d been coming here, the times they had had. She fingers a bracelet; beaten copper with studs of polished amber. She casts a sly glance through the open door. The pretty young sales assistant is chatting effusively to a couple. She slips the bracelet in her bag and walks quickly to the end of the street. Forks right, back into the blare of sunshine.

She turns off into a residential street. An arid gutter runs along its spine. The green wooden shutters are closed on their narrow town houses. Two women sit on plastic chairs outside their front doors. They are ageless. Their eyes sparkle. They wear the same box hairstyles, the same formless frocks. They could be in their late
forties; they could be well into their seventies. They chatter animatedly, fleshy arms flailing. They seem happy in their skin and age. A couple of scrawny cats weave in and out of their legs, their tails held high. The crones stop talking and gape as she passes. Their sun-beaten faces do not return her quick smile. They sit silent until Jenn is right up the road, and the chatter starts up once more.

She’s in a narrow street now, no more than a dark and fetid passage. Rotten oranges and withered cloves of discarded garlic litter the cobbles. Her footsteps click and echo and, between her steps, there comes another, louder footfall. From nowhere, she feels the air-rush of someone coming up right behind her. She clutches her handbag to her chest and tightens her elbow to her ribs. A hand grabs her by the shoulder and pulls her back. It’s his; him. His hand drops down to link with hers. She grips him back, long enough to feel the awesome sensation rip through her, then flings her hand free and quickens her pace.

She tries to accelerate away from him but he’s at her side again, and now he’s in front of her. He spins round and walks backwards, eyes never leaving hers. His pupils are black and huge; his skin, shiny with sweat. He tries to take her hand again. She puts both hands on his chest and pushes him away with force. He pauses for a while, as though making up his mind whether to leave her
alone, and she strides away from him. She hears him, trotting to catch up with her, and her heart gladdens with relief.

She is standing level with him now, her hands at her side. She breathes across the adrenalin, striving for a calm authority.

‘You’re fucking her.’

He doesn’t say anything. And then:

‘You telling me or asking me?’

She is shocked and angry; angry that he doesn’t deny it. She puts a hand on her stomach, looks away and down the street. A clutch of crones in the distance, dressed up. Going somewhere. She turns back to him.

‘I’m asking you.’

He drops his head, the smile-dimple denting his cheek. He shakes his head, still smiling, and looks her in the eye.

‘Well, let me ask you. Are you fucking the old man?’

The reaction is fast and deliberate. She slaps him, once, across the face. The dimple is no more. Her hand hangs there on the recoil and he eyes it, incredulous. He places his hand on his cheek. Two old women are chuckling between themselves as they get closer. He moves into her. She doesn’t resist. She can taste the salt through his T-shirt as she presses her face flat to it. She hooks a leg around his thigh so it’s pressing between her legs,
and she pushes down on it, so his dick digs up into her. He scrapes up her hair from the nape of her neck, twists and holds it tight as he licks her throat.

‘I need to see you,’ he says. ‘Properly.’