The Lemon Grove (3 page)

‘So soon? The party come to an end?’ The sour push of his breath blows the strands of hair back from his face. It forces her to take a step back. He wags a finger. ‘No more misbehave now, eh? Eh!’

He unleashes the full yellow smile and, as he tries to focus on Jenn, reels backwards into the road. She seizes her chance and steps past him. Benni shouts after her, down the street.

‘But why you eat out when you could be eating al fresco on your terrace?’

She catches up with her husband – who is livid.

‘I don’t know why you indulge him, Jenn.’

Benni stops following now, and stands in the middle of the road with his hands held out.

‘I tell you! Maria come cook for you. Half the price. Under your own stars.’ They reach the restaurant. ‘And you don’t have to dress like the Fitzgerald novel.’ He cackles loudly then coughs.

This last bit is clearly aimed at Greg, and Jenn feels him stiffen. She stifles a smirk and hurries him inside Jaume.

‘Fucking clown,’ Greg mutters, and the family waiting to be seated turn their heads as one. Greg’s fury has shot two puffs of scarlet into his cheeks. Jenn
puts a hand to her mouth and lowers her chin. A peal of laughter escapes through her fingers. She cranes herself up to kiss him.

‘Shall we eat?’

The restaurant is split into two parts: an airy interior with huge plants and large terracotta tiles, and a small outdoor terrace, overhanging the ravine. Miki, the Basque
maître d
’, strides over, arms outstretched. He kisses Jenn on each cheek, standing back to appraise his loyal customers.

‘My friends, my friends!’ He lowers the flat of his hand towards the floor and pulls a half-sad, half-puzzled face. ‘But what is this? No little girl?’

Gregory chortles.

‘Emma? Little? Wait till you see her! Arrive tomorrow – not so little.’

They all laugh as Miki shows them through to the terrace, the incident with Benni forgotten now – but Jenn feels little gaiety. Once again, the notion brews that, in a few hours, this part of the holiday – the Them part – is done.

‘You tell her, Mikel sends his best.’

‘Maybe arrive Emma in this restaurant.’ Greg smiles. ‘Arrive in Deià with boyfriend.’

‘The boyfriend? Little Emma? No!
No!
’

Greg is all smiles.

‘Yes, Miki. Now the Emma is big girl.’

‘So sad. But good time arrive, yes? Next few days the weather is very hot.’

Miki gestures out towards the sea as he flaps out Jenn’s napkin.

‘Last year is crazy.’ Greg grins. ‘Many storm. This? Much better.’

The waitress at the next table shoots Greg a baffled look. Jenn laughs. She loves the pan-European pidgin Greg adopts when they’re abroad – she loves him all the more because he has no idea that he does it. They’ve been placed side by side so they can drink in the view together, but there’s not much left to swoon over now, save for the hulking black silhouettes of the Tramuntana, crouching squat and immense over the village. It seems to fence them off from the rest of the island.

Miki sets down two
kir royales
and a little plate of hors d’oeuvres: a slice of carpaccio speckled with foie gras shavings, and a miniature spinach and anchovy tart. The pastry is very thin and deep brown, hot to the touch. He gives a loving commentary on each dish as he places
it down, and all tension slides from Jenn’s shoulders.

‘And
this
?’ Ceremonially, he places two vials of lurid green broth in front of them. ‘Beautiful little taste of the garden. Is, how we say … 
aspárragos
?’

‘Asparagus!’ booms Gregory.

‘Ah yes. Asparagus. Little soup. Very beautiful …’

He kisses the tips of his fingers and Jenn wants to reach out and squeeze his hand. She’s overwhelmed by the sense that this is rare; it’s special; it’s what holidays are
for
. She feels like hugging Miki, and he seems to comprehend. His eyes are wide and sincere as he draws a deep breath and reels off tonight’s specials. Jenn is salivating over a braised asparagus served with pear, or a simple, grilled
gambas al ajillo
starter when Miki crouches down and whispers in her ear.

‘Now, Jennifer. Please. The rabbit leevers. I must recommend to you this fantastic taste to start with. I know you will love.’

He jumps back to his feet, this time hovering over Greg.

‘And for both of you magnificent persons, for the main course, I have to persuade you of the fantastic mountain kid. Fresh, like this, slowly roasted with the fragrant rosemary …’ Miki pronounces the vowels hard – fr
a
ggr
a
nt. ‘And served with a little taste of the sea, our special salty, green sea vegetables.’ He takes one pace back and
bows slightly as though introducing a chamber orchestra. ‘Perfect.’

She feels like applauding his performance. Both of them had planned on eating fish tonight – Week Two was going to be the healthy week – but this is a restaurant that understands the imperative of fat; fat is where all the flavour is. Greg lets his menu drop to the table. He holds his hands out wide.

‘Sold, señor. Rabbit livers and mountain kid it is.’ And before Jenn can give it one last run-through in her mind, he’s added: ‘Times two.’

Greg twinkles at her. She registers the flicker of hesitation on Miki’s face, so she winks at him to let him know. It’s fine. Just for tonight, it’s okay.

They let Miki choose a local Rioja and, true to his word, it’s rich and spicy and, with the first sip, Jenn is able to kick back in her seat and banish all niggles and woes, and all thoughts of tomorrow. The night and the billions of stars that now spatter the sky still belong to the two of them. To her. To hell with taking it easy, she thinks, as she takes a gutsy slug. Tomorrow’s tomorrow.

It’s almost two by the time they get back to the villa. Neither of them is ready for bed. Greg brings blankets and candles out to the pool, and two cold bottles of San Miguel. Jenn sits by the edge, rippling the moon with her big toe. Greg sits behind her, his big knees pulled up at her ribs, his arms draped loosely around her waist. They hear laughter from down on the beach and Jenn remembers the naked hippy girls, slim and flawless and fully aware of all eyes upon them. She half turns and snuggles her cheek into Greg’s chest and reminds him.

‘Which one did you fancy?’

‘Both.’

She slaps his wrist.

‘Who was it who said, youth is wasted on the young?’

‘George Bernard Shaw.’

‘No – it was definitely Robbie Williams.’

Greg laughs and kisses her neck. His hand slides under her top. The suggestion of sex hangs there for a moment – but she is heavy from food and drink and she delicately removes his hand. He seems content enough; he strokes her neck, scratches her scalp. They sip at their beers and look at the stars and she kisses him firmly on the mouth; a kiss that says ‘time for bed’.

She is asleep. An insect is buzzing at the periphery of her consciousness. Does Greg get up? Was that a book that just slapped the wall? The gnat is no longer buzzing. The next thought she has is that, somehow, it’s morning. Greg’s side of the bed is empty. A strong sunlight is shafting through the shutters.

They are on their way.

2

‘Did you not hear us coming?’

Jenn is lying by the pool, her book rent at the spine and splayed across her face, its pages fused to her skin. The voice – its hurt and angry timbre – makes her sit up. How long had she been asleep? She hadn’t meant to doze off. This was just a quick top-up to bronze her strap lines while the sun was still bearable. And even then, as she opened the book across her face and shut her eyes, she told herself she was only drifting for a bit; cogitating, coasting the outer veils of consciousness, but definitely not asleep. She’d been aware of the scrape of the broken gate on the gravel, Berta the maid shouting
hola
from the steps. She’d extended an arm and twiddled her middle fingers back in greeting – she’d get up and fix them both a glass of lemonade in a minute. But then,
for a while, she’d given herself over to the buzz of cars snaking down to the beach, imagining what lay in store for each. But this last car, theirs, turning into the long dirt track and crunching its way towards Villa Ana? She’d been dead to it.

She props herself up on her elbows and blinks at the fierce light. It takes a moment for her eyes to acclimatise. Slowly, the silhouette standing before her takes form. Emma looks different, somehow; it’s only a week since she waved them off from the back of Greg’s mum’s car, but she’s altered. She’s swapped her usual jeans and T-shirt combo for a short but elegant bandeau dress which she’s teamed up with sandals and a sixties-style sun hat. The outfit is brand new and cost way more than the fifty pounds Jenn gave Emma, so she wouldn’t have to borrow from her nana. But the transition is not just sartorial, is it? Her face; the way she’s carrying herself. Has she lost weight? Are those highlights in her hair? Jenn tries not to stare at her.

‘Did you not hear us coming?’

What is this? Jenn knows that tone; knows it too well. She’s being berated – but what for? Jenn suddenly twigs and sits up straight.